My Body, My Choice
CHAPTER 1
I had just finished a late breakfast at Country Kitchen in Joshua Tree, CA. It was the spring of 2019 and I was with my friend Marie when the phone rang.
It was the doctor with results from my biopsy. I answered the phone, happy and casual-like. He had previously told me not to worry.
Then he said the test was positive for cancer, but not to worry about it. You'll be okay, we will take care of it. He said I should expect another call.
So began the whirlwind of cancer.
My friend was MAD they CALLED to tell me. But that was the least of my worries. I was in shock. I couldn’t drive. I called my fiancée. It was a whole new world.
A world of tests, doctors, nurses, gowns, gloves, and eventually divorce too.
Now, three years later, I have a new normal–post breast cancer.
It’s a life with no breasts and new freedom, a new body, a new me.
Getting rid of my boobs, having a double mastectomy with no reconstruction was not something I ever thought about or planned on. I am not transgender. I am a woman. I just didn’t want my boobs anymore. I was over 55 and I was totally cool with letting them go.
They were lovely breasts, but their time had come. They had long ago served their purpose. Besides, I had what the doctors called “dense breasts.”
Having dense breasts meant a lifetime of mammograms, ultrasounds, and biopsies–all negative up to this point. What made this moment different?
Well, this time they found something...simple as that. One minute I didn’t have cancer, the next minute I did. I was diagnosed with DCIS in the left breast. Go figure.
I had cancer. The word is the death knell. It’s the sound of the end. The end of what? Of everything. And it is. And it isn’t.
DCIS is “ductal carcinoma in situ” which means the cancer is contained in the milk ducts. Some consider it stage 0 breast cancer. There are several possible solutions for treating DCIS. One way is a lumpectomy and radiation.
I wanted the girls gone.
Why? It’s my choice. My body.
I have always wanted a more streamlined body. A body to fit my small frame.
When I was very young I looked like a classic tomboy.
I liked that look. I would have been perfectly happy to continue that look, but my body had other plans. And, lo and behold, I developed big boobs.
Let’s be honest about boobs. Over time, they do their own thing. Mine got bigger, and more difficult to saddle up and dress. They made it hard to button my shirt, close a zipper, wear overalls, find a jacket, or a bathing suit.
I couldn’t wear a vest for years. And I love vests.
I had long ago decided if my breasts became a cancer minefield, they could go...with love. Also, this was not my first rodeo with breast cancer.
Seven years earlier, I discovered what felt like a frozen pea in my girlfriend’s breast. It turned out to be invasive ductal carcinoma.
This was a woman, who was very much the opposite of me, whose boobs and femininity were deeply intertwined. She loved, loved, loved her boobs and decided on a double mastectomy WITH reconstruction. I went through that process with her.
Later, she had a second reconstruction surgery and was promised by the plastic surgeon that her boobs would look and feel more natural. Never happened.
I saw–up close and personal–the myth of reconstruction. Docs put something back alright, but what it is, I don’t know. I do know it doesn’t look or feel the same. I know womn* who have them who hate them. I know womn who believed the plastic surgeon through an additional replacement plastic surgery to improve the first.
I was so happy to live with what cancer took from me, I took opportunities to whip off my shirt or lift it a bit so people know what it looks like to have a blank slate as a chest. It’s beautiful. I have considered a big tattoo but I prefer the vast empty skinscape.
I am in the minority. Womn love their boobs. I did too. They were rockin’ bits of my bod that helped define my being and sex.
I know one womn in her sixties who had breast cancer, had the lumpectomy, and had the radiation. Later they found invasive cancer. She had to have the mastectomy and then reconstruction–twice. Twice. AND SHE HATES HER BOOBS still.
But she believes she needs her “naughty pillows” (as my friend Daryl Harden referred to them) to get a man.
Doctors said I had DCIS–only–which has a certain protocol: lumpectomy and radiation. When I was told that’s how they were going to take care of me, I said, that’s all very nice but now I’m going to tell you what I WANT and what we are going to do.
So began the whirlwind of educating and advocating for myself. Apparently, there’s not a lot of conversation for a woman without boobs, not to mention one without nipples either!
Before I got there, I had to learn what the heck DCIS is and what science could tell me.
I had Stage 0 DCIS, but upon a deeper dive into my pathology report, this baby cancer had the markings and characteristics of a cancer cauldron waiting to spill.
The final pathologic diagnosis included phrases like: “high nuclear grade,” and “solid crib form patterns with spotty necrosis and cancerization of the lobules.” It sounded bad. It is bad. I had to look each one up.
I am glad I did. My research may have saved my life. Based on my reading of my pathology report, shit was sideways.
I learned a lot more too. I was ER (estrogen receptor) negative and other acronyms. My gut told me, Do not wait around for the next biopsy.
Go big and go home. One and done.
At the same time in 2019, a photo of my boobs–on my chest–was being hung in the “Every Woman Biennial” in Los Angeles, an all womn-identified art biennial founded and curated by C. Finley.
Art is the synthesis of beauty and education and the show offered an opportunity to talk to people about my new diagnosis and my decision to say “Ta ta!” to my tatas.
I hated this saying but it made people laugh, which was lightening and affirming.
I also would say, “The breast is history!”
I had humor about the whole thing from the beginning.
I didn’t know what else to do.
When alone, I was scared but that was nothing new. It felt like that lifelong bit of fear that drives me to make films and art.
During my long career as a television producer, I learned to get stuff done in the face of fear, to push through adversity. The amount of adversity mattered little in documentary filmmaking. What mattered was the outcome.
So, I set my sights on the outcome....a boob-free life.
This is Chapter One of a 4-part series sharing Allegra’s breast cancer journey and Aesthetic Flat Closure experience this month, during Breast Cancer Survivors Month. Check back on our blog next week for the next part of her story.
photo by @t.vanparys
ALLEGRA
CONTRIBUTOR
Allegra is a Peabody Award winning documentary filmmaker and has traveled the world to see first-hand who people are, how they live and what we all want - to find peace. To be ourselves. Love is love.
Opinions expressed by the identified author in this blog post are their own and may not represent the views of the Keep A Breast Foundation or its management. Information found on the KAB website is for educational and informational purposes only and does not constitute medical advice. You are advised to consult a medical professional or healthcare provider if you are seeking medical advice, diagnoses, or treatment.
*”Womn” definition: Womn is the term I identify with because it feels right to me. I know it's not a "real" word but it's a real feeling and my streamlined way of expressing my gender.