Welcome to my blog. I document my journey through breast cancer. Hope you feel inspired!

Um, I'm sorry about your titties.

Um, I'm sorry about your titties.

This songs dedicated
To my homies in that gangsta lean

Why'd you have to go so soon
It seems like yesterday
We were hangin' round da hood
Now I'm gonna
Keep your memory alive
Like a homie should.

Y'all remember this song or did I just age myself?

West Coast 4 Life.

Ok, No one's dead but my titties are about to be.

I work up until the day before my surgery. The last thing I need is time alone, so I just keep trudging along like a pregnant woman working up until her due date. All day I'm waiting for a phone call from the hospital to tell me what time I will need to arrive to the hospital the following day. I’m looking forward to it. I’m ready to be put out of my misery and ready to put this behind me.

I say goodbye to my work friends and have a few awkward conversations with the men in my company who want to wish me good luck. I mean how do you tell someone, “Um, I’m sorry about your titties.” Awk-warrrrd.

By 2pm I'm out. I walk to my car with a weight lifted from my shoulders. There is some weird stuff going on at work and I am happy to get away from it for 6 weeks. I get in my car and before I can burn rubber out of the parking lot I notice a gift basket. Inside is a blanket, two air plants -- (I should have said RIP to those because this girl could kill a cactus), lotion, a list of Netflix series + podcasts to binge and other goodies. Awwww. Now I feel slightly (emphasis on slightly) bad about racing out of here.

My friend Kameron is one of the friends that will join my husband in the waiting room the next day so we decide to make it a sleepover. This isn't the kind of sleepover that makes me squeal like a schoolgirl. I think God sent her to keep me from hopping on a flight, a train, a Greyhound...anything that would allow me to escape what is to come.

Kameron walks in with carry-out from the delish Italian spot next door and a bottle of my favorite red wine. Yum.

Oh shit, is this my last meal?! People die in surgery all the time. I’ve never had a baby, broken a bone or even had my damn wisdom teeth removed. Now they’re about to saw my titties off! Oh God, what if I die and then MJ goes crazy like Kanye! Ahhhhh!!!

Shit, it’s 7 pm. Nurses order me to not eat or drink anything 8 hours before surgery. Welp, at least this final meal will be bomb. This wine though. Mmmmm. My nerves will thank me right now for pouring an Olivia Pope sized glass of this Cabernet. But uh, about that. Have I mentioned that I have a summer cold? Probably not. Gotta keep this shit under wraps, wraps. There is NO way we are rescheduling this surgery. I want this shit OUT. You hear me? Gone. Vamoose. Peace TF out, bruh. Tomorrow I’m going to cough into a pillow and maybe poot at the same time if it's a diversion that will keep me from being found out. If anyone suspects anything I plan to look back at them like they’ve got 7 eyeballs. So, (sigh) instead of enjoying this bottle...I mean glass of red, I’m going to substitute my wine glass for a teacup. Spiked with Henny White, because if this is going to be my last drank I might as well use the good stuff, amirite?!

Kameron and I sit on the couch, eat our delicious fettuccine alfredo that tastes like it was made with the tender loving care of an Italian grandma and watch old episodes of Martin. Ah, comfort food, one of my closest friends and old episodes of Martin? The combination of these 3 things should be enough to turn any frown upside down, but not today. I’m anxious. But guess what? I don’t have a choice in the matter. Go through with it or DIE. Literally, D I E. How crazy is that shit to think about? I just want to blink my eyes and it is over. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. No use in crying about it then. Can’t bring them back. Can’t reattach. What is done will be done. But the fact is, even with almost two months to process this upcoming mastectomy, it still doesn’t make this pill any easier to swallow. There are so many worries on my heart. I can't shake it. I am rattled.

How do I spend this final night with my boobs? Write an ode to them? Takes some nudes and send them to my husband before my nips are snipped? Save them for a rainy day? Stay up and ask my husband to motorboat me one last time? Run away? Pour some liquor out for these titties? Pour some liquor ON them? Running away sounds good but is only temporary. Pouring liquor down my tata’s while I’ve got snot running down my nose is probably not going to be as sexy as I’d like it to be. I'll spare Michael the shenanigans. Well, sleep it is!

By 9 pm I tell Kameron goodnight and saunter upstairs to my bed. Unbeknownst to me, it is perfect timing. A dozen or so friends from the East coast all the way West have a prayer line set up just for me. I don't know any of the details but I know that it happened and it still brings me to tears because I don't think it gets any sweeter or more amazing than that.

I don't even wait for my husband to get home. No motor-boating poppin’ off tonight! I just want to quiet my mind. I throw back my spiked hot tea and some cold meds, set my alarm for 6 am and close my eyes.

Tomorrow is the big day.



Ain't this some sh*t?

Ain't this some sh*t?