This Body is Bullshit

People think once the cancer is “gone,” it’s over. But for me, that was just the beginning.

After my double mastectomy in 2021, I went through a cascade of surgeries—seven in total—all tied to complications, infections, reconstruction, and recurrence. That word—recurrence—still makes my stomach drop. I did everything I was supposed to. And yet cancer was still there. It was missed. It sat in me for almost two years, undetected, while I thought I was healing.

But let’s rewind a bit.

After I recovered from sepsis (or sort of recovered—I don’t think my body ever really bounced back), the expanders that had been placed during my mastectomy had to be removed. My plastic surgeon at the time believed my body was rejecting them. So, back to the OR. New expanders went in. That lasted a few weeks before we were moving on again—to implants.

He did a decent job, technically, but I wasn’t expecting to be cut from my chest all the way to my back. I woke up to a scar I didn’t know I’d have. It was long and brutal and unexpected, and my body—already worn down from sepsis and healing slow—just couldn’t catch a break.

I was in constant pain. Tightness. Pressure. Nothing felt right. And yet, life went on. I went back to work. I smiled. I functioned. Sort of.

At some point, I noticed what I thought was a cyst near my chest. It had been there for a while—two years, maybe. I asked about it. My concerns were brushed off. Everyone seemed to think it was nothing. But eventually, I saw a new doctor who took one look at it and said, “Let’s remove that.”

It wasn’t a cyst. It was cancer.

I remember sitting there, completely numb. Like, how is this happening again? I’d already had a mastectomy. The cancer was supposed to be gone. I’d already gone through the emotional work of saying goodbye to my breasts, enduring reconstruction, trying to find some sense of normal. But all this time—two years—I’d been walking around with cancer in my body. And no one caught it.

I had another surgery to remove the cancer, followed by radiation. Then came the latissimus flap surgery. They took muscle and skin from my back to try to rebuild my chest. More expanders. More drains. More healing. Another infection. Another setback. Another surgery.

It was endless. I felt like a project no one could finish.

This wasn’t just about physical pain—though that’s constant. It was the emotional toll of never getting to feel done. Every time I thought I’d made it through the hard part, something else popped up. Another surgery. Another round of antibiotics. Another wave of fear.

And the world moves on. People forget. You look “fine,” so you must be okay. But I wasn’t. My body felt foreign. Heavy. Tight. Disconnected. My spirit felt tired. There’s only so much cutting and stitching and scarring a person can take before they stop recognizing themselves.

Sometimes I think about how many drains I’ve had. How many times I’ve woken up groggy, groaning, with fresh stitches in a new place. How many days I’ve spent recovering from procedures I didn’t even want but needed. And for what? To stay alive. To keep going. To try to feel whole in a body that’s been through war.

There’s no “after” in my story. Just wave after wave. I don’t share this for drama or sympathy—I share it because it’s real. This is survivorship. It’s not pink ribbons and ringing bells. It’s long recoveries, missed diagnoses, and never-ending scans. It’s exhaustion. It’s fear wrapped in hope.

But I’m still here. And even when I don’t feel strong, I guess I am.

Because I haven’t quit.