A spontaneous decision. A private moment. A powerful goodbye to the body I knew.
That moment when you get the reminder text about your “upcoming appointment” and realize - it’s not just another blood test or infusion. Nope. It’s surgery day.
And honestly? I’m not mentally ready.
In my head, I had this whole romanticized vision of the six-week “chemo break” between treatment and surgery. It was supposed to be a celebration of my body. A “farewell tour” before the scars and the swelling and the new reality set in. I pictured myself on a beach somewhere, unapologetically strutting around in a bikini, soaking up sun and salt water on my skin. In cancer circles, they call it a “boobymoon” - because obviously we need one more terrible portmanteau to make us feel better.
I imagined myself in an ancient spa or thermal hot springs, savoring every last second of sensation in my chest. I planned to wear all my favorite bras - lingerie that once fit like a dream - just to feel them one more time before everything shifted. I wanted to hug my kids a hundred extra times, squeeze them tight, and memorize how it felt to have their little bodies pressed against mine.
But life had other plans.
Instead of sipping peach bellinis on a tropical island, I was buried in to-do lists. I worked long days, handed off projects, and prepped out-of-office coverage like I was going on some twisted corporate maternity leave. I conquered the garage (because apparently trauma makes me clean and organize), folded approximately 87 loads of laundry, and lowered every single kitchen essential to waist level - because reaching overhead post-surgery is not recommended.
I wrangled insurance claims, short-term disability forms, updated my will, knocked out taxes, and jumped through every flaming bureaucratic hoop that says, “Hey, your life might change dramatically. Better be ready.” Amazon boxes showed up daily like it was a surgical-themed episode of Supermarket Sweep - wedge pillows, weird bath sponges, recovery gear that looks like it belongs in a medieval torture chamber - I dare you to Google search “mastectomy drain holder.” I hunted down the prettiest mastectomy bras (spoiler alert: they don’t exist), meal-prepped like a doomsday prepper, and built Easter baskets in March because I couldn’t trust the future to leave room for jellybeans or Cadbury eggs.
And okay - yes, maybe I bought a few things I didn’t technically need. Retail therapy is a real part of emotional triage.
I don’t regret how I spent the time - not exactly. Was my “beach goddess farewell tour” a little unrealistic? Sure. But there's one thing I did that anchors me. One decision I made in the middle of the madness - somewhere in the three weeks between diagnosis and my wedding last August - that pulled me back from the edge.
I’ve never told anyone. Until now.
It was spontaneous. It was bold. It was just for me.
And it was one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself.
The Day I Stripped Down to Suit Up
I did a thing.
Not a “DIY bookshelf” kind of thing. A real thing. A “holy shit, did I just do that?” kind of thing.
When I first learned I had breast cancer, the world didn’t exactly stop spinning to give me time to process. It was a chaos cocktail: three weeks before the wedding, juggling back-to-school madness, launching a major product feature at work, and hunting down a second opinion from a new (thankfully amazing!) team of doctors. I was moving a million miles an hour, somehow holding it all together with caffeine and sheer willpower.
And then - amid all the madness - I did it.
I booked a boudoir shoot.
Yep. While facing the most uncertain, terrifying chapter of my life, I hired the best boudoir photographer in Chicago, shed every single inhibition (and piece of clothing), and let myself be seen. Really seen. Not for my soon-to-be husband, not for the Instagram post - just for me, and a little posterity.
The experience was raw and real in all the best ways - from the glam squad making me feel like a natural goddess, to the photographer who created a space that felt safe enough to unravel in. There was laughter, music, smudged eyeliner (on purpose), and when the camera finally stopped clicking and we reviewed the final images - there were tears. Mine. Hers. A shared moment of truth neither of us expected.
Because this wasn’t just about sexy photos. It was about preservation. It was about freezing a version of me in time before cancer had its way with me. I drove home that day buzzing with something I hadn’t felt in weeks - power. Confidence. Love. For this body that had carried me this far. No one else knew what I had done, and honestly, that made it even better.
I don’t think about those photos every day. But I know exactly where they are - tucked away like a treasure. Mine and mine alone.
Some days, I forget they’re even there. And then - there are days like this one.
I was walking past a mirror and I caught my reflection. For a second, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back. She looked like she'd gone ten rounds in a back-alley brawl and lost. Colorless. Bloated. Browless. Barely-there lashes. A port jutting out of her chest like a sci-fi implant. Chapped lips. No muscle tone. Four biopsy clips still tucked in her breasts, like war medals no one asked for.
I stared. A tear slid down. Will I ever love my body again?
And then I remembered.
I remembered that day. That wild, spontaneous decision. The feel of my hair cascading over my shoulders, the curve of my back, the fire in my eyes. I pulled up the photos, heart pounding, and looked into the eyes of the woman in them.
She is me.
She was strong before she knew she had to be. And she’s still here.
Maybe a little beaten. Maybe a little broken. But still beautiful.
Final Word - Beach Vibes, Backyard Edition
Funny thing - life has a way of giving you what you need, even if it doesn’t look like what you pictured.
In the week leading up to surgery, a friend unknowingly dropped an idea into my lap. And my kids? They unknowingly ran with it.
We didn’t make it to the beach. But one evening, we threw on our swimsuits, laid out beach towels in the backyard, and made smoothies (me: a glass of rosé). Reggae played from the speakers. The sun was low and golden. And for a brief, beautiful moment, we soaked it all in - warmth on our skin, music in the air, love all around.
My version of a boobymoon.
Messy. Makeshift. And somehow… perfect.
I’m ready for surgery now.