You Wouldn’t Know I had Cancer

I have two poorly stitched scars across the front of my chest where my boobs used to be.

I was going to title this “So Are We Just Going to Gloss Over That Chapter?” because a part of me has this question on repeat.

If you walked past my house right now and spied through the windows, nothing would suggest a woman who recently had her boobs chopped off because of breast cancer.

Ok, maybe the whopping mastectomy pillow would give it away.

I’m sitting here at my desk finishing a case study analysis for my final subject in my Master of Counselling. Coffee going cold, collage detritus around me, Cavoodle at my feet, laptop glowing. Threading couple therapy theory and ethics together, structure, deadlines, citations. Ugh, why is academic writing so painfully repetitive and yet so juicy for my Capricorn Sun and Mercury in the 11th house?

My mind is sharp. My body hums, unexpectedly euphoric. Soft. Which feels suspicious.

Because seven months ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

No lump, just a dream. Ok, it was more of a visitation. A please-don’t-ignore-this-feeling. The dream was right, the diagnosis landed in my lap by a very close talking surgeon drawing lines on a diagram of a boob. That alone feels like something that should have blown up my life.

For a while, it felt like it might. I subscribed to every cancer influencer online but then quickly unfollowed after discovering I had wandered into a very niche evangelical corner of the algorithm. Then the 48 hours or so where I hurriedly needed to get my legacy-adjacent ducks in a row. I wasn’t panicking as such, just calmly preparing for the worst while making sure everyone could still access my Spotify playlists. Fortunately, I am an easily distracted babe, and the horrors of changing all my passwords did not persist.

Then there were the appointments. They had to be sure, they poked, punctured, scanned and scheduled more. I thanked my lucky stars that at the ripe age of 48 I had never yet known a Health Hub app existed. Soon, I would be referring to it far too regularly, thankful for its face recognition login function. Decisions. Consent forms. A lumpectomy, my first bout of anesthetic, stitches and scars for the year. Cancer with good margins successfully yoinked out, but still the treatment plan of four weeks of daily radiation and five years of hormone therapy on the table.

Next came the real battle. Not against Cancer. No pink ladies in sight. From the moment I got the diagnosis I knew that I would choose a double mastectomy over radiation as my treatment. What I didn’t know is that I would have to build stoic audacity to advocate for my body. Calm. Certain. Unapologetic. This bit sucked. Hard. But at the risk of oozing toxic positivity, the ripple effect of going into battle with the “standard of care” has been both wildly and quietly empowering.

I wasn’t alone.

My partner was there. Every step. Countless hours in waiting rooms. Decoding hospital-speak together, rolling with the changes, reminding me of joy. She let me be afraid, decisive, exhausted, quiet. And community showed up. Meals arriving. Treats on our doorstep. Messages that didn’t need urgent replies. Funds raised. Love shared. Fam who knew when to sit close and when to give space.

And the RIPple boob funeral. Of course. A ritual. A goodbye. Laughter, delights, nipple clamps in the pass the parcel. Surrounded by humans who get it; bodies are not objects they are adventures, they are stories, they are miracles. We celebrated, we didn’t pretend it was nothing.

Next thing I remember I was climbing onto the operating table. The surgeon asked me if I had any final questions. The only one I had been throwing around with friends since my surgery date was set. “Where do nipples go?” He paused and said, “pathology”. I woke up in a new room, a new body. Excitedly peeling my hospital gown open. No breasts equals no breast cancer, right? The glee was real.

Home the next day, tubes were still draining blood and fluid into plastic bottles I carried around like Labubus. Endone fuelled collaging, horizontal binge watching. Can highly recommend Dogs Behaving Very Badly on YouTube.

And then life kept moving.

Five weeks after a double mastectomy, I walked back onto the 5 Rhythms dancefloor here in Melbourne. I didn’t know how my body would feel, I only knew I needed to move. I felt alive in my body, not in a way that was about recovery or survivorship. I was there, tender but not broken.

The complicated truth is that I feel good. More spacious. Maybe relieved. And I often forget that I have had both of my breasts removed recently. It feels natural, how I am supposed to be. How I am.

And my grief? I am wondering about her. She is not demanding my attention. Not pinning me to the kitchen floor sobbing. Where is she? I half suspect she may be waiting for me around a corner somewhere. Or perhaps she has been hanging out with me all along, quietly in the scars, pauses and softening of life.

Is there a right way to do this? Is there a correct order? Is there something I have skipped?

Maybe this is the part that doesn’t get talked about much. The space in between. Nothing is actively wrong, yet so much has shifted. I deeply trust my body and yet something I am unfamiliar with lingers.

I don’t feel broken. I don’t feel brave. And I certainly don’t feel like someone who just fought cancer. I feel whole and capable. I feel strangely free. So maybe I am not glossing over this chapter; I am simply letting it live where it belongs. In my body and relationships, in my knowing and the way I turn sideways as I float past the mirror and look at myself with fondness.

And if grief needs my attention, I am sure she will let me know. For now, I am here, I am alive. I am going to give that massive pillow to someone who needs it more than me.