Staring Is Not a Medical Exam

Staring Is Not a Medical Exam

🌼 Date: Saturday, May 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Normal human outing with celebrity-level side-eye

💕 Status: Out in public, hoodie on, dignity mostly intact

😎 Outlook: If you’re going to stare, at least ask for a selfie

Today we did something wild.

Something daring.

Something I have not done much of in the last seven months.

We acted like normal human beings.

I know.

Bold.

We met some friends for breakfast, then went shopping for a wedding gift.

That’s it.

No appointment.

No doctor.

No portal message.

No medical gown.

No radiation table.

No weird new symptom that required me to send pictures of my skin to someone with a medical degree.

Just breakfast.

Friends.

Shopping.

Normal life.

And let me tell you, after seven months of cancer taking up every square inch of my calendar, my body, my brain, my patience, and my ability to enjoy a day without wondering what fresh nonsense was coming next, acting like a normal person felt like a breath of fresh air.

Not a perfect breath.

My chest is still tight enough to make breathing feel like a group project no one prepared for.

But still.

Fresh air.

For a little while, I was not just a patient.

I was not just Cancer Tina.

I was not just a woman recovering from surgery, chemo, radiation, skin reactions, swelling, fatigue, nausea, and the full deluxe package of medical betrayal.

I was a woman having breakfast with friends and shopping for a wedding gift.

Look at me.

Out here participating in society like I have a membership card.

But of course, because the universe cannot simply let me live, there were still the looks.

The stares.

The little double takes.

The “I’m trying not to look, but I’m absolutely looking” faces.

And honestly?

I do not understand people.

I really don’t.

I mean, listen.

It has been a struggle being this damn sexy for so long.

I have suffered my entire life being drop-dead gorgeous.

The burden is heavy.

Pray for me.

But come on already.

I am pretty sure I am not the first person these people have ever seen who does not fit whatever little mold of “normal” they have built in their heads.

And at this point, I can’t even say I’m bald anymore.

I have hair.

Actual hair.

Peach fuzz has turned into real growth.

In fact, I just cut Casey’s hair, and mine is now longer than his.

Milestone achieved.

Everybody please hold your applause until the end.

Okay, fine, clap now.

Because honestly, after watching my hair disappear, feeling every stage of shiny bald, fuzzy bald, weird bald, and “is this hair or static?” bald, having my hair be longer than Casey’s feels like a tiny victory parade on my head.

Still short.

Still cancer-adjacent looking to the general public, apparently.

But growing.

Fast.

And yet, even though my hair is coming back, and I was not wearing anything pink, and nothing about my outfit screamed HELLO, I HAVE BEEN THROUGH CANCER TREATMENT, PLEASE STARE DIRECTLY AT ME, people still stared.

I was just existing.

In public.

Rude of me, apparently.

When I go out, I still wear a hoodie for two reasons.

First, I am freezing cold most of the time.

Chemo broke my internal thermostat, and now my body seems to think every building is located inside a meat locker.

Second, the hoodie makes it harder to tell that I am currently a uni-boober.

Not impossible.

Just less obvious.

And right now, that feels easier.

Not because I am ashamed.

I am not ashamed of my body.

This body has been through hell and still gets me to breakfast, Target, and the couch. She is doing her best.

But sometimes I do not want my chest to be the first thing people notice.

Sometimes I do not want to watch their eyes do the confused little math.

Sometimes I do not want to wonder if they are trying to figure out whether something is missing, uneven, hidden, or contagious.

Spoiler alert: one boob is missing, the hoodie is intentional, and cancer is not airborne.

You’re welcome.

I also wear a mask in public because I still do not trust people to keep their asses home when they are sick.

Sorry, but I said what I said.

My immune system will probably be the last thing to heal itself, and after everything I have been through, I am not interested in catching someone’s “it’s just allergies” cough because they needed to browse throw pillows while actively brewing the plague.

No thank you.

I will be over here in my mask, protecting my fragile little immune system and minding my business.

Which is apparently a skill not everyone has mastered.

And here’s the thing: lots of people still wear masks.

