You’re Clear

You’re Clear

🌼 Date: Wednesday, May 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Hospital gown couture and cautious celebration

💕 Status: Officially clinging to two beautiful little words

🥰 Outlook: Cancer free, with a tiny anxious asterisk in the back of my brain

Today I had my six-month follow-up with the surgeon who performed my mastectomy back in October.

And before y’all start doing calendar math and saying, “Tina, that was seven months ago,” let me explain.

I had a follow-up one week after surgery.

Then one month after surgery.

Then today was six months after that appointment.

Which is actually seven months after the actual mastectomy.

Confusing, right?

But honestly, has anything about this journey been simple?

Why start now?

First things first, they put me in the largest gown ever created by modern medicine.

I am not exaggerating.

I’m pretty sure both Casey and I could have fit inside that thing with room to spare. Maybe the nurse got confused and thought I requested the family-size gown. Maybe it was from the medical circus tent collection. Maybe they were preparing me for flight.

Whatever the reason, this thing was enormous.

It was giving Coachella vibes.

If I was one of the tents.

I stood there in that exam room looking like a tiny bald woman who had been swallowed by a hospital curtain and somehow lived to tell the tale.

Fashion icon.

Medical edition.

But giant gown aside, today’s visit was actually really informative.

And I learned something I had not really thought about before.

From this day forward, I will no longer need yearly mammograms.

Because I no longer have breast tissue.

Huh.

Never thought of that.

I guess that makes sense, but still, it felt weird to hear.

For years, mammograms were my yearly “responsible adult” thing because of my family history. I started getting them at 40, and I thought I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do.

And now?

No more mammograms.

Instead, my screening plan from here on out will be self-checks and exams every six months with my oncologist.

Not exactly the person I ever imagined would be handling that particular life category, but I guess if we are checking to see whether breast cancer has come back, she is probably the right person for the job.

Still weird.

Cancer takes the ordinary parts of your life and rearranges them like furniture in a room you used to know.

Same house.

Totally different layout.

And let me tell you, the exams now are not like any breast exam I have ever done on myself or had done before in my life.

This is not just the old-school shower check where you feel around for a lump and try to remember if you’re supposed to go in circles, lines, wedges, or whatever method they taught us back when we were also learning to use dial-up internet.

This is a full-body search party.

First, I was sitting upright while she felt all the lymph nodes in my neck and along my clavicle.

Then I laid down and did the classic one-hand-over-my-head position.

She checked the lymph nodes in my armpit.

Then down the side of my torso.

Along my ribcage under the boob area.

Across my sternum between the boobs.

Then the boob area itself, which right now is basically one inflated construction zone and one deflated bag situation.

Then we did the whole thing again on the other side.

Rinse and repeat.

Tiny Tina: Deluxe Inspection Package.

Basically, from now on I need to be checking every inch of my body from my chin down to my ribs and all the way out to each side of my body.

So that’s fun.

It is a lot more involved than just checking your boobs in the shower.

Casey said it is no longer a boob check.

It is now a bag check.

And honestly?

He is not wrong.

At this point, I’m not feeling for the classic “grain of rice” lump like we were all taught back in the day.

Apparently things have come a long way, baby.

Now I am feeling for anything unusual.

Lumps.

Bumps.

Hard spots.

Weird swelling.

Changes.

Anything that feels new, different, suspicious, or like one of the aliens currently renting space in my chest decided to redecorate.

It is strange to learn your body all over again.

To realize the map has changed.

The landmarks are different.

The warning signs are different.

The places to check are different.

And instead of just checking “the boobs,” I am checking the whole surrounding neighborhood.

Neck.

Clavicle.

Armpits.

Ribs.

Chest wall.

Sternum.

Side body.

All of it.

Which makes sense, medically.

Emotionally?

It’s a lot.

Because every new instruction is another reminder that this is not over just because treatment is done.

There is still follow-up.

Still monitoring.

Still watching.

Still checking.

Still learning what this body feels like now.

Still trying to separate “normal healing weirdness” from “call the doctor immediately” weirdness.

And that is a full-time job with terrible benefits.

But then, after the exam, I got the best news I have heard since I was diagnosed on September 4, 2025.

She said I am clear.

Clear.

She felt confident enough to say cancer free.

And I am running with it.

Do I fully understand what that means in the long-term medical sense?

Maybe not.

Do I know there is follow-up and monitoring and oncology visits and hormone blockers and all the other fine print?

Yes.

Do I also want to grab those two words with both hands and run through the streets like I won the world’s worst marathon?

Absolutely.

I feel like I should have a sign.

Maybe a T-shirt.

Maybe a billboard.

Maybe one of those airplanes that flies over the beach with a custom banner behind it.

Except mine would say:

TINA IS CLEAR, BITCHES.

Too much?

Possibly.

Accurate?

Also yes.

Because after everything — the diagnosis, the scans, the surgery, the drains, the expanders, the chemo, the nausea, the bald head, the radiation, the burns, the lotion betrayal, the antibiotics, the swelling, the bag checks, the emotional spirals, and the endless waiting — hearing “you’re clear” felt almost unreal.

Like my brain heard it, but it did not know where to put it.

Part of me wanted to cry.

Part of me wanted to laugh.

Part of me wanted to ask her to say it again.

Part of me wanted it in writing, notarized, laminated, and maybe embroidered on a pillow.

And part of me, because she is a tiny anxious goblin who apparently lives rent-free in the back of my skull, immediately whispered:

But are we sure?

That little seed of doubt is still there.

It might always be there.

The tiny voice that says I will not really believe I am cancer free until I see another PET scan with my own eyes and there are no more hot spots anywhere.

And as of right now, I do not have another scan scheduled.

So that thought may just set up shop in the back of my mind for the foreseeable future.

Probably with a folding chair, a clipboard, and a terrible attitude.

But today?

Today I am not feeding it.

Today I am not letting the doubt take the microphone.

Today I am clinging to the words I was given.

You’re clear.

Two little words.

Two words I have been waiting to hear since the day everything changed.

Two words that somehow feel both huge and fragile.

Two words that do not erase what happened, but do open a door.

Two words that give me permission to breathe a little deeper.

To hope a little bigger.

To imagine a future that is not just appointments and treatment plans and “let’s wait 4–6 weeks.”

I know there is still more ahead.

I still have reconstruction.

I still have follow-ups.

I still have medications.

I still have body changes, nerve weirdness, swelling, skin healing, and whatever other surprises Cancerland has shoved into the gift bag on my way out.

But today, I got to stand in a ridiculously oversized gown and hear that I am clear.

And that matters.

That is not a small thing.

That is a stop-and-feel-it thing.

That is a mark-the-date thing.

That is a “holy shit, maybe I made it through the worst of this” thing.

So yes, I am still cautious.

Yes, there is still a tiny anxious asterisk.

Yes, I will keep checking.

Yes, I will keep going to my appointments.

Yes, I will keep listening to my body.

But I am also going to celebrate.

Because cancer has taken up enough space.

Today, joy gets some room too.

Today, hope gets the good chair.

Today, I am clear.

And if you need me, I will be mentally running through the streets in my giant medical Coachella tent gown, waving an imaginary banner behind me that says:

Cancer free. Tiny Tina. Still standing.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time