The Amputation I Never Expected to Opt Into

 AKA

The (No So) Great Tittyectomy of 2025

I’ve gotta be honest, I can’t claim intellectual rights to calling this surgery an amputation…I honestly hadn’t even associated that word with my upcoming surgery until I was talking to my friend, and fellow Mastectomy Sister (ew, could there be a more cringey way to say that? I just rolled my eyes at myself. I personally loathe the phrase “sisterhood” or when people are referred to as “warriors” or “fighters” when they are dealing with a disease. I know the intention is in the right place, it just feels so toxicly positive to me for some reason.), my fellow…Mastectomy survivor? Boob Loser?…Ugh, there’s just not a clever name for it that I can think of. Regardless, earlier this week, my friend Cheri referred to it as the “worst amputation a woman can experience” and it really stuck with me.

In all fairness, I can’t say that there is any type of amputation that I’d consider myself ever adequately prepared for, but I can definitely tell you that getting a double mastectomy was not on my 2025 BINGO card. Further punctuated by noting that this is, of course, also the first year I decided to bump myself down the Basic Coverage health insurance plan. I distinctly remember saying something along the lines of “I never really use my insurance that much anyway, so the deductible and out of pocket max shouldn’t be a factor…it just makes sense to pay less in monthly premiums!” *eye roll* Oh, Open Enrollment Chelsea, if only you knew!

Part I- How We Got Here

Last year, after turning 40, I dutifully scheduled a mammogram to conincide with my yearly exam, which fell in December. My overall impression of The Mammogram is pretty indifferent. Back in 2014 I had a suspicious lump come up and THAT mammogram was painful; it involved putting immense pressure on a cyst that was already tender (turned out to be totally benign and never made an appearance again), but overall, if you aren’t having issues, the test itself is nothing more than awkward and uncomfortable (two words often used to describe me in social situations). You have to get topless, wrap your arms around this massive machine and stand as still as possible (have you ever noticed that you think standing perfectly still is easy until you actually have to do it?) The worst part is probably having to make small talk with the technician while he/she demonstrates 8 different ways to make a smash-patty out of your breasts.

The tech told me that mammograms are all about comparisons, seeing what is changing from year to year within your breast tissue. Therefore not be concerned if I got called back in for a second scan because it often happens after the first, or baseline, mammogram.

So, I tried to stay calm when exactly that happened- they called and told me they’d like to have me come back to check on a place that was extra dense and difficult to see.

The second appointment took significantly longer. For this one, they read the scan and give you the results while you’re there, and then if necessary, also perform an ultrasound, read those results and give you all the info before you leave. Which, honestly, is a great practice. Who wants to wait around days or weeks for the MyMercy notification to pop up and tell you what could potentially be life-changing news? At least this way, you’re mentally prepared to get some sort of information the same day. 

So, I took off work and spent the better part of my day in a tiny waiting room with 13 green-cushioned hospital chairs that, at any given time, 12 of which were occupied. There were women of all ages, all of us wearing the same scratchy, ugly, floral-printed hospital gown and trying to hear ourselves think over the Home Flipping 101 show that was being blasted from the wall-mounted TV. The lady who brought in new patients kept referring to the collective group by saying “After you get changed, have a seat here with these ladies who will be your BREAST friends for the next couple of hours”. The marker board on the wall said WAIT TIME:2-3 HOURS, written in what appeared to be permanent marker, likely months before. The whole thing felt very cliche even as I was living it.

I settled in with my coffee and my Kindle and waited for my name to be called. 

After the mammogram, and my share of waiting, the results came: “We want to go ahead and do the ultrasound on two spots, one on your right breast and one under your arm.” Slight panic crept in as I recalled that my mom’s breast cancer happened to be on the right breast and had moved to the lymph nodes under her arm.

The ultrasound technician was super friendly and we talked Frieda McFadden books as she applied a cold jelly and ironed my boob for 25 minutes while I longed to get dressed and get the hell out of there.

More waiting. Results again. “The spot that we’re concerned with is most likely not cancerous, so we’re going to schedule you for a breast MRI in 6 months.”

Most likely?? What does that even mean??

I wasn’t in love with that conclusion, and I knew my mental health wasn’t going to fair well with the Most Likely, so the next day I called my OBGYN and asked for a referral to get an MRI sooner.

Another day off work, another appointment. This time, I had to drive to Joplin because the Springfield office couldn’t get me in til July. Paul was able to go with me, which was a nice distraction from the Impending Doom that had started following me to appointments. This was my first MRI so I wasn’t sure what to expect (lucky for me, all hospitals seem to source their gowns from the same burlap dealer, so that part at least felt familiar). The tech hooked me up to an IV, so that they could do the test with contrast, and then had me take off my gown, climb up a tiny step ladder and lay face down on a contraption. “Just let your breasts hang freely into the opening” she says, and if the whole experience wasn’t so foreign I would’ve thought to be offended. My breasts don’t HANG anywhere, thankyouverymuch! She offered me headphones for the duration and asked if 90’s music was okay (was it my belly button ring that gave away my age or my “hanging” boobs?), so at least I was able to listen to staticky renditions of Ace of Base and Train while spending the next hour in what I can only assume sounds and feels like being inside a Samsung washer, while also trying to not let any part of my body fall asleep lest I numbly face-plant while later removing myself from the tube.