So I do not think the mask alone is why people stare.

It is the whole package, I guess.

The short hair.

The hoodie.

The mask.

The one-boob energy.

The general aura of “this woman has been through something, but we are too awkward to know what to do with that information.”

And I get it.

Humans are curious.

Humans notice differences.

Humans sometimes look before their manners catch up.

But sweet baby tacos, enough with the staring already.

If you have a question, ask.

I am a very open person.

Clearly.

I mean, I have put my entire cancer journey and most of my life on this blog.

I have written about my mastectomy, my expanders, my bald head, my radiation skin, my nausea, my boob decisions, my weird swelling, my giant medical Coachella gown, and the fact that my husband has become part-time nurse, photographer, and emotional support witness.

I am not exactly a locked diary.

If someone came up kindly and said, “Can I ask you something?” I would probably answer.

Depending on the question.

And depending on whether they approached me like a human being or like a raccoon who just found a flashlight.

But staring?

Staring is not a question.

Staring is just awkward with eyeballs.

And I am tired of being someone else’s silent curiosity project.

Ask me.

Or don’t.

But please stop trying to solve the mystery of me from across the breakfast place like you are in a true crime documentary called The Woman in the Hoodie.

Unless, of course, you recognize me for the celebrity I have clearly become.

In that case, let’s not be weird about it.

Come on over.

Ask for the selfie.

I will pose.

I will give you my good side.

Which is complicated now, because one side has the boob and one side has the storyline.

But we’ll make it work.

The funny thing is, even with the stares, today still felt good.

That is important.

The stares did not ruin it.

They annoyed me.

Obviously.

They made me want to hand out business cards that say, “Yes, cancer. No, not contagious. Yes, I’m still cute. Please return your eyes to your own plate.”

But they did not take away the fact that I was out.

They did not take away breakfast with friends.

They did not take away wedding gift shopping.

They did not take away the little taste of normal.

And that matters.

Because normal is still new right now.

Or maybe not new.

Maybe it is familiar, but I am different.

I am trying to learn how to move through the world again in a body that looks different, feels different, and gets treated differently.

That is not easy.

Cancer recovery is not just about getting through treatment.

It is about figuring out how to re-enter your own life afterward.

It is going out in public and realizing people may stare.

It is deciding whether to wear the hoodie.

It is choosing the mask.

It is noticing your hair is growing but still feeling marked by what happened.

It is trying to be casual while also carrying an invisible backpack full of surgery, chemo, radiation, fear, hope, trauma, and snacks.

Always snacks.

It is wanting to be seen as Tina, while knowing some people will see the evidence first.

The short hair.

The mask.

The covered chest.

The changed body.

The possible cancer story they are writing in their heads without permission.

But here is what I am learning:

Their staring does not define me.

Their curiosity does not own me.

Their discomfort is not my responsibility.

I can be visible without being available for public inspection.

I can be different without explaining myself to strangers.

I can protect my immune system, cover my chest, grow my hair, wear my hoodie, and still be fully, completely, unapologetically me.

I can go to breakfast.

I can shop for a wedding gift.

I can laugh.

I can be annoyed.

I can be stared at and still not shrink.

Which is good, because radiation already tried to turn me into a Shrinky Dink, and frankly, I have done enough shrinking.

So yes, today I went out.

I acted like a normal human.

I wore the hoodie.

I wore the mask.

I did not wear pink.

I did not carry a sign.

I did not announce Cancer Tina’s public appearance schedule.

I just lived.

And even with the stares, it felt like progress.

Maybe this is how normal comes back.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not without awkward strangers and internal commentary.

But one breakfast at a time.

One shopping trip at a time.

One outing where I notice the looks, roll my eyes, make a joke, and keep going.

Because I am still here.

Still healing.

Still growing hair faster than Casey.

Still freezing cold.

Still masking in public because people cannot be trusted.

Still a uni-boober in a hoodie.

Still drop-dead gorgeous.

Still waiting for the paparazzi to be less rude.

And still very much Tina.

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One Badass Day at a Time