To scar pic or not to scar pic? That is the question.

And here is my answer and why.

I didn't have the opportunity to find out about what other cancer patients looked like after surgery. The entire time I was doing chemo for the first six months, the word lumpectomy was spoken, reinforced, emphasized, so much so, that while the remote possibility of a mastectomy had crossed my mind, the health care people were saying lumpectomy the whole time, so of course, *I* didn't know why the hell a mastectomy had even crossed my mind once or twice. They knew what they were doing, they knew what they were talking about. They dealt with this shit every day. After all, I was *just* the patient who didn't know anything. 

Imagine my shock when I went in after the first half of chemo and was told "Time to schedule your mastectomy." like it was no big deal. I wasn't given an option, there was no actual discussion of it. Just this is what is going to happen next. Within a week, I was in to see a surgeon and things went from mastectomy to my saying (with the nurse telling me afterward the insurance would, indeed, cover a bilateral) that I would not do this again and stay sane, take them both.

As sick as I had been, as sick as I was, I just didn't have time to mentally process going from lumpectomy to mastectomy, to bilateral mastectomy. Imagine my disgust when I was told upon waking up that "nothing had been found, although four of twelve (or sixteen, honestly cannot recall at this point) nodes had been positive." Why, then, had a bilateral mastectomy been done on me, and not a lumpectomy? Why was it both ways? Some lymph nodes were positive and yet there was "nothing" in my breast? What the fuck?  Nobody would (or could) explain this.

As soon as I finished out the second six months of chemo, I relocated because of my husband accepting employment in another state. As I slowly started to recover from the ravages of what had been done to me, physically, mentally, emotionally, I began to find other women like me. Some who had had reconstruction, some who had not. Others were in the process of deciding.

In any case, I decided to start putting up pictures of my scars, generally for the month of October, that was my profile picture. I wanted people to see the reality of breast cancer, a reality that I really didn't get to find out until after it had happened to me. I still fully believe that had I seen more images of other women who looked similar to what I did BEFORE my amputations, I'd have been far more accepting of my body and what it might or would look like.  I think, I believe, I KNOW I would have processed it far better on several levels. 

Instead, I was left on my own to cope and this is such a shit storm to cope with, there's just no other way to put it. It's not like we get owner's manuals for our bodies afterward. Before diagnosis, there is "normal" and afterward, there is no across the board normal, because everything is so varied, age of diagnosis, reason--genetics, hormones, etc./lack of reason, kind diagnosed with, treatments, etc., that I don't believe anyone really, until recently, wanted to try to figure out what to do afterward to help; after all, I'm still of an age where, back in the day, this was an "old woman's disease" and it wasn't talked about.  It wasn't ever a topic of discussion for me until I was in my late 30's and an online acquaintance in another state was diagnosed.  I think this is where social media begins to come into this as a factor.  Now we're able to find and help each other.

Then there's the dumb asses who don't want to see the reality of breast cancer. There's the people who give public lip service, like one person I had to block. She would "cheer me on" publicly when I would be so "brave, putting up scar pictures" and yet she would castigate me in private messages, telling me that nobody but my husband and sons should see my scars, that it should be kept private. 

I politely thanked her for her messages and decided to tell her that I was going to keep saying and doing what I was for others to know they weren't alone. She told me I was evil when I politely told her that since she couldn't be nice, I was unfriending her. Her telling me I was evil was what put me from the unfriending mode into the block mode and I blocked her ass. Who the fuck needs that? I certainly don't. Not when I was getting tons of messages from people, other women, THANKING me for what I was doing because it was the right thing. One person saying I am a horrible person doing that, as opposed to probably close to hundreds (now) telling me that I'm doing what needs to be done? Yeah, I still believe that giving that one person the block was definitely the right thing to do. 

