mastectomy – Betches Guide to Cancer

Why You Should Never Ignore Your Intuition

I’m sitting in a dimly lit massage room, waiting for the masseuse to come back. A large clap of thunder explodes outside as the lights start to flicker between varying degrees of brightness. Aren’t massages supposed to be Zen, relaxing? This feels like the start of a horror movie. Oh God. How do I leave a note for somebody to please relocate my body to a dressing room at Neiman Marcus instead of the Massage Envy in a shopping center?

My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens. It’s the masseuse lady; she’s holding an iPad, reading over my health questionnaire I filled out moments ago. She has a slightly puzzled, sad look on her face as she reads about my colorful life as told by yes/no/fill-in-the-blank questions. It’s the same look I always get when people see that I had cancer: long puppy dog face.

I smile in an attempt to disrupt this pity party. “Yeah I had breast cancer, I’m fine now. Do you have one of those boob-pillow things? I can’t lay on my stomach very easily with these foobies.” The conversations that follow are predictable. The first question is almost always: “How did you know you had cancer?” Well, I didn’t know. I think that people ask me that because there is a preconceived notion that breast cancer makes you feel sick or it hurts. Like when you know you have a cold because you’re coughing and sneezing. Anna says she assumed that cancer made you feel sick, and that it mainly only happened to older, unhealthy people. Right now, take all those ideas you may have about who gets cancer and bury them. Let them be as dead as Juicy Couture tracksuits.

For two years I unknowingly had cancer. It was 2013 when I discovered that pea-sized lump. I sat paralyzed on the couch, Googling breast cancer for hours as waves of fear washed over me and made my body numb with anxiety. My intuition immediately told me I had cancer. I begged my gynecologist to squeeze me in for a sonogram. After the breast sonogram, I got a call from a very chipper woman “There’s nothing there, you got all worried about nothing!” Her voice was filled with phony enthusiasm, like saccharin and crushed Prozac. But I craved those reassuring words so much that I swallowed every promise she told me and buried the fear deep inside. After my second sonogram 6 months later, and again at 12 months I was told “You’re fine!” Did she really think I was fine, or did she just brush me off as a 28-year old hypochondriac? Was I crazy to question her about why a non-cancerous tumor was getting bigger? Why didn’t she recommend a biopsy? We trust these people with our lives, but in reality they don’t enjoy unearthing bad news just as much as we don’t enjoy hearing it. Maybe that’s why she didn’t dig, and neither did I. I now realize that a framed piece of paper saying that someone is a doctor will never trump a gut intuition.

Finally, I went to a different doctor who biopsied the lump, and well, you know the rest. I guess I had to grow a backbone and stand up for my intuition. It was either that, or start digging myself a grave. I could have buried my head in the sand, and listened to my doctors who all told me that I couldn’t get breast cancer because I was too young, too healthy, and had no family history of the disease. I’m not saying don’t listen to your doctor; I’m saying listen to yourself first and foremost and find a doctor who agrees.

I’m sure I’ll still get asked all of those questions a thousand times more, and I’m happy to answer them. But please educate yourself on the signs and symptoms of breast cancer. It could just save your life.

Namaste, ladies.

A Surgery Guide from Your Breast Reconstruction Sherpa

Get ready betches!

It’s no secret that I’ve had a few surgeries in the last two years (eight!). I guess you could call me a professional surgery-taker, a mastectomy aficionada, a reconstruction sherpa. Well, I’m here to share some of my do’s and don’ts of surgery so you can plow through the ordeal like you’re Michael Phelps at the Olympics.

If you don’t have breast cancer, you can still use this surgery guide because it mostly applies to all hospital procedures.

Be prepared before surgery. This is the most important point. I had major “chemo brain” once and forgot to pick up my prescriptions, pre-register at the hospital, check the time I needed to show up, set out extra clothes for changing at the hospital, etc. The morning was absolute chaos, and I spent the majority of it running around like I was being chased by a swarm of wasps. Take a few hours the day before your surgery to take care of business.

Get to know the nurses and hospital staff. Be kind to them, they literally have your life in their hands. Being nice goes a long way: an extra pillow and more attention.

