Six boobless months

The last night I spent with my breasts was six months ago.

It took me many weeks after surgery to be able to raise my hands up to my shoulders, and more to raise them over my head.

It took months to be able to move, and stretch, and reach like a normal person.

But I did it.

Because I worked hard, every day, and made it happen.  Pure force of will, and overcoming pain and physical limits.

I have continued to work hard, every day, to exercise ( no matter how shitty I feel), and eat right, and drink my water.

Just like I did for a lifetime before I was told that my body was trying to kill me.


Six months ago, I had only had four chemotherapy treatments.

As of tonight,  I have had twelve, and I still have a few more to go.

I am &%$ing sick of it.

Trust me.

I am also BEYOND sick of having no eyebrows, or eyelashes-- or freaking pubic hair.

You may not think about your pubic hair, but you can take my word for it:  pubic hair serves a purpose!



Six months ago, my overwhelming will to live, and my attitude about fighting for my very life, had not yet been fully formed.

Tonight, I reflect on the fact that my fight for my life is one of the only things I think about on a daily basis.

Any time that I am not thinking about or focusing on something else, I am thinking about that.

How many of my readers have ever been in this position and can relate?



So, I sure hope we win this.

Because if we don't, then why the #$%@ did I let them cut my breasts off?

Why the $%#@ have I put myself through this living hell?

I mean really.


That's just where I am in my head tonight, after six months without breasts.