So, bottom line is, if by sharing my ugly ass scar pics will keep just one woman, or even a man, since men can get breast cancer as well, from having such a hard time processing what their body may potentially look like, well, then fuck yeah, I'm going to keep sharing and whoever doesn't like it can go fuck themselves. Because you know, I'm a bitch that way now and if that makes me a bitch with an attitude, then yes, I've got bitchitude and I dgaf.  JS

For your reading pleasure--

I give you not a post on April 1st, because then you might not take anything I posted seriously.

Cancer Bitches has just absolutely taken off like you wouldn't believe; more and more people are joining like crazy.  I guess it's pretty damn obvious that I'm not the only one who was turned into a bitch by cancer and who despises the pink ribbon shit, so that is awesome sauce.

603 Pinterest followers, with 348 of those being on A Valid Option.

#foodporn seems to be my largest amount of retweets, retwits, whatever it's called, so I know where everyone's minds wandered off to.

A few weeks ago, Streak made a lovely herb covered pork roast covered with onion in her slow cooker and was kind enough to share the recipe with me.  She was kind enough to invite me over with my slow cooker and she fixed the same thing in mine, which stayed there to cook and then we ate over there.  She made mashed potatoes, green beans, and lovely honey rosemary carrots.  It was a spectacular meal which I figured up made at least three huge meals to feed multiple people.  I also replicated it a week later.  If I can't find the recipe on pinterest soon, I may put it up here so the rest of you can fix this.  The lovely ladies at our dentist's office all have the recipe, so it is getting circulation in this area.

RedHun recently won a five hundred dollar gift certificate, which I thought was cool.

Military Monkey is no longer Military Monkey.  He received an honorable discharge from the military and will now be referred to as Civvie Monkey until I can come up with an appropriate new name for him.  He'll be going to college, but since I have a College Monkey already, then I can't use that name for him.  He and his adorable wife will be relocating soon to warmer living space.

College Monkey is changing jobs.  He worked at his first job for two years, so this will be new territory for him and I think he'll like it.

Football Monkey has been doing Robotics, along with ROTC and football stuff.  He got his football ring and it's an amazing sight to see.

The husband watching football stuff right now, which is always a good thing when it's not football season.  We miss football season.

My lymphedema is driving me batty on the right side, namely my right upper arm.  Why, you ask?  Because of the storm fronts that keep moving through.  The change in air pressure affects my arm more than I ever thought it could.  I need to acquire more kinesio tape so I can bribe Streak with cookies to tape me for pain control since I'd rather not sleep in my mono-sleeve thingy.

Time to make more toothpaste, which is always fun.

And a big Fuck You to the vile cancer industry and a big cheer for this project, Woman:  Redefined, Dignity, and Breast Cancer.  If only I'd had access to something like this before my surgery, I might have had a slightly different perspective about the vileness of my body and what it would look like with the nasty scars.  I hope these people succeed far beyond what they ever could have imagined at the beginning of this project.

Since I wound up back on the subject of cancer, I try to help other people, you know, with stuff like the Cancer Bitches group.  I keep getting thanked for it.  None are needed, I just want people to have a safe place away from the mindlessly brainwashed masses who have had breast cancer and actually believe the pink ribbon shit does something for them.  Harsh of me, well, fuck yeah, then again, I'm an opinionated bitch and I've been speaking my mind about my opinions regarding the lies of the cancer industry and other assorted shit related to it.  

Cancer Bitches was started to give people a safe place to vent and say they are having a shitty day or week without fucking fake ass shit spewed at them in an insincere and smarmy assed, priggish manner.  (Jesus fucking christ, I'm so happy I just got to use a form of the word prig here!)  There's a need for the bitchtastic bitchitude of the Bitcherhood that is Cancer Bitches and no, we dgaf.  Sometimes people need a virtual hug and not told they aren't doing cancer "right" because they are having a bad day or week. JS

Anyway, I'm modifying the following topic as a warning to you non-cancer community people of what NOT to say to someone who has had cancer.  I've had this happen more than once.  True fact.  (I must warn you now, please go pee because you might wet yourself laughing or you'll be offended as fuck.)

