PSA: This Is Not a Free Boob Job

PSA: This Is Not a Free Boob Job

🌼 Date: Friday, July 17, 2026

⚡ Energy: Snarky, spicy, and slightly over the bullshit

💖 Status: Issuing a public service announcement

😖 Outlook: Cancer may get some battles, but it does not get the war

PSA: This is not a free boob job.

Let me say that again for the people in the back.

This is not a free boob job.

This journey is the most expensive road to a “free boob job” I have ever heard of in my entire life.

And I am not just talking about money.

Although believe me, the money part is very real.

I am talking about the physical cost.

The emotional cost.

The mental cost.

The relationship cost.

The career cost.

The savings account cost.

The “my body no longer works the way it used to” cost.

The “I cannot look in the mirror without mentally inventorying what cancer took from me” cost.

So no.

This is not a free boob job.

This is breast cancer reconstruction.

Very different.

Wildly different.

Completely different zip code.

First, chemo takes you to death’s doorstep, drops you off with a protein drink, and then the doctors hope you are strong enough to drag yourself back to life.

Does that sound free?

Does vomiting, mouth sores, fatigue, neuropathy, hair loss, chemo nails, taste changes, insomnia, and your immune system packing a suitcase and leaving town sound like a complimentary cosmetic upgrade?

Because no.

No, it does not.

Then radiation comes along and roasts you from the inside out like a microwave.

And in my opinion, radiation was actually worse than chemo.

Yes, I said it.

Chemo was brutal.

But radiation was sneaky-brutal.

Radiation was, “Oh, you thought we were just aiming beams at you for a few minutes a day? Cute. Now enjoy the long-term effects.”

My skin is still stiff.

Harder.

Thicker.

The treated side does not feel like the other side.

The muscles are so tight they act like they have been in a cast for six months or more.

Even with the stretches my physical therapist has me doing, I still do not have full range of motion.

And it has been nearly three months since radiation ended.

Three months.

Still tight.

Still pulling.

Still stretching.

Still trying to convince my chest and shoulder that we are allowed to move like a normal human person again.

Does that sound free?

Because it does not feel free.

It feels like my body got repossessed and I am making payments to get it back in tiny, painful installments.

I still do not have my stamina back.

I still do not have my strength back.

I have to negotiate with my own energy store like I am trying to talk a toddler into putting on pants.

If I know I have an appointment or something on my social calendar, I have to reserve energy for a couple of days beforehand.

Then I have to plan on needing a day or two to recover afterward.

That is not me being dramatic.

That is the current math.

One dinner?

Energy budgeting.

One appointment?

Energy budgeting.

One party?

Energy budgeting plus recovery time.

I have learned that I can usually last about two to two and a half hours at an event.

Dinner.

Appointment.

Party.

Visit.

Whatever it is.

After that, I am out of gas.

Done.

Empty.

Tiny Tina has left the building.

I need to excuse myself and find a nap before my body starts filing complaints.

That is not free.

That is not a fun little side effect.

That is life after treatment.

And then there is work.

I am nine months out from surgery, and I am still not able to return to my job because I do not have the strength to do it.

Nine months.

That is a whole human pregnancy, and I am over here still trying to rebuild enough strength to mop without turning it into a physical therapy case study.

My job is physical.

My body is not ready.

My hands and feet still have neuropathy.

My stamina is not back.

My strength is not back.

My left arm now comes with lymphedema rules.

Compression sleeve.

Swelling.

Fullness.

Heaviness.

Activity limits.

Stretches.

Exercises.

Two-pound dumbbells.

A walking pad in the living room.

Tina’s Rehab Center is officially open, but let’s not pretend this is a spa package.

This is rebuilding from the rubble.

And while I am doing that, I am not working.

Which means cancer is not just costing me physically.

It is costing us financially.

It is emptying our savings.

It is changing our plans.

It is affecting our future.

So when someone says, “At least you get a free boob job out of it,” I want to blink at them slowly until they hear themselves.

Free?

Free where?

Free how?

Free from what?

Because the breasts I had were not upgraded.

They were amputated.

Let’s call it what it is.

A double mastectomy is a double breast amputation.

That is not cosmetic.

That is not elective.

That is not a cute little makeover.

That is body parts being removed because cancer moved in without permission and started redecorating.

I did not go into a plastic surgeon’s office with a Pinterest board and say, “I would like these, please.”

I went into cancer treatment trying to stay alive.