This Body is Bullshit

I wasn’t scared when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not because I didn’t understand how serious it was—but because I believed I’d beat it. I trusted my body, my doctors, and my strength. And honestly? I still do.

Not all of my doctors failed me. Dr. Hansen—my breast surgeon—was one of the good ones. She was sharp, compassionate, and steady. I felt safe in her hands. I’ll always be grateful for that.

But everything after that? That’s where the damage really began.

After my mastectomy, I developed sepsis. My reconstruction failed. My body was falling apart—and so was the care I was receiving.

Dr. John Kim, my reconstructive plastic surgeon, was fine at first. But as soon as complications showed up, he completely distanced himself. He ignored me. Avoided me. Treated me like a nuisance. He once told me not to use my arms for two months and to board my dogs. BOARD MY DOGS. It was so out of touch, so absurd, and so unhelpful. He couldn’t handle the complications, and instead of staying to help, he disappeared.

Dr. Gradishar—my oncologist at the time—was no better. I found a lump. It looked like a pimple or a mosquito bite. I believed it was a cyst, because that’s what they told me. But how does an oncologist or a surgeon leave a lump—any lump—on a breast cancer patient and not pursue it further?

Gradishar sent me for a mammogram and an ultrasound. The results were inconclusive. And that’s where they left it. That’s where they stopped.

No biopsy. No second opinion. Just brushed off. As if I hadn’t already had cancer once. As if I didn’t deserve to be taken seriously.

And that lump? It was cancer. Again.

Dr. Fine—my new reconstructive plastic surgeon—took one look at it and knew. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t gaslight. He didn’t minimize it. He got it checked, and he was right. I had been walking around with undiagnosed, untreated cancer in my body for two years. Two years of missed opportunity. Two years where those cells could spread—and likely did.

Do you know what that means?

It means I now live with the knowledge that my cancer has had time to move. That it might come back. Somewhere. In ten years, maybe twenty. Or sooner. That kind of damage doesn’t just vanish. And I wasn’t given the option of radiation the first time—should I have been? Should someone have caught this before it became again?

I tried to hold them accountable. I even spoke to an attorney. But I was told I don’t have a case—because I eventually got diagnosed. Because I’m still here.

What kind of broken system is that?

Dr. Kim and Dr. Gradishar were negligent. They dismissed me. They failed me. I want that on record. I want to scream it. Because if they did it to me, they’ve done it to someone else—or they will.

But thank God for Dr. Fine. When I was at my worst—physically and emotionally—he showed up. He helped rebuild what someone else ruined. He made me feel seen, worthy, human.

And thank God for Dr. Undevia, my current oncologist. He’s sharp, current, and careful. He’s doing what should’ve been done years ago: monitoring, asking the right questions, and keeping me on the right medication.

I’m still angry. I probably always will be. But I’m also deeply grateful for the doctors who actually did their jobs. Who took me seriously. Who helped save my life.

To the ones who didn’t: I see you. And I hope someday, someone finally holds you accountable.