Fortunately, my results pinged in the MyMercy app while Paul and I were grabbing breakfast before heading home from Joplin. Findings: Benign. Routine follow-up recommended.

Part II- So then, why the surgery?

Somewhere amidst all the other procedures, I also met with the breast specialist to discuss my possible genetic pre-disposition for cancer which entailed a stack of paperwork detailing my family history, as well as a genetic test (i.e.: spitting into a vial a bunch). 

Fortunately, albeit surprisingly, I do not have any genetic markers that could contribute to me getting cancer. However, due to my family history and already having a questionable mass, my Breast Cancer RiskScore came back with the result of 52.4% likelihood. For context, the general population has a 12.9% risk, and 20% is the threshold at which doctors start exploring options with their patients. 

I can’t even put into words what I felt when my doctor said “What we would recommend in your case is to have a double mastectomy.” It’s one of those experiences that is almost out-of-body because it shocks you so much that your brain starts to put up memory blockers for protection. I just hadn’t even CONSIDERED that was going to be put on the table as an option. It had not even crossed my mind. I didn’t even know that mastectomies could be done as preventatives…

So, I started a note in my phone called 8008135 (please tell me someone, anyone, gets that reference to how we used to spell it on a calculator in middle school!?!) where I recorded every single question, from the important ones down to the simplest, and even the vain, ones.

 Part III: Q & A (Summarized)

Aside from the miscarriage back in 2022 (which was 8 hours of trauma that my brain has done it’s best to shield me from), and a week-long stint back in 3rd grade for a persistent case of pneumonia, my personal experience with hospitals is exactly None. I’ve never even had laughing gas at the dentist (41 and still have all 4 wisdom teeth I’ll have you know!), so my knowledge around what to expect or plan for was/is obsolete. 

How do you mentally prepare for something for which you have absolutely no point of reference for? 

The surgery itself is scheduled to be 4-6 hours and will involve 2 surgeons operating on me simultaneously. One will be removing all the mass from my breasts, while the other follows behind to reconstruct them. I’ll likely come out of surgery with something called expanders, although everything is dependent on how my body reacts. The plastic surgeon said a lot of decisions are made during surgery dependent upon my blood flow and my body’s overall response to the trauma of surgery, so there’s a chance I’ll come out of surgery with nothing. Assuming I’m able to have the expanders, they’ll be sewn to my chest wall, and will basically serve as placeholders for what will become implants later on. Once my body has a chance to heal for several months, and scar tissue forms, I’ll go in for a second surgery to have implants put in. 

Recovery is long, and will in many ways, last several months, although the “worst” of recovery will be the first several weeks. I’ll have two drains attached that will have to be emptied twice a day, and my mobility will be severely limited. I won’t be able to lift my arms above my head so combing my hair, putting on any shirt that isn’t a button-front, getting things from the kitchen cabinets, all no-nos. Even showering will be at my doctor’s discretion based on my progress. My weight restriction is 8 pounds for 4-6 weeks, which means I am absolutely useless when it comes to caring for Kelsey, something I REALLY wrestled with when making the decision to have the surgery. 

In some ways I feel like my summer ends tomorrow because I know I’m going to be laid up for several weeks, recovering. But, here’s what solidified the decision for me. Right now, I’m in control (and if you know me, you know what a control freak I am). I am CHOOSING to have this surgery, on my terms(ish) and on my timeline(ish).

• Side note:when scheduling my surgery they first gave me the two date choices of May 20th (the last week of the school year) or August 15th (the first week of next school year). It was by sheer luck that I was able to obtain a June date!

Recovery is going to be rough, and there will be moments, days even, where maybe I question my sanity with opting in to such a major surgery before it was deemed medically necessary. But, it boiled down to this:

Have the surgery now, on my terms and my timeline (as much as possible). I’m healthy, the youngest I’ll ever be, and I’m able to rely on my support system to get me through the recovery.

Or, I go on to a 3 month test rotation (3 months-MRI, 3 months-mammogram, etc etc) until one day a test pops up and shows that they’ve found cancer? Which, regardless of how early it’s found, is still cancer. Then, I have to have this exact same surgery anyway, on my body’s terms, and potentially in the middle of the school year, and aside from recover from surgery, I’m then also undergoing chemo and radiation?

I’ve never been one to sit back and wait for things to happen to me, good or bad. I’m a take-charge kind of person who wants control of as much as possible in life. The unknown is scary no matter what, but with this scenario, there are less unknowns and I’m not, essentially, just waiting around to get cancer.

So, that’ where we’re at. I’m terrified. Of the pain, the restrictions, the limitations, relying on others to get me through this, and coping with the changes my body is about to endure. I’m overwhelmed. I’m anxious. And I’m unprepared no matter how prepared I try to be..

But I’m also strong. And optimistic. And championed by a husband who is taking FMLA and would literally do anything for me without hesitation, and also the best of friends who will be there to support me physically, mentally and emotionally as I tackle this obstacle.

I’m going to be just fine.