I really assumed I’d look like Tig Notaro after my surgery, but with my belly, I look like a 65-year-old man with poor upper body strength and blobfish in his armpits.
I don’t miss my breasts at all. I still have occasional phantom itchy nipples. The overall tightness is getting better. I knew my recovery was officially over when Bob told me to get out and push the car when we got hung up in new snow at the cabin.
I’m more interested in accentuating my newly flat chest (as someone who has never had a flat anything) than hiding it. On the cruise for Bob’s mom’s birthday, I was faced with my first swimsuit situation. I have a swimsuit top that has those molded cups; on my body, it made me look like I had small, but collapsible, breasts. I didn’t end up wearing it. I also have a sun-protection shirt made out of swimsuit material – it’s a short-sleeved, zip up t-shirt, basically. When I modeled it for Bob before the trip and asked him how I looked, he scrunched up his face and said it looked like I was wearing a scuba suit. Okay, but does my body look freakishly deformed? That’s the question.
My whole shape is different than what I was expecting, but it’s not bad. I now spend a fair amount of time imagining I’m a fashion designer for women who have had a double mastectomy and aren’t trying to hide it. Then I remember that I can’t sew. Or draw.
The clothing considerations all changed. I no longer need to worry about covering bra straps, or making alternate support decisions. I’ve always looked for clothes that accentuate my waist but skim over my midsection; this is still an issue. Pretty, nicely cut, comfortable, machine washable…how hard can it be?
I am entirely at home in my own skin, with breasts and now without. As a life-long fat girl, I come to this by sheer force of will and brute strength. It hasn’t been easy. When you’re big, people assume you’ll forget, and they need to remind you. My nickname in grade school was “Ox.” In high school, I remember walking past a bar in the heyday of the Detroit Lakes, Minnesota Fourth of July super-party and meat market, while a hot guy called out to me, “You’re kinda cute for a fat chick!” And just a few weeks ago, I was wondering to my dad how the fat in the areas surrounding my breasts would transition to my newly fatless chest. Some sort of fat fade? And he asked if I would have done anything differently, had I known this would one day be my fate. How, I wondered? Maybe skipped several hundred desserts, or actually exercised? Stayed skinny, if miserable, so that in the event I’d need to chop off my boobs, my view wouldn’t feature a nice round tummy?
I had to decide, a very long time ago, that I was going to be happy the way I was. Because constantly feeling bad about yourself is fucked. Totally, completely fucked. It’s simple: I like being happy. I like enjoying my life. These things are not compatible with constantly working toward an arbitrary standard for how I should look. How I should be.
I’m a conscientious objector. I won’t wear nylons, or uncomfortable shoes. I don’t spend time styling my hair, I don’t wear makeup. I don’t iron, or tuck in my shirts, or skip dessert. I live the way I’m happiest.
I love the night. I love staying up late. It’s a running sport in my family to make jokes about how late I sleep. Even my eight-year-old niece knows the drill. We might talk about meeting for lunch, and she’ll pipe in “or breakfast, if you’re Bob and Kate.”
Sure, I have moments when my resolve quivers, and insecurity starts creeping in. But since insecurity is actually the worst, most debilitating, soul crushing, deflating, horrific feeling in the whole entire world, I won’t do it. Fuck no. Fuck that. I don’t have to. Insecurity is not required, and it’s almost impossible to recover from. Blech, get it off me. No.
This is not to say I’m not vain. I’ve spent a small fortune on face creams and sunscreen in my lifetime. The results speak for themselves. And I feel fantastic. Going gluten free has made a stunning difference. So much so that I’m not even tempted to eat it. And gluten was my favorite food group, by far. I’m titless, in a few weeks I’ll be bald, and I don’t care. I really don’t. I’ll look badass, with my craniotomy scar and everything. I’m great. I wouldn’t have changed a goddamn thing.