Breast Cancer Diaries (Reader Submission): Amy
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“Three years later, I am here. I am winning.”
Throughout the month of October, we’re sharing personal stories of women affected by breast cancer. This is a reader submission from Amy C. Ragg. Here are links to part 1, 2, 3 & 4.
The Popcorn That Tried to Kill Me*
I started getting boobs somewhere around fifth grade. I got a training bra in my Christmas stocking that year. I also got a poodle skirt that my mom made. It was beautiful! I distinctly remember a picture of me on Christmas morning by the fireplace, my back to the camera, wearing my training bra and poodle skirt. I also remember being mortified a little later when my friend, Carey, who was a boy, came by to play games and the training bra box was still out by the fireplace! He would KNOW I had a bra! Oh, the humiliation! Then, as suddenly as my tiny breasts began to appear, they stopped growing completely, leaving me around an A-cup size, an A if I lied, and waiting for that training bra to train them to do something, anything.
Throughout middle and high school my boobs remained tiny, and the padded bra became my best friend. My mom and my grandma took turns sewing dresses for the formals I attended. Every time I tried one on, my grandmother bemoaned the fate of my tiny chest. “It is such a shame that your bosom won’t grow.” Then she would loan me her industrial strength rubber and foam padded strapless bra from the fifties to wear so my strapless dresses wouldn’t look “pitiful” on my little chest.
In college, I went to see the nurse practitioner for an annual exam. She asked if I was doing breast self-examinations. I told her I was not because I didn’t know what they were supposed to feel like. “I’ll show you how,” she offered. Then when I took off my top she exclaimed, “Oh! They’re so tiny! Well, at least you will never have to worry about getting breast cancer.” Again, I was completely mortified, but at least I had the good news that breast cancer wasn’t something I would ever have to deal with, right? Silver lining!
A few of my sorority sisters and I went to my parents’ house one weekend while they were out of town. We ate, drank, and decided it would be great fun to go skinny dipping. My top barely had time to hit the ground before my roommate exclaimed, “Damn, Ragg! You have the tiniest tits I have ever seen!” She went to boarding school before college, so I was sure she had seen plenty!
So you get the idea, right? Tiny tits and mortification were the way my life was going, but never thinking about breast cancer seemed like an okay trade off.
Finally when I hit my thirties, I started to gain weight, and then, miraculously, I started to grow boobs again! Another silver lining! My grandmother was thrilled! Of course, by that time, she had taken to saying, “You used to be so attractive. I don’t know what happened. I guess you got fat, and that haircut! Ugh!” But she was off my boobs for a change, so that was good.
Then, just after I turned forty-six, my D-cups well established, I woke up one morning really sore after doing a bunch of work outside the day before. I was poking around my shoulders and chest on my aching muscles when I felt something. Remember, I was never going to have to worry about breast cancer. But I found something. Something that shouldn’t have been there.
I began to feel around it in earnest. What were the edges like? Did it move? Did it hurt? Was there something like it on the other side? My panic swelled to a tidal wave almost instantly. It was shaped like a piece of popped popcorn. It didn’t move. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t have any feeling at all. And there was nothing on the other side. I don’t know how, but I knew instantly that it was bad. It was breast cancer. I just...knew.
“When I allowed my head to quiet for more than a few moments, I could hear a voice saying, “You might die.”
I hated that voice. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live, and I wanted to help other women live, too.”
And I was right. After a mammogram, an ultrasound, and an ultrasound-guided biopsy, I had the official results. Eight days after I found the lump, I was officially diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, one of the most common forms of breast cancer. I wished like hell that I remembered that nurse practitioner's name because I wanted her to know how wrong she had been! I had no family history of breast cancer. Most women diagnosed do not have a family history, despite what we have been led to believe.
As I shared the news of my diagnosis and upcoming surgery, people reached out to me from all over the globe. A dear friend brought me a pair of pink boxing gloves to represent my upcoming fight and everyone who came to visit me signed them. I embraced the hashtag GlovesUp! I knew I was ready for this fight!
Three weeks later I was put under general anesthesia for a double mastectomy with reconstruction. I had two amazing surgeons, a loving family surrounding me, and a support network of friends who were ready at a moment’s notice to help in any way they could. I was going to be fine. I knew it, but I was also terrified that I was going to die.
When I allowed my head to quiet for more than a few moments, I could hear that voice saying, “Yeah, you have everything going for you, everything you could possibly need, but you could still die. You get that, right? You might die.” I hated that voice. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live, and I wanted to help other women live, too.
What no one ever tells you is how much a double mastectomy hurts. No one ever tells you that it feels like your chest is on fire. It feels like that fire spreads every time you put pressure or weight on your hands or arms. It feels like you are tearing through all of the internal work that the surgeons have just done. The idea of going through that surgery again is absolutely crippling. But all of that is normal. That is how you are supposed to feel. That fire is the muscles in spasm trying to learn how to do their job again. That fire means it is working! That fire means you are winning!
Three years later, I am here. I am winning. In the last three years, many of the people (far too many) fighting beside me have lost their fights, and many more people (far too many) have stepped into the ring. Most days I don’t think about the lump of popcorn that tried to kill me. Most days I don’t think about the fact that it could come back any time. But then I’ll bump into something new, or that I never noticed, and I am brought to my knees. I am a sobbing puddle of goo, begging the universe to let me win. Let me live. I have no choice but to let that feeling come, to let that fear wash over me. I cry. I rage. I breathe. And then I start swinging again.
I am currently status NED which in cancer speak is, “No Evidence of Disease,” and I intend to stay that way. But if that ever changes, I will lace up my pink boxing gloves and get back in the ring. I’ll keep fighting for myself and for everyone else who has faced this fight. I will keep fighting for everyone who can’t until one day, a cure will be found. Breast cancer will be nothing but a distant memory. #Gloves up!
*This submission first appeared as a monologue in Breast Advice: An Uplifting Conversation About Boobs by Deborah Bostock-Kelley.