The subject of hair came up.  Those of us who have been bald from chemo and/or radiation know the bizarre-ness of people commenting on the bald and/or touching the fuzz that is hair trying to grow back.  It's rather humiliating, it's a disgusting violation of the Personal Bubble Space, and well, it's as offensive as fuck all, like grabbing for a visibly pregnant stranger's expanding waistline while idiotic comments are being made.

(That said, I don't touch anyone's pregnant belly, but I'll lean down and wave and say "Hey, little person, nice to see you there!" which people find amusing and inoffensive.)

My commentary on Cancer Bitches went something like this.

Just wait until you get one of the stupid dumb ass questions that you aren't anticipating. This happened to me more than once, but now it's not about the hair, it's about the scars and flat chest.  But this is how I deal with it now, but it took me a few times to figure it out.  I might be slow, but I didn't fall off the pumpkin truck last year.  True fact.  

Me:  *standing there minding your own business*

Dumb Ass:  *figures out you've had cancer*  Oh, so you've had cancer!  Your hair is growing back!

Me:  Yes, thank you.

Dumb Ass:  So, your hair fell out?

Me:  Yes.

Dumb Ass:  So ALL of your hair fell out?

Me:  Yes.

Dumb Ass:  So aaaAAALLLlll of your hair fell out?  *at this point I'm given what they think is a "KNOWING" look*  ALL Of It?!

Me:  *not figuring out what they meant until this conversation happened several times, but because I'm so fucking awesome, I now know how to deal with it and am sharing with others, so they can deal with it in an awesomely bitchtastic way*  Oh, if you mean ALL of my hair, as in even the hair on my girly bits, why yes, yes it did ALL fall out.  Any more questions?

Dumb Ass:  *looks appalled that I called them on it*  Oh.

Me:  Any further questions?

Dumb Ass:  No.

Please, for fuck's sake, do not ever ask someone that.  I cannot imagine what the fucking thoughts in someone's head actually prompts them to spout this shit out like it's perfectly acceptable content for acceptable social behavior when conversing with a complete stranger like discussing the weather.

What the ever loving fuck all?

Just please don't do it.

Thank you for your time and attention regarding this manner.  That is your friendly PSA about what not to say to a current or former oncology patient.

You are now returned to your regularly scheduled blog reading, food porn or whatever you're into these days.

Confidence. Do I have it?

BC (before cancer), I was happy with my body.  Sure, I was shaped like a mom, but I had a definitively feminine shape.  I looked girly.  I had D/DD breasts, contingent upon the bra and fit of said bra, but overall, I had no complaints.  Sure, I'd have been happy to lose ten or fifteen pounds, my logic was if the husband had no complaints, then I didn't either.

AD (after diagnosis) and six months of chemo, I went to sleep in a hospital and magically woke up ten to twelve pounds lighter without breasts.  I liked my breasts.  I had no complaints about them.  They had functioned fabulously well with feeding the three monkeys when they were babies.

And yet one of them betrayed me and tried to kill me.  (A breast, not a monkey.)

Cancer fucking shattered me.  There's no other word for it.  Shattered.  Mentally, emotionally, physically.  It's such a mind fuck.  I had to learn there was still a shard of me in here somewhere.

I read of people who are flatties or unis (Uniboobers, you know, single mastectomy people.)  who are wrestling mentally with to wear or not to wear foobs (fake or faux boobs) or physically by actually wearing said foobs and trying to keep them in place.

Do what's comfortable for you.  The first year after my bilateral mastectomy, I felt like a deformed freak.  I fucking hated how I looked.  Fucking.  Hated.  As in, yes, fucking hated.

The next year, I wound up acquiring foobs because an oncologist finally gave a damn and gave me a prescription for mastectomy bras and forms.  Then I had the humiliating experience of going to get fitted for said stuff.  Don't get me wrong, the fitter was absolutely amazing, an incredibly kind woman who was very patient with me while I sat there terrified of her, shaking and afraid to speak because I was so afraid of anything medical related.  She managed to get me outfitted with what I needed, plus some sleeves for lymphedema.

