.Back scratchers. Wedge pillows. Button-down men’s flannel shirts. Bendy straws. Thank God for bendy straws. One of my new secret weapons when it comes to life postmastectomy.
In the immediate days after my breasts volunteered as tribute, I am a mess. Not the hot kind. The mess kind. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. It hurts to take a deep breath. I sleep a lot. I cry a little. I try to read Harry Potter, but even that is too much for my foggy brain. I can watch TV, but only when the people onscreen have the IQ of a mango. My body is the aftermath of a bloody battle, still in the hysterical What in God’s name have you done?! phase. I try to whisper this is all for its own good, that it was done with love and care, I swear . . . but my body is having none of that. Moving, in any way, is beyond awful. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before: cruel, quick, deep pain. Life revolves around my med schedule. I have a prescribed bottle of one hundred Percocet next to the microwave. I feel like Mick Jagger.
Steph empties the two drains that collect the pale pink postsurgery fluid (my body is used to hydrating tissue that’s no longer there). It’s supposed to get lighter and less over time. She keeps a log with the diligence of a cop on a stakeout: Saturday, December 9, 12:35 p.m., left side 20 ml, right side 22 ml. Target remains grouchy and a little stinky.
I can’t shower until they remove the drains. My sister bathes me with giant wet wipes like a giant baby. After I go through an entire can of dry shampoo, she offers to wash my hair in the tub. This operation resembles an elephant being airlifted. But once I’m settled, head over the edge of the old bathtub, and my sister starts pouring warm water over my scalp, I start to relax. Mara massages shampoo that smells like oranges into my greasy hair. No sound except for the squeak-squish of her fingers. I close my eyes. I love how close she is to me. How gentle she’s being. I wish she could do this for me every week.
A little sniffle. “Mar?” I look up. “What’s wrong?”
She wipes her nose with the top of her shoulder. “Nothing. Just having some feelings.”
“About what?”
She pauses for a long moment. When she speaks her voice is tender. “About you.” Her fingers continue to dig into my scalp slowly.
I nestle closer to my sister and let her take care of me.
* * * *
Finally, I’m ready to see them. My foobs, the nickname the forums give to fake boobs. I wait until Mara, Steph, and Luna are all home. In front of Steph’s bedroom mirror, we remove the compression bra and carefully unwrap the gauze. Part of me is hoping for a Christmas miracle, two perfect breasts, no scars, even better than the original with 100 percent sensation. But what I see almost makes me gag. My entire chest is swollen and bruised, a lurid paint palette of yellow, pink, and purple. Nothing like Luna’s perfect rack at all. I try not to panic and instead make a joke. “I look like I’ve been in a fight. A vicious boob fight.”
“That’ll all go down eventually,” Luna says, examining my chest. “Both your scars look great.”
“Really?” I ask her. “Are you sure?”
She nods, authoritative. “You’ll barely be able to see them once the sutures dissolve.”
“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” says Mara, frowning critically. “The shape looks good. I mean, they’re not totally the same. But still, not bad.”
“Are they wonky?” I turn forty-five degrees. I don’t feel at all self-conscious of the girls examining my foobs. They don’t yet feel like a part of me. “I think they’re wonky.”
“I don’t think so,” says Steph. “Honestly, Lace, I reckon you’ve got a couple of cracking foobs on your hands.”
They’re still too sore to investigate with my fingers. But maybe, hopefully, Steph’s right.
Cooper texts me every single day. Sometimes it’s short and funny, sometimes long and introspective. Sometimes it’s pictures—his office in the city, his new apartment in Kreuzberg—or a poem, or a link to something that made him think of me. He’s liking his new job and he’s loving Berlin. Every time his name appears on my phone, my chest glows warm. It’s a brief, bright respite from the slow, heavy pain. But my brain, or maybe my heart, isn’t working well enough to reply with the same frequency. I thank him for the books and tell him I miss him, but that’s about it. Somehow, I know he doesn’t mind that he doesn’t hear from me every day. Somehow, I know he’s willing to wait for me.
* * * *
Vivian visits. She brings a stack of salads from Sweetgreen, giving us a break from Steph’s cheese-and-carb-focused culinary creations. In my nest of pillows and blankets and low, cozy light, her black leather pants and wing-tipped eyeliner are strikingly out of place. But I don’t mind. It reminds me there is another life out there, waiting for me.
It’s a short visit: I have the staying power of a newborn baby and things are still a bit strained between us. But as she’s about to leave, she swivels back. “I just found out my cousin-in-law is BRCA positive.”
“Shit,” I say, the meds rendering me exceptionally eloquent.
“Crazy, right?” Viv shrugs. “I just thought, when you’re ready, you could talk to her.”
“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”
“She’s really young. Twenty, I think. My mom says she’s freaking out.” Viv shoulders her bag. “I think it’d be good for her to meet other people who’ve gone through the same thing.”
“Definitely,” I say, thinking of Luna and Bee and all those endless hours on the forums. “It really helped me.”
* * * *
Later, I’m mulling this over as I aimlessly scroll through Instagram. Perfect avocado toast, sunsets over city skylines, #makeupfree selfies from girls with flawless skin. My own feed is just as carefully curated: a perfect s’more in front of a crackling fire, a lovely stack of old books. I haven’t posted since the surgery. I linger on my picture from Tom and Peter’s wedding. Viv, Steph, and me, all grinning, bathed in afternoon light. Best friends forever without a care in the world. Ha.