Get comfy. You need to be prepared after your surgery with a cozy little recuperation spot at home. Do this ahead of time. Have your pillows, blankets, meds, books, etc. all in your little recovery nest so you can lie down and go to Sleepytown once you get home. My lifesavers after surgery were a neck pillow (those ones you wear on airplanes) so you can sleep sitting up and a back scratcher. The scratcher may seem ridiculous, but pain meds will make you itchy, and when you can’t move your arms very good, it’s torture. I also recommend a pad of paper so you can write down when you take your medication. Plus, you may want to send out notes via carrier pigeon or fly paper airplanes at your television, because why not?

Listen to the doctor’s orders. When you’re discharged from the hospital, you’ll usually be given a packet of papers from your doctor that look very unexciting. You need to read them! I’ve made the mistake of throwing them away once (because I’m real smart). The stack of papers will contain specific post-surgery instructions such as when you can eat, shower, return to work, go base jumping in your wingsuit, etc.

For a mastectomy, I have a few extra bits of advice. After surgery, you’re going to have drains that are sewn into your skin to collect fluid and blood. Yikes, I know. I suggest having a few dark-colored button up shirts on hand; that way you can change easily when you need to tend to the drains, and the dark clothing is for any spills. The drains will need to be pinned to your mastectomy bra, or you can buy little pouches that will hold them comfortably under your clothes, such as Drain Dollies.

The first surgery is always the most difficult, but I promise you it gets easier. You will have some setbacks along the way, but just remember that your pain and suffering are temporary. Happiness, joy, pleasure – these things do not leave behind a scar, but pain does because it is transformative. We grow and learn from distress. When I look down at my scars, I’m reminded of the torture that cancer generously imparts on the physical body, but I can’t help but smile because of the inner strength it gave me.

You’ve got this, ladies. Surgery is tough but we’re tougher. Now raise that back scratcher up in the air like a sword!

Namaste, pink sisters.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

There is a disheveled little karaoke bar that is walking distance from my old address. It’s across from a strip of beach that’s lined with predominantly vacant snowbird condo buildings that are older than me. Inside the nautical-themed bar, it’s a sea of peppered gray and balding heads bobbing above a tide of Tommy Bahama button-ups and sun-bleached T-shirts advertising various Key West bars. It’s the least pretentious bar you could ever imagine visiting.

The South Florida city where I live is famously pretentious. It’s a place where money and beauty are common, and deciding whether to drive the Bentley or the Maybach to the grocery store is an actual choice for a lot of people. Where the hard-bodied weekend warriors masquerade through the sleek nightlife in their designer camouflage to atone for their insecurities. They’re peacocks fanning out their Chanel feathers.

The karaoke bar is a sanctuary away from the peacocks. After chemo, I sought out these safe places where I could avoid the size 0 birds and their irrationally beautiful skin and hair. Girls can be cruel, and when you don’t have hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes, the thought of being caught in the sightline of a Regina George-type (Mean Girls) will make you sweat like a polar bear on South Beach.

That evening, I was wearing a long, brown wig and a floppy, black hat. I had on fake eyelashes and stenciled eyebrows. It always was quite exhausting to get my face ready for public view, but I did it wearily because I needed a liquid remedy with friends after my week. Upon ordering our drinks at the bar, I overheard a male voice near me say, “Why would she wear a hat indoors at night? It’s dark out. You’d look better in that hat, anyways, babe.”

I froze. I came here to escape those exact words that he spoke, and yet here I was in my secure little nest being judged. The peacocks had infiltrated. I could have pretended that I didn’t hear it. But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t stand up to this pejorative frat boy in the name of all of those who have been victims of the mean girls and boys in life.

So, I turned slowly to him with squinty eyes and said,“Oh, you don’t like my hat? If you want to know why I’m wearing a hat indoors, then you should just ask me. Because this is why.” I dramatically ripped off my hat and wig to reveal my bald head. “I had cancer. So, NEXT TIME … before you open your mouth to judge someone, you’d better think about me (insert expletive).” Drop mic.

The horrified faces of the frat boy and the girl almost made me feel bad for what I had done. Almost.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only time something like that happened. Cancer can make you fragile, but its moments like these that will ignite a fire deep within. We have a confidence that is unshakable because it does not rely on our outward appearance. Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

By condemning each other, we’re only breaking ourselves and submerging our own insecurities — women, especially. We need to stick together. We need to empower each other instead of condemning, because a rising tide lifts all boats. I encourage you to strip away your own intangible veils the way I ripped off my wig. If we remove the façade, we’ll realize we’re all just men and women fighting the same struggles.

