I underwent a double mastectomy at 40 back in 1997. At that time, I was married with two young kids, both under eleven.
Removing my breasts felt extreme, yet it didn’t truly seem that way to me. I carry the BRCA1 gene mutation, which means I had a 60% chance of developing ovarian cancer and an 85% chance of breast cancer—the kind that’s often resistant to treatment. In my mind, those odds seemed more like a sure thing.
My mother battled ovarian cancer at 62 and passed away a few years later. On top of that, two cousins were diagnosed with breast cancer before turning 60, and they also lost their fights. This lineage motivated me to go through with a prophylactic hysterectomy along with my mastectomy.
Now at 64, I feel confident I made the right choice because I’m still here.
Prior to surgery, I spoke with several women who had similar experiences. They shared how painful it was to lift their arms afterward, and how long it took for their skin to adjust to the implants. However, I wasn’t frightened by these stories. I thought cancer treatment would, of course, be far worse.
So, I had the operation and managed to take my son to his first day of kindergarten just three days later, with surgical drains cleverly concealed beneath a baggy shirt.
I didn’t even think to ask the plastic surgeon about how my breasts would look post-reconstruction. I assumed they’d be more shapely, fuller, similar to how they were before nursing my two children. Turns out, I was mistaken.
The implants I received weren’t the kind many women choose to enhance their appearance. Mine were placed right beneath the skin following a complete removal of breast tissue. The skin covering them was thin, taut, and felt cold compared to the rest of my body.
Breast reconstruction after a radical mastectomy is a challenging process. In fact, after the initial surgery, I ended up undergoing six additional procedures over 15 years to address scar tissue pain and attempt to make my breasts appear more natural. On three occasions, the surgeons tried attaching synthetic nipples created from skin taken from my pubic area, but they always fell off within a month.
My breasts felt unattractive, and I avoided showing them to anyone, even doctors who couldn’t mask their surprise. During yearly skin cancer screenings, I would remind my dermatologist of my history, hoping to prevent any negative reactions from showing on his face.
Post-surgery, I’d close the bathroom door during showers or turn my back to my husband while changing. I never brought up the subject of whether he wanted to see or touch my breasts, nor did he. I even kept my T-shirt on during intimate moments for the entire 12 years we were married, and we never addressed it.
After my divorce and more surgeries, my breasts—now adorned with tattooed nipples instead of real ones—looked somewhat better but still felt “off.” They remained hard and cold to the touch. Jumping back into dating after three decades with just my husband was nerve-wracking. I was worried about intimacy and how a new partner might perceive my post-50 body. My breasts made me genuinely contemplate not dating at all.
When I confided in the first guy I dated about my discomfort with taking my shirt off, he assured me, “You never have to. We can just do shirts and skins, like a pickup basketball game.”
For the most part, that became our routine for five years.
Fast forward to three years ago, when I started seeing David. One evening, I visited his place for dinner. While in his kitchen chatting and enjoying our drinks—a vodka cranberry for me and scotch for him—he looked at me and said, “I can’t wait to kiss you,” and leaned in. We kissed, and it felt nice. As the moment grew more heated, we shifted to the couch. After a few minutes, I pulled back and placed my hand on his chest.
