Update

It never rains but it pours, and it’s coming down in buckets at the moment. I don’t have time to post anything new this week for a million reasons, including upcoming surgery, a death in the family, a courtroom appearance, a delayed business trip, and while we’re at it, I’m mourning Catherine O’Hara, as we are all, so please bear with me.

I’m going to repost something I wrote last fall. It’s the story of my breasts, a tragi-comedy of less than epic proportions, that will reach a conclusion next week with the removal of the remaining one. It’s fine, it’s good, it’s whatever. To the best of anyone’s knowledge I have no metastatic disease, which means this is largely preventative. I will have reconstruction, which will take a bit of time, but eventually I’ll be (almost) as good as new. I’m sending this out to anyone and everyone who has grappled with breast cancer, or any kind of cancer, really, and to the people that love them. Here’s the back story, as posted last August 2025:

Hello cancer my old friend. You’re here to frighten me again. Except I’m not really frightened. Not this time. More like annoyed.

If you have known me, or listened to me, or followed me for any length of time, you’ll know that I’m a cancer survivor of some 20 years. I’ve been quite forthcoming about it, happy to share the details and even proud to have ridden it out, as I thought I had, until last week, when a routine MRI revealed that the cooties might be back.

Or not. This is where I tell you about my cancer “journey”, as we are encouraged to call it, although I prefer to call it a kidnapping, since you don’t choose to take it, you don’t know where it’s going to take you, it’s pretty scary, your friends and family freak out, and you don’t always make it back. So to recap the events of my kidnapping: in 2005, I was diagnosed with a rare form of breast cancer. It was rare in that I had two lesions in my right breast, but they were different forms of cancer. Crazy, right? It was really scary, largely because no one could give me a prognosis. I later learned that the rate of recurrence for this cancer (now called triple negative breast cancer) is quite high within the first three years, but declines rapidly after that. They have kept a very close eye on me nonetheless. I’ve had mammograms and MRI’s every six months for the last 20 years. In 2017, one of those MRI’s discovered small changes in my left breast - the good one, I call it, but is it? I had a subsequent MRI guided biopsy, in which they stuck me back in the big machine, gave me a local anesthetic, vacuumed up some suspicious tissue, taped me up, and sent me home to wait for the results.

Which were negative, which was good. Just a few calcifications, folks, nothing to see here, please move along. But here we are 8 years later, and I am headed back into the tube next week for another biopsy, and frankly, I’ve had it.

My breasts, which were once a source of pride and joy, have done their job. They didn’t appear until later in my teens, but once they showed up, they were very pretty indeed, and I was happy to have them. Then, with motherhood, they became working breasts. I breastfed Aidan for almost a year, until he started biting (and laughing when I yelped). Ronan was a bit more problematic, as he didn’t latch on properly, and I developed terrible mastitis in both breasts. I am still angry at the despots from La Leche League who insisted I keep nursing despite the abcesses. I was hormonal, of course, and felt like a failure; it took a breast surgeon to get me to stop, telling me painful breastfeeding is good for neither mother nor baby. It seems pretty logical now, but society is quick to judge and shame mothers for the most ridiculous of reasons.

As mentioned, the cancer diagnosis led to surgery, chemotherapy and radiation – the slash, poison and burn solution to bad cooties. Then came reconstruction, which took several tries as radiated skin doesn’t heal easily. I now have one very firm nipple less mound that sits up on my chest like a beacon, while the other natural breast is living its best life a few inches below on the left. I will never have the boobs of my youth, but I do long for symmetry. More importantly, as much as I appreciate the health care system and resources that allow me to monitor my situation, I am fed up with the semi-annual tests and the little bouts of panic they bring. I have lobbied for a bilateral mastectomy, but my doctor maintains that despite being a high risk case, I am not a candidate. We’ll see about that now. Lop it off, I say, and let me get on with a less encumbered life.

So yes. I ended up having yet another MRI and another biopsy and they finally agreed that a bilateral mastectomy is the way to go, and that’s scheduled for next week, and now you’re up to date. There’s a 5-6 week recovery period, and then additional reconstructive surgery, but by May I should back to my pinup girl self. A veritable Busty Springfield. This leaves me with lots of time to update you on all the other drama in my life, should you care to share it. In the mean time, stay up to date on your mammograms. Check your breasts. And if you don’t have breasts, check someone else’s. And thank you for coming along on this latest cancer journey/kidnapping/expedition. Sharing keeps the fear at bay. Oh, and please don’t hesitate to subscribe or upgrade to paid, or both. I can be shameless that way.