Bury the gossip, the office chatter, the neighborhood rants. Who are you really competing with or trying to impress? Think about it. And then go watch Mean Girls for a good laugh.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies: Sometimes We Just Need a Good Cry

Sometimes I get really sick of talking about cancer. I get sick of hearing my own voice, of talking about wigs and boobs, of posting photos of my chemo-hair updates with the inflated enthusiasm of an elf on crack. At times, I want to pretend that it all never happened. To never speak the word cancer again. To never write a single syllable or utter a single breath on the topic. Sometimes, my overzealous optimism becomes too full and embellished; it collapses beneath the burden of its own weight. It’s a difficult job to always be a cheerleader.

Sometimes I just want to talk about cat memes and tacos. Like, what’s cancer?

When a person asks about my cancer experiences, it can be an out-of-body experience. I am standing right next to this human who looks like me, watching her talk. “Chemo didn’t even make me sick. Me and my friends went out to a beach bar and drank vodka martinis a few days after my second chemo!” Remember that show VH1 Pop Up Videos? A white conversation bubble pops on the screen. “True Story: She had one drink, 8 days after chemo and had to leave the bar because she was nauseous and had unbearable heartburn! LOL.” That info nugget indicts me of my white lies. Of my cancer propaganda that narrates an altered story.

I will never outwardly admit that things weren’t all rainbows and puppies. It’s the big sister in me who is being intrinsically protective. I’m hiding the callous truths from my friends and family who may get cancer at some point in their lives. I’m guarding my own ego. Because, as bad as things may get, I am the type who never will admit to it. It’s mind over matter.

As a cancer survivor, we all have a myriad of internal struggles about coming to terms with what we’ve been through. Everyone will say “You’re so strong, you’re so brave.” In truth, we don’t feel that way. We try to act fearless for everyone else’s sake. Brave? Me? Bravery is when you run into a burning building to save a baby. We’re not running head-first into cancer. We didn’t choose this. We’re running head first into survival. And it can be exhausting.

So, forgive me and forgive us, when we’re not always standing tall with our hands on our hips and projecting a rainbow beacon of bravery like a pink Care Bear. As much as we wish we were a magical cartoon with superpowers, we’re mortal humans who still put on our unicorn yoga pants one leg at a time.

So, if you’re a friend or family member aboard this ugly rollercoaster with us, just know that sometimes we just want stillness. Sometimes we don’t want to talk about cancer like it was an educational summer camp we attended and came home adorned in badges and medals. Sometimes we just need to hide in a closet and cry.

We are grateful and happy to be alive, but it’s equally gratifying to occasionally have a good ugly-faced cry and think about how far we’ve come. We recall those little white lies that we told our friends and family, “Oh, I feel great! Surgery was a breeze.” Because, unless you’ve been there, you’ll never be able to handle our horror stores of physical pain and aching despair.

But we know the real truth. The stories we tell others may have a fake sparkly tint to them, but it’s not without reason. We rewrite them to selflessly protect you. And that’s what I believe makes us brave.

*Article first published 4/28/17 at Breastcancer-news.com by me, duh.

Did you miss me?

Shalommm bitches! I’m still here. Don’t worry. I have been asked to write a weekly column about breast cancer (from a young survivor’s point of view) for another website…. which is why I have been MIA from my regular blog. So check out my posts here: breastcancer-news.com

They’re considerably more G-rated than this website (cause fuck is a bad word I guesssss). So the new posts are something you could show your grandma and not feel bad about. I’ll begin updating my blog every week as I write my column for Breast Cancer News.

Oh yeah PS — I have pink hair. Incase you don’t follow me on one of my numerous social media channels. Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. Ok ciao!

Nipples! Allergic reactions! Strippers!

Are nipples overrated?

8/10/2016
We live in a society where everyone wants what they can’t have. After my double mastectomy, I didn’t have nipples so I found myself wanting them back. Honestly, I didn’t mind the way my boobs looked without them… Barbie doesn’t have nipples. Either do manikins. But I just wasn’t totally satisfied with the way I looked in the mirror. I’m 31 and I have a long life to live with these counterfeit boobs; so, I figured I might as well make them look as real as possible. If you can’t get your hands on a real Birkin you would at least want a really good fake, right?

