At 40 years old in 1997, I underwent a double mastectomy. I had a husband and two kids who were both under 11. The idea of removing my breasts without a cancer diagnosis seemed extreme, but to me, it felt justified. I carry the BRCA1 gene mutation, which suggests a 60% chance of developing ovarian cancer and an 85% chance of breast cancer—the aggressive type that doesn’t respond well to treatment. Honestly, those chances felt close to a certainty.
Before genetic testing became available, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at 62 and passed away a few years later. Additionally, two of my cousins were diagnosed with breast cancer before turning 60, and they both died. That history prompted me to undergo a prophylactic hysterectomy and the mastectomy.
Now at 64, I am confident I made the right choice because I’m still here.
Leading up to my surgery, I talked to other women who had gone through similar procedures. They shared their experiences of pain, how lifting their arms became difficult afterward, and how long it took for their skin to adjust to the implants. But none of that deterrent information frightened me; I believed a cancer diagnosis followed by chemotherapy and death was far worse.
So, I went ahead with the surgery and even took my son to his first day of kindergarten just three days afterward, with surgical drains discreetly tucked under a baggy shirt.
I didn’t consult my plastic surgeon about what my reconstructed breasts would look like because I assumed they’d appear fuller and more attractive, like they had before I nursed my children. But that wasn’t the case.
The implants I received were quite different from what many women get to enhance their appearance. Mine were placed right underneath the skin after all the breast tissue was removed. The skin over the implants felt thin, tight, and cold compared to the surrounding areas.
Going through breast reconstruction after a radical mastectomy turned out to be a complex journey. In the following 15 years, I had six additional surgeries to address pain caused by scar tissue and to improve the appearance of my breasts. Three times, plastic surgeons attempted to attach artificial nipples created from skin taken from my pubic area, but they always detached within a month.
My breasts looked far from appealing, and I was embarrassed to let anyone see them. Even medical professionals couldn’t hide their reactions. Whenever I visited my dermatologist for skin cancer screenings, I always reminded him about my mastectomies and reconstruction to prevent any hint of shock on his face during exams.
After the operation, I made sure to shut the bathroom door when showering and would turn away from my husband while changing. I never offered to show him my breasts, and he never asked. I wore T-shirts throughout the next 12 years of our marriage, even during intimate moments, and we never addressed it.
Following my divorce and more surgery, my breasts now bore tattooed nipples instead of the original tissue, making them look somewhat improved but still not “normal.” They felt too hard and cold. After so many years of being with one person, I found the thought of dating daunting. My body, particularly my breasts, made me reconsider if I wanted to date at all.
When I confided in the first man I dated about my discomfort with removing my shirt, he replied, “You never have to take your shirt off for me. We can play shirts and skins, like in a pickup game.”
And that’s essentially how our relationship proceeded for five years.
Then, about three years ago, I began dating David. One evening, I visited his house for dinner. While standing in his kitchen, sipping drinks—vodka cranberry for me, and scotch for him—he looked at me and said, “I can’t wait to kiss you,” before leaning in. I returned the kiss, and it felt nice. As the kiss deepened, we moved to the couch. A few minutes later, I paused and placed my hand on his chest.