Over the last few days, I’ve been sending Bee a steady stream of selfies. I find one from the day of my surgery. I’m in my disposable gown, hair in a paper net. I’m making a peace sign with a goofy face. I type:
Four days ago, I chose to have a PDM, which all the hip kids know means #preventativedoublemastectomy because I’m #BRCA1 positive (Google it, nerds). I’m smiling because I knew when I woke up, I would FINALLY be free from the fear of getting breast cancer like my mom, the disease that ended her life at 31. But really, I was scared. I spent a lot of this year hiding that fear from the world and it made me feel pretty isolated. If you’re a BRCA1 babe, YOU’RE NOT ALONE. #Foobs #savingmyowndamnlife.
I tag the New York Cancer Care Center and a few of the support organizations whose forums I lurk on. I post it. Five minutes later, I’m fast asleep.
* * * *
Mara is there when I wake up. We idle away the morning keeping up with Kardashians and their perfect, perfect butts. It’s not until Steph gets home from the library midafternoon and she tells me she loved my post and how proud of me she is that it comes back to me hazily.
“Oh yeah,” I yawn. “Vague recollection of that.”
She drops her bag on the floor. “You haven’t seen it?”
I have eighty new followers. Even more comments. Go, girl! We’re with you! and How are you feeling? I’m about to go through the same thing! and Hi from Tokyo, also BRCA1, also lost my mom.
DMs from college friends. Texts from work friends. Emails from clients. An outpouring of surprise, curiosity, and support.
I stare at Steph, my mouth hanging open.
She could burst from pride. “I just think it’s so great,” she says, plopping down next to me. “That you’re reaching out to your community.”
Community? I scroll through the comments: women’s stories of the same diagnosis, the same course of action. The same losses. “I suppose I am part of a community.” My gaze lands on the last comment, left just six minutes ago. BRCA1 in Ohio. Scared/alone/confused. Thanks for your post.
That was me. Scared and alone and confused.
And just like that, Lacey Whitman is back on Instagram. But with a brand-new policy.
Radical honesty.
* * * *
Steph sets up a meal delivery spreadsheet for my friends to donate meals. This is New York—no one’s about to bake a casserole—but hitting the buy button on Seamless, that’s what New Yorkers are good at. Now that I’ve come out of the BRCA closet, so to speak, I don’t care who knows. Bee sends lasagna and a bottle of vodka. Ash sends buckeyes and buffalo wings. Camila and Cam send sushi. Patricia sends everything off the menu at Le Coucou. And I keep posting.
I post a picture from my hospital bed when I managed a shaky thumbs-up for Bee, even with all my tubes and bandages and med haze.
I post a video of me walking for the first time after my surgery, shuffling like an old lady in my baggy hospital gown.
I post about how breast cancer is the most common form of cancer for women, and how important it is for every woman to know her body and her family history, and to get early screenings.
In the past, I just posted pictures with one-line captions or emojis. But now I find myself writing paragraphs about how I’m feeling and what I’m going through. I don’t sugarcoat anything. If I catch myself slipping into bad ’Gram habits (e.g., Describing my recovery as “the perfect chance to rewatch the Godfather trilogy”), I stop myself and tell the truth—(a) I do not have the attention span for nine hours of complex cinema, and (b) I’ve never seen a single Godfather movie to begin with. And every time I do, I get so much positive feedback and a flood of followers connecting with me. Okay, so there are some nutjobs posting their basement wankfest comments and a few misguided friends raving about how “lucky” I am to get new boobs (er, no—it was an amputation I didn’t want to have), but for the most part: I’m feeling the love.
I knew I could get through this with Mara and Steph in my corner. But connecting with this community of “previvor” women from literally all around the world is truly astounding. Powerful. Meaningful.
It just feels so, so good.
* * * *
A couple of days before Christmas, I head back to NY3C to finally get the drains out. It’s a significant step in my recovery. Once removed, I can shower on my own and am a lot more mobile. I’m still nowhere close to normal. I get tired quickly and I’m prone to feeling randomly sad. I still have to sleep on my back, which takes some getting used to. Ordinarily I’d never sleep in a bra but now I can’t imagine sleeping without it—it helps me feel like the implants aren’t sitting on the exterior of my chest but are moving deeper to become part of my own body. I can’t pull a door open on my own, I have to use my shoulder or feet to shove it open. When I walk around the neighborhood, I hold my arm in front of my chest like a shield or a crazy person.
But, my foobs are healing. I have more freedom of movement. I don’t have to second-guess every time I lift my arms. The day I reach up to grab a packet of tea from a high shelf without thinking is a certifiable victory. And my attention span is increasing. As the city decks itself in boughs of holly (fa-la-la-la-la), I crack open a story about a boy wizard.
At first I tell myself I’m just trying to kill time: the winter nights are long and dark, especially for someone under house arrest. But as the year crawls to a snowy, slushy end, I find myself returning to Hogwarts again and again. Not just because the story has literally zero to do with preventive surgeries. Wrapped in his old wool blanket, drinking hot chocolate out of his Cal Bears mug, I feel close to the boy whose old room I’m sleeping in. On New Year’s Eve, when I insist everyone go out without me, I get to the part where (spoiler alert!) Dumbledore dies. I’m weeping, and it’s not just the meds.
My father must’ve been devastated when Mom died. I don’t remember this—his grief, how overwhelmed he must’ve felt at losing his wife and suddenly being tasked with raising two daughters on his own. For the first time, I feel a profound, aching sorrow for Dad, and what he went through, all those years ago.
I open Cooper’s message thread and type Dumbledore .
Minutes later, a reply.
Giving you a virtual hug. I miss you, Lace.
I write back.
Me too.