I tried to find statistics on the percentage of patients who get nipple reconstruction after a mastectomy… but I couldn’t find a single thing. I Googled the shit out of it, and all I really learned is that less than 50% of patients who get a mastectomy go through with reconstruction. Which is a shockingly low number! Reasons listed for not getting breast reconstruction include fear of implants and complications, high costs, and older age. Women who are older are more likely to just say fuck-it and not get any reconstruction. (More power to ya girl! YOU DO YOU!) So I imagine that of the 50% who DO get new boobs, a lot less will go through with nipple reconstruction.

Also, 3-D tattooing is a really popular choice these days, and does not involve any surgery. It can be done by a doctor or a tattoo artist. The nipple is tattooed over the flat skin but shaded to look three dimensional. What I got (nipple reconstruction) is different, because it’s recreating an actual dimensional nipple and THEN I can get the tattooing of just the areola around the nipple.

So, I had surgery a few weeks ago to do nipple reconstruction, remove my port scar, and remove moles. I’ve been really slacking on this blog. It’s taken me a while to sit down and write. (Also, keep reading, post-surgery pictures to come below….)

Side note – I’m actually sitting in an airport right now because I MISSED MY FLIGHT to my BFF Samantha’s bachelorette party in Charleston, South Carolina. I, Susan Sheffield Miller, showed up this morning to the wrong fucking airport. Because I’m just awesome like that. And I also blame chemo for frying my brain cells. But seriously, I’m in Maryland and there are three airports all within an hour vicinity of each other so it was bound to happen??? Ugh. FML.

So yeah, I’ve got a few hours to kill before I catch the next flight down there.

Good news is that Sam was neither mad nor surprised… Probably because one time in college, after Sam’s father passed away, I showed up to the wrong funeral. Natalie (other BFF) and I somberly walked up to the casket and realized there was as unfamiliar looking dead elderly person in there. We exchanged hysterical glances as we stuck our heads down and hauled ass out of there. Super awkward.

Back to surgery.

At some point this weekend I have to be in a bathing suit, which is terrifying because I had every mole on my stomach and chest removed two and a half weeks ago. So I look like I have chicken pox or leprosy. Oh and I also had an allergic reaction to bacitracin which is the main ingredient in Neosporin. (NEAT-O)

My surgeon went a little aggressive removing all my moles. But I get it. I mean, I already had cancer… so he wanted to remove all those moles which could also potentially be skin cancer. And I just happened to have a shit ton of them. I didn’t bother counting them, but I’d say it’s probably around 20 that were removed.

During surgery they slathered those spots with bacitracin, and SURPRISE, I’m allergic to it suddenly with no warning or previous episodes. I’ll add that to the list of stuff I’m allergic to:

Bacitracin / Neosporin

Keflex (antibiotic)

Most Neutrogena face wash

Most of the human race

Sweat pants

Walmart

Axe body spray (vom)

Crocs shoes (just, why?)

My entire stomach and chest broke out in itchy hives. It was literally absolutely brutal. I was taking so much Benadryl that I’m probably allergic to Benadryl now. My doctor finally put me on a steroid pack and it cleared up in about a week.. then came back for a few days… so I chugged a couple more bottles of liquid Benny… then it finally went away again. Sickness and disasters seem to follow me like toilet paper stuck to a flip flop!

I’m back to my fantastic self again though, and I’ve got fake hard nipples to prove it! It’s actually been quite an interesting few weeks because I have permanent hard nips… and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And yes … you bet your ass that men stare at them and it’s annoying as FUCK. I can’t wear a bra for at least another week per my doctor’s instructions, so I have to do my best to hide them under clothing. But men still somehow notice. They can spot them from a mile away with one eye open.

Just walking through the airport gave me a new found aggravation for the grotesque mind of the male specimen. Put your eyeballs back in your skulls dudes. If only they knew what my boobs REALLY looked like under the shirt.

8/19/2016
Sorry that was a while ago I wrote that. (God I suck at posting things.) Well, I then commenced a 4-day drinking binge in Charleston, South Carolina with my friends for Sam’s bach party. Which was amazing and hysterical all at once. Maybe one day I’ll write about all the things we saw that I can not unsee. Like meth-faced strippers. Oh God never again.