I tried wearing my faux bra and foobs a few times.  They were just not all that comfortable, even though they were fitted properly.  You're probably thinking if they were fitted properly, there shouldn't have been a pain issue.  Well, with the fucked up nerve damage from what was done to me surgically and the vile chemo, and the scar tissue, things just seemed to hit in all the wrong places.  Then there's the whole issue of the fact that I'm concave on my upper chest, both sides.  The foob forms are concave.  In spite of the pockets in the mastectomy bra, there is unfilled space there.  They don't stay in place.  That's all there is to it.

So, I gave up after a few attempts to wear them.  Then I tried again a few more times.  Overly perky, properly shaped foobs screamed "FAKE!FAKE!FAKE!BOOBS!" and at my age, I don't need something that looks like I have the breasts of a twenty-four year old woman.  Mentally, it made me feel strange to know that those pieces parts of me did NOT match the rest of me.  I gave up, placed the foobs back into their boxes where they live and the bras are in a drawer which I rarely open because I don't need what's in there.

My attitude was I don't give a fuck if someone looks at me or not.  It became an adventure going out and not caring what other people thought.  I went down that road with the bald head--I didn't give a fuck what other people thought or even said.  Well, if I could apply that don't give a fuck attitude with my lack of feminine shape, then I was going to go with that, and so I did.

I started wearing what I wanted when I wanted and I didn't and still don't care what people think and I do so in a confident manner.

People, breastless and unis, OWN IT!  If you feel like you can go out and about without the hassle of foobs or a foob, and you mentally wrap your brain around that you CAN do this, you fucking do it and be proud!  To hell with anyone else who doesn't like it.  This is 2015, not 1915 where someone might be upset if you aren't shaped like everyone else.

(Of course as I'm working on this post, someone in a group got rather pissy about what I said about not giving a fuck about what other people think--or that's how it came across--and she said some people do care how they look.)

My perspective is this.  If that works for you, fine.  I've never been one to go along with what everyone else was doing, so this is my way of saying "Fuck off." to society.

I have owned my flatness and am so confident with it that people don't even notice I'm a flattie.  And that is what my blog post is about.

Owning it.

When you own it, people perceive confidence and breasts, or a lack thereof or one or two, aren't even an issue.  (Were breasts an issue before one or both of them were cut off?  Of course not!  People didn't give a fuck.  They likely noticed you for being you, not your breasts!)

Do I hate how I look?  Sure.  I don't have a feminine shape, so I don't feel as girly, if that makes sense.  I have twenty five pounds of steroid weight from being allergic to the chemo that won't go anywhere and I fucking hate it.  I'm genuinely shaped like a pear.  Seriously.  I don't even know what size I wear on top because I wear tee shirts, and on bottom, I'm a size fourteen, disproportionately shaped now because of having no breasts.  ZOMFG!  There, I said it--now you know what size I am.

You know what?  It doesn't matter.  What matters is I learned I could develop confidence gradually by realizing that nobody noticed.  Nobody noticed when I had breasts.  Nobody notices now, unless the actual subject of breast cancer comes up.

Maybe this will help someone out there reading who has been dealing with the shit cancer hands people.

What helped me find that second shard of me was Firework by Katy Perry because it's such an awesome song.  What helped me find another piece of me was learning the lyrics.  And then singing along a little bit.  And then singing a little bit more.

And a bit more until now, I crank that song and fucking belt it out, never mind the fact that I can't sing.  Unexplicably, that song did help me gain some confidence about myself again, believe it or not.  Maybe it will help you.  And if you're having a particularly shitty day, please give it a listen, it might help you perk up a bit.

But for now, please go listen to it and maybe realize you can feel a little more comfortable without foobs and get a little confidence back like I did.

<3