And tonight, kids, was that night.
My sister and friend (Holly and Allison) decided to get me out of my confined little tomb (more commonly known as la casa) and take me about half a mile down the road to a cozy little spot called the Old Monk. It is there, where struggling civilians may start their evening by drowning their sorrows in 3 fingers of scotch, shamelessly following their audacious beginnings with an assortment of Irish ales. However, with the good ol’ Jackson Pratts discreetly nestled in their apron and my right breast still prominently larger than my left, I was clearly in no mood to be seen or disturbed by any being other than my cat – which I am 150% completely unapologetic about, by the way.
Though the hesitation of joining the human race again so soon after surgery weighed heavy on my mind, I still found myself relieved to get out of the house – in a very diminutive way, of course. Promising myself not to get too caught up in the moment, I staged a quick reminder before I left that the purpose of this outing was to discuss a business matter or two with my sister and friend – which we did. It was not to go out for the purpose of “going out”. It was not to converse with others by means of insignificant chatter and it was certainly not to worry about what onlookers or naysayers had brewing in their heads upon seeing a 2 week post op mastectomy patient – drains in tow. But naturally, as my situation progresses, my story somehow seems to faithfully follow suit. I’m extremely blessed that so many of you feel as if I am your voice. Your resource for real, honest information. Your outlet where you can discard your worries. Your insecurities. Your doubts. Your fears.
When I first decided to publicize such a vulnerable chapter in my life, it quite frankly scared the shit out of me. Overall, I’d say I’m a confident 27-year-old woman. I’m proud of whom I’ve grown into and what I’ve made for myself – as an adult and on my own. It’s satisfying watching the nerdy yet artistic traits of my dad seep their way into my personality as I get older. But at the end of the day, I’m still human. And as strong as I want to be, I still do and will continue to have those moments of feeling exposed and weak, and insecure and uncertain.
One of my biggest fears in starting this journey at 27 years old was starting this journey at 27 years old! Single. Not married. Still figuring shit out in my life. And when it comes to men – no offense, boys – but we weren’t born yesterday and we’re well aware of how the majority of your minds work. ESPECIALLY at 27 years old! It’s hard enough for me to sometimes grasp the radicalness of the route I’ve taken, let alone a 27-year-old dude. So here’s where fear finally takes a trip down reality road.
As my sister and Allison were gearing up to take me back to my safe haven, a nice looking young gentleman strolled up to our table and asked what we were up to. Upon informing him that we were just finishing tying up a few loose ends regarding a start up company, somehow the conversation turned to the fact that I was two weeks fresh out of surgery. After explaining to the 30-year-old man what type of surgery I’d had, it was quite clear that the hamster wheels began to spin. Aside from his abrasive, uninvited table intrusion and the fact that he couldn’t believe I’d just had a “vasectomy”, it was safe to say he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. That aside, he still continued to give unconvincing praise by congratulating me on taking a proactive approach with my life by requesting to see the post op product, thus far. Thinking that this could finally be my chance to show a man my age that having a prophylactic mastectomy at 27 with reconstruction is not what it was in 1975, I eagerly pulled up my blog and steered him toward the “Peep Show” link. I explained to him that in two and a half months I’d have the best boobs on the planet with perfeect silicone implants and not a single man on the planet would know that I’d ever gone through a mastectomy.
It had been 15 minutes after he said he’d gone to the bathroom when I realized he wasn’t coming back. And as I sat there alone – my dreams just completely shot down – with the hopes of desperately trying to change just one more uneducated person’s perception by exposing myself and my story in the most personal way imaginable, I broke down into tears.
Look – I know that not everyone is going to understand this. I know that not everyone will feel the need to follow in my footsteps. And I now most definitely know that there are and will continue to be an assortment of clowns that will idiotically confuse the cutting and sealing of testicular tubes with the removal of a woman’s breast tissue. I mean, really.
But – at the end of the day, that’s life. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to get it. Not everyone is going to give a shit. BUT I DO. AND Y’ALL DO. And that’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m doing this. So the moment’s over and it’s time to keep on keepin’ on. And when I have bigger boobs in 3 months and that yayhoo comes back around town, he’ll get a good swift kick in the crotch! I kid. Kind of.
Here’s to saying screw you and taking life into your own hands, y’all! Cheers to that!
Breast wishes –