Also, read my OBLIGATORY SALES AD:

I am starting to sell the Hair/Skin/Nail vitamins that I used to get my hair growing back fast. They’re from a brand called itWorks. Weird name for a company, but I guess they named it that because everything they sell REALLY DOES WORK. Kinda cheesy though. But I have a website if you wanna buy stuff. I promise not to bombard you with messages to buy! Don’t unfriend me! I just had a lot of people ask WHERE TO BUY those vitamins I took, so I figured I could be a distributor and earn some side money for all those lap dances at the strip clubs!

(kidding)

(gross)

(there’s no strip clubs in Fort Lauderdale anyways)

http://betchesguidetocancer.myitworks.com/shop/

Ok and now for the NIP PICS!

Click to expand the NSFW NIP PICS…

The first picture (top left) is about 24 hours after surgery… pretty gross. and THEN it gets more gross because the next picture is when I had the full-blown allergic reaction. Then the next few pictures show it healing and then what my nips look like today!

Hide yo kids, hide yo wife… BOOB PICS

Alright, the moment of truth… boob pics!

My new boobs are almost a week old! Happy birthday you sassy ladies! In their one week of life, they’ve had one plastic surgeon visit, one visit to Victoria’s Secret, 7 showers, 5 new bras, and been stepped on about 20 times by my dog and cat. When I saw the surgeon for my follow-up visit, he said “Woah look at that, you’ve got cleavage!” and I was like “I KNOW. HALLELUJIA! (insert hands raised to the sky emoji)”

So without further adieu, BOOBIES!

New boobies! Fresh outta the oven!

Update: I have new boobs! They’re squishy and they don’t look like two baked potatoes!

I had surgery yesterday, February 4th, which coincidentally was World Cancer Day. Honestly, I have no idea what World Cancer Day is, soooo let’s skip talking about that. Plus, I’m very aware of cancer and its effects so I don’t need some government awareness day to tell me that I need to educate myself about cancer. K BYE.

My surgery was to remove the tissue expanders (bagel boobs as I call them) and replace them with silicone implants. So yesterday started at 5:00 am when I rolled out of bed, hopped in the car with Jeff, and went to the hospital. I was excited and nervous too. I kept having flashbacks of the mastectomy and the pain that I felt after that surgery and I was scared I was going to feel that way again. That pain was a 10. Eh, no it was probably more like a 12. It fucking hurt and I was afraid that this surgery was going to hurt like that too. (spoiler: it DIDN’T!) I’m not going to recount the surgery because that’s boring. If you really want all the juicy in depth deets, just send me a message. But I will give you my surgery highlights:

1. When my plastic surgeon asked if I wanted “circus boobs.” My surgeon is a cool guy, his name is Chance and he is ex-military and he has a good sense of humor. Before surgery, he was marking my bagel boobs up with a sharpie and our joke is always that he’s going to give me giant ridiculous boobs like Dolly Parton so I can join a circus in a traveling freak show. Hmmm… new career move?

2. When the nurses are required to ask if I’ve done any drugs that morning. Yes, prior to my surgery I smoked crack with a homeless man in the parking lot.

3. When I laid on the operating table and they put the gas mask over my face and I yelled that it wasn’t working.
Me: “I don’t feel anything! I’m not asleep yet, ahh don’t operate.”
Nurse: “Just keep breathing, take a few deep breaths.”
Me: “I’m trying, It’s seriously not working” **Takes a few deep breaths** …And goodnight.

4. When the nurses try and have actual conversations with you in the recovery room. Like, what? I just barely opened my eyes which I literally can’t even focus on your face… why are you in the middle of telling me some story about your aunt who is BRCA+ but never got cancer. Chill. You and I both know I’m not remembering this conversation. Sorry nurse friends — are you all supposed to do this? To make sure my brain didn’t turn into a fried zucchini?

5. Coming home and getting waited on. My boyfriend Jeff has been great. Amazing, actually. He is sweet and patient and would probably go get me anything I want. Chipotle burrito bowl and a side of Chick fil-a nuggets covered in hot fudge? He would go get it. But I don’t abuse his niceness, so I settled for some good old Kraft Mac-n-cheese and a Percocet. Mmmmmmmm. Cheese. Mmmm Percocet.

