Boobs Not Required
CHAPTER 2
I was diagnosed in April 2019 but I had a project in NYC I was determined to do in June. So, I booked the surgery for July 12. I flew to NY, stayed with a pal, and shot World Pride.
While driving in Brooklyn, I was waiting in traffic by a bus stop and I noticed the women waiting, leaning into the weight of their boobs.
My decision to let the girls go felt right.
Back in L.A., I told the doctor I wanted a double mastectomy with no reconstruction. My young cool female doctor asked, “You want transgender surgery?”
Trying to hide my dismay, I said, “No, I don’t want transgender surgery.”
I’m a womn–no change there. I don’t need my boobs for that. They are not a requirement.
Then came an onslaught of hetero-normative patriarcal propaganda that, I quickly discovered is the norm in the medical business.
In short: We’ll take your boobs, BUT WE MUST AUTOMATICALLY PUT SOMETHING BACK–because, well, you can’t live without boobs.
I knew what I wanted, but had to go through the protocol as designed by my provider. For instance, I was sent a link to a multiple choice exam to help me decide which route to take to manage the cancer. I read through different scenarios and had to decide what was important to me about my breasts.
The first question asked, “Do I like to wear low cut blouses?”
What did low cut blouses have to do with breast cancer?
Nothing.
The questions saw my boobs as ornaments, my boobs as the world saw them.
The logic of the questionnaire suggested the way my boobs appear to the world affects how I feel.
I only had to look to my mother to know what would happen to me.
With age and gravity as years tick by…my boobs would look like two toddlers hanging from my chest.
For authentic and productive responses, my provider might have tried:
Are your breasts comfortable on your body? Do they fit you?
How would you change them if you could?
What are your mother’s breasts like?
Every time I saw a new doctor or visited a different medical situation, I was questioned. Why was I choosing such a “radical surgery” for such an itty bitty cancer?
I knew my body. I knew better. I knew to do it. And I did it. I had my boobs cut off. WOW.
It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time. I was kind of excited. I was going to be able to wear smaller t-shirts, and close my jacket, or button my shirt. YAY.
I’m writing this three years later. It is a big deal.
It was a big surgery. It took many hours. Honestly, I don’t remember much. I was asleep and I was lucky. It went well.
I may have been confused when my young cool surgeon asked if I wanted transgender surgery. I’m not trans. Why did I need to see this surgeon?
It turned out to be a brilliant suggestion. She understood what I wanted, a chest that looks flat with pecs. She came in the morning of my surgery and drew the lines on my chest so my cancer surgeon knew where to cut to give me the look I wanted.
I don’t know how people usually do breast cancer, but I attacked it with a plan and design for my body. And this is how it looked when I woke up.
I was remarkably upbeat.
I was in love. My girlfriend of over four years, who had been denied entry into America when we
applied for a fiancée visa, was finally able to arrive. I was on a cloud (cloud blew up, but it was fun while it lasted).
Upon my cancer diagnosis, she offered to be with me in California. Later, we were married. We had the right. Why not use it?
It was pivotal to have someone here, especially this relationship, this person. It did not work out in the end, but at the time it was key to my ease of going through this whole cancer thing.
Anyway, cancer. So I woke up in the hospital with tubes sticking out of me, the drains to drain the gunk.
–As I’m writing this, I’m watching Rachel Maddow and there is a cancer commercial for Keytruda. Fuck you. I hate these ads.--
These tubes have to be drained. This is what your person is for.
I’m kidding, but not. Just like the breasts, your person has certain jobs. My person had crossed the Atlantic for my cancer.
We had fun with it. We took pictures. We made art. We made art of cancer. What else do you do with it?
I’m pictured here wearing the swanky vest/shirt/pouch thing I received for free as a cancer gift.
Actually, I received vouchers for two of them when I was diagnosed. These vouchers are redeemable at a lingerie place that specializes in this stuff. I went in by myself to the lingerie store and vouched for two of these giant things (in black, of course).They would make great shooting vests if I were a hunter.
Underneath the tubes and drains was my sore and smaller body. The giant features formerly found on my chest had been wiped away while I slept.
The first time I walked down my block in this new body I felt invincible. It’s hard to explain how free I felt: un-vulnerable, unseen from a mile away.
From the time I was eight until that day, two beacons were telegraphing a message wherever I went–I was a womn. Therefore, I was always to be SEEN (starting at the chest) and then treated accordingly. I was vulnerable in male dominated world - earth.
Let’s face it. Womn would rather be invisible than seen as a target. I was invisible with no tits.
I liked it. I could be whatever I wanted.
My former wife and I found the transformation fascinating. We documented the whole thing. We were artists, right? Make art about what you know.
The first mystery was what was behind those giant “Band-Aids”?
We shot video...and artsy shots…Did I process what I was seeing? The making was the processing.
I was in this blissful state– until they took out the tubes.
The body is not pleasant during this time without showering. I had a lot of sponge baths (thank you) but I felt pretty icky. I had to visit the hospital for an infection in one of the tubes. When I went into the hospital to have it looked at, I saw the results from the breast tissue biopsies.
I was positive for invasive ductal carcinoma.
Which basically means I wasn’t done with cancer. It also meant having my breasts removed seemed an act of miraculous, though unintentional, foresight.
It really rattled me to see more cancer. Actually, that’s the fear master talking. It f’d me up.
That was NOT my plan. My plan was tits off. No cancer. Fiancée in America. Life begins anew. Woohoo! Let’s party.
Whoever runs the show has a plan of their own and especially a timeline. Life unfolds on God’s time, or whoever makes the sun come up, not my time.
Having the tubes taken out of my chest should have been an exciting moment, but all I could think about was invasive carcinoma. I had Stage 1 cancer (because nothing was found in the lymph nodes).
I cried, and cried, and cried. I did not want what I did not want.
I did not want cancer.
I wanted the mastectomy. It was a way of taking control in a very out of control situation.
I had felt empowered and fierce taking the reins and advocating for myself–having the surgery and vanquishing cancer.
Now cancer had me again.
And I did not have a “really cute” plan. Or vision.
This is Chapter Two of a 4-part series sharing Allegra’s breast cancer journey and Aesthetic Flat Closure experience this month, during Breast Cancer Survivors Month. Check back on our blog next week for the next part of her story.
photo by @t.vanparys
ALLEGRA
CONTRIBUTOR
Allegra is a Peabody Award winning documentary filmmaker and has traveled the world to see first-hand who people are, how they live and what we all want - to find peace. To be ourselves. Love is love.
Opinions expressed by the identified author in this blog post are their own and may not represent the views of the Keep A Breast Foundation or its management. Information found on the KAB website is for educational and informational purposes only and does not constitute medical advice. You are advised to consult a medical professional or healthcare provider if you are seeking medical advice, diagnoses, or treatment.
*”Womn” definition: Womn is the term I identify with because it feels right to me. I know it's not a "real" word but it's a real feeling and my streamlined way of expressing my gender.