the nubs

I constantly talk about my nubs.

I’m two weeks into a Tarot class at Alta View Wellness Center, and I think I have brought my nubs up more times than I have talked about the suit of cups. Zachary thinks they are hilarious and sometimes we talk about what we can do to them to jazz them up a bit, like drawing little nipples on them, bedazzling them, or sticking some googly eyes on them.

And then we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Dark irreverent humor keeps me sane. And luckily my kids love to indulge in it too. One of the most hilarious, yet completely inappropriate (but hilarious) jokes my seven year old made was when we were watching TikTok and this advertisement popped up for a binder (for those who don’t know, a binder is a compression undergarment worn to flatten breasts.) The ad shows a sad young person and a voice comes on like an 80s commercial, “Tired of your breasts?” and my kid, without missing a beat says, “Then just get cancer!”

He looked shocked because he couldn’t believe that he said it out loud, and then we roared. Honestly, the two of us could not stop laughing. I was crying with laughter and we watched it again and again as we riffed on increasingly hilarious renditions on the breast cancer comment.

Zachary knows more than a seven-year-old should about mortality and serious illness. His mother was diagnosed with not one but two cancers in one year. Breast cancer in July 2021, and Endometrial cancer in July 2022. (Sam has had his own health challenges in the last year +, but that is his story to tell)

But, and this is the thing I love about our family, we kept laughing. We laughed about my exhaustion. We laughed about my drains. We laughed about my Buddha belly. We laughed about cancer. We laughed about my nubs— btw, my nubs are the two little bits of fat between the breasts that don’t count as breast tissue, but still would look better out after a mastectomy, but that is neither here nor there, because I am just glad to have my life saved and not really judging the sewing job my surgeon did. I mean, she did a great job for having sliced me open from armpit to the center of the chest, for severing my nerves, removing 12 lbs of breast tissue and then sewing me up as flat as possible. I got some nubs, some rolls, some pinched skin. It is part of the process for someone shaped like me, and honestly, my nubs are soft and look like the top of a giraffe’s head and I like them.

(if you are wondering why I am talking about my nubs, today marks one year since I had a double mastectomy and was cured of breast cancer and so i keep thinking about what this last year has been about, you know, like you do.)

It’s been a weird year. The things that I thought would matter do not. Like I worried about how clothes would look. I worried about bathing suits. I worried about being naked and seeing my body. I like my body better without breasts even though I am keenly aware that my body kind of looks weird and is lumpy and people don’t know what to make of me. I worried I would not be able to work as much. And it is true. I have had to slow down a lot and realize that surgeries take a toll, so now, I have some work-life balance and it is awesome. Workaholism doesn’t work-a-whole lot (ism?) That was kind of a Dad joke, but told by a mom might be a Faux Pas. (OMG, someone stop me now.)

Honestly, and this might sound strange, but I have felt an immense peace about my body. Having cancer healed something in me. I saw myself as capable of healing. Strong and vibrant and positive. I am proud of myself for consistently taking myself to the doctor for routine check-ups. It is not easy to go to the doctor when you are fat, because it is all some doctors see. The first breast surgeon told me I wouldn’t want to go flat because heavy people look weird without boobs and they are so used to it. Fat bias not only exists, but it probably causes most of the health problems that fat people face.**

I left that surgeon’s office and found an incredibly kind surgeon who would respect my desire to have a flat chest and not undergo unnecessary surgeries or radiation (something contraindicated for those with autoimmune disorders ANYWAY, but the first surgeon thought that was a small price to pay for BOOBS!) When I had endometrial cancer, I went to a surgeon who told me my fatness caused my cancer and suggest the best follow-up I can do is bariatric surgery. (I literally have a genetic anomaly in this tumor that was caused by nothing I did in my life.) And so I left and said, Fuck that guy. And I found another incredible surgeon that told me I was young and healthy and was going to do awesome. And you know what? I decided to believe him. In the end, I had ZERO pain, no discomfort. And felt better than before my hysterectomy.

But fighting for my own good healthcare made me realize that all this friggin’ self-care work WORKS. I am living, thriving and happier than ever simply by getting a mammogram and a yearly PAP smear. It was hard, don't get me wrong. I had infections and long weeks of open wounds and exhaustion. I have to learn how to accept a lot of things. I thought I would never not have pain. That my children might face the same future as me.

But in the end, I realized that my cancers were so much easier than they could of been if I had decided I wasn't worth the trouble of going to the doctor. If I let a doctor convince me to do something I know I didn't want to do. I just did the next right thing for me because I love and care about myself. Because I have learned over these last 12 + years, how to mother myself. I said, “I know you hate the doctor and getting weighed. I know you don’t like getting your boobs squished in a machine, but it’s so much better than dying of breast cancer.” And so I did it. Those routine exams caught my cancers early before they were in stages that needed chemotherapy or radiation.

(Incidentally, I just said to my kid this morning at the dentist, “Everyone hates the dentist, but we go every six months because that is so much easier and less painful than getting a cavity filled. And you know what, you have done so many really hard things and you can do this.” Those are the same exact words I said to myself last time I went to the dentist too, btw.)

And so, on the anniversary of my double mastectomy, my Boob Voyage if you will, and the birth of my beloved nubs, get your girl and boy bits screened. If you are struggling with self-love and self-care, start there. Like a little commitment to yourself. Just go to the doctor even if you don’t want to, and ask for your mammogram, or your PAP smear, or your colonoscopy, or just feel your balls up or your tetitas or ask a friend to and just check. Do it for you. Early detection literally saves lives. Self-care saves lives.

It saved mine.

My love is always with you,


PS. ** I could literally go on a soap box and rant about this for pages, but I will spare you the lecture. But Aubrey Gordon’s piece Weight Stigma Kept Me Out of Doctor's Offices is really important, so read it.

PPS. I have some great things coming up and you can check them out here

PPS. I decided to use a picture of the shirt I wore today that says Chingona with a breast cancer ribbon. Chingona means "bad ass woman." My nubs are under that shirt. Seemed a wee bit more tasteful than just doing the full monty for you. Mastectomy scars can be a little hard for people to look at, but I love mine.