6. My sweet new Velcro mastectomy bra. Be jealous. It’s the Croc’s of bras.

7. Cancer free boobs that look normal again! I apologize if I didn’t make this clear before. But I am cancer free. I was told I was cancer free after my mastectomy which was on June 29, 2015. BUT I did all the chemo and other stuff just to be extra sure. Because there may have been a few stray cancer cells lurking in my body, doing shady shit like selling fake Louis Vuitton bags and exotic animals on the black market, but we caught those bastards faster than an episode of Dateline. So now I am cancer free and I have new, slightly bigger boobs! I went with a D cup size, which was a little bigger than my natural size.

For all those interested, I’ll post some post-surgery pictures next week. I can’t take my bandages off until Saturday so for now the new girls are wrapped up like a mummy. And I will be wrapped up on my couch watching HGTV and Bravo all day with my snoring, farting dog (he’s a frenchie) and my hairless cat (she got her hair shaved and she looks ridiculous).
Ciao betches!

This is what cancer really looks like…

It’s not a pink sparkly ribbon. It’s not pretty. It fucking sucks.

I had my port removed on Tuesday and it’s gruesome. My plastic surgeon removed it and he was going to sew it shut and make the scar look pretty, but when he got in there he had to remove a lot of scar tissue and infected skin. He wasn’t able to close the wound because he was worried that the infection would essentially be sewn shut in there and it would cause an abscess. FUN.

So now I have a gaping hole in my chest where I can literally see my own flesh. To be honest, it looks worse than it feels. It doesn’t really hurt, it doesn’t bleed. I just slap a giant band-aid over it every morning and that’s all I’m supposed to do for now. It’s supposed to take about 6-8 weeks to heal completely. So without further adieu… if you’d like to view these pictures please click the link below. Warning: if you’re a weak bitch and you’re grossed out by blood then don’t look!

View the pics…

How it all started.

We will start in April 2015. So I have a lump in my right boob. It’s small; it feels about the size of a grape. The thing is, that I’ve HAD this lump for a while, about a year and a half. I first noticed it in the summer of 2013 and back then it was the size of a pea. My gynecologist said to not worry about it, I was 28 and had no family history of cancer but nonetheless she referred me to have a sonogram of the little pea in my boob. The sonogram couldn’t even detect the lump so they said “See ya in a year!” and I was off. During that year and a half time, I had a pretty rough personal journey starting with me leaving my husband of 5 years who was having an affair, then moving, and getting divorced. More on that later (maybe) but even though it sucked at first, it really was a great time of personal rediscovery and new found freedom. During that time I probably partied a little bit too much, worked a little bit too much, and cared a little bit LESS about everything. I noticed the lump was growing, but I thought “I’m too young to get cancer and I’m too overwhelmed to deal with it right now.” It wasn’t until the encouragement of my boyfriend Jeff that I went to a breast surgeon to get the lump removed. The doctor felt the lump, looked at my sonograms, and said he was about 98% sure it was a fibroadenoma but because it was growing, it should probably come out. So I scheduled surgery — it was considered an incisional biopsy, not a lumpectomy — for May 7. A few days later, on May 11, 2015, sometime in the afternoon the doctor called me with carefully chosen words. He was hesitant, “I don’t know how else to tell you this. The pathology report showed that the mass we removed was… Cancer… I’m so sorry”

Keep reading…

The emotions were similar to that of a divorce, actually, so in some strange sense I felt that mentally I had already gone through these steps.

Complete shock/horror/self pity.

“[Crying] Oh my God, what am I going to tell my parents? Why me? CANCER, SERIOUSLY GOD? Am I going to die? How sad is my life! Divorce followed by cancer, people are not going to fucking believe this and how tragic my life has become. My life is pitiful.”

Denial.

“Ok it’s not that bad. It’s just stage one. I barely have cancer. I basically don’t have cancer. I mean, they got it all out in the surgery right. I’m FINE and nobody will even know.”

Seething anger.

“Seriously. Why the fuck is this happening to me. I just went through a Hellish divorce, and now I have fucking cancer. What did I do to deserve this shitty of a life. I’m a good fucking person, I even donate monthly to the Humane Society for God’s sake! FUCK FUCK FUCK.”

Determination.

“I am a strong woman, I can do this. Anything God puts in front of me I’m going to overcome it like the bad-ass BETCH I am. Lance Armstrong won 5 Tour de France titles with one ball, I can beat cancer with no boobs! Cancer you’ve met your match! Let the battle begin!”