A gum graft and my wisdom teeth being cut out could not have prepared me for a double mastectomy — my first major surgery. The anxiety leading up to it was its own kind of marathon: mentally preparing for something you’ve never done before, saying goodbye to a part of your body, and waking up to “strangers” you’ll be living with for years to come.
The first few days, I didn’t see them at all. My new girls were covered in gauze that looked like someone shaved the Abominable Snowman and stuffed every last bit into my surgical bra. The fluff was spilling out of every possible opening.
After 48 hours, I was allowed to take a real shower — no more body wipes. I waited closer to 72 hours because, honestly, I was scared to look. When I finally worked up the courage, I only glanced from the top, like a kid peeking at a scary movie through their fingers.
From that angle, all I could think was that they looked like someone had grabbed two memory foam balls, squished them tight (especially the right one, she had the cancer), and tucked them in. It actually made me laugh — not because they looked bad, but because they looked… new. Different. Like they were still trying to figure out who they were going to be.
When I finally saw them fully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d built up in my head. My surgeon had warned me they’d take months to settle and heal, and he was right. What I saw wasn’t scary — it was the start of something healing, just not quite finished yet.
The drains, though? That was a whole other adventure. I had four of them, two on each side. I’m pretty sure the surgery wasn’t a procedure–it was my cyborg assembly and activation. Trying to get comfortable after surgery with sore incision areas and tubes hanging off each side was no easy task. No quick pivots, no sudden movements — everything had to be slow and deliberate, like I was learning how to move all over again.
Then came the first shower. Once I removed the Abominable Snowman gauze and my surgical bra, I felt this weird, heavy sensation, like my implants were going to break through the stitches and fall right onto the shower floor. Spoiler alert: they didn’t. We went straight to the Cancer Center afterward, and my surgeons reassured me that everything was secure and tightly in place.
About a month later, I had a smaller surgery to install my chemo port. It sits near my clavicle — a tiny square about an inch wide, with a catheter that runs up into a large vein in my neck. Once everything healed, it wasn’t too noticeable. It gives my care team easy access for chemo infusions without turning my veins into pin cushions, and thanks to my excellent surgeon, I’ll have minimal scarring when it’s eventually removed.
Of course, things didn’t go entirely smoothly since my Mastectomy. I developed necrosis — something I wasn’t really prepared for but learned can happen when blood supply is disrupted after surgery. Sometimes the body reabsorbs the dead tissue, sometimes it doesn’t. In my case, it led to an infection and a perforation (basically, a small hole), which meant another surgery. More anesthesia, more stitches, two rounds of antibiotics, and a chest flush later — everything was cleaned, closed, and healing again.
I joke that I’m becoming a bit of a pro at these surgeries now. Not by choice, but by necessity. Every time I go through one, I come out knowing a little more about my body — what it can handle, how it heals, and how strong it really is.
These new routines are strange, but they’re mine. The scars, the drains, the ports — they’re all part of the story my body is telling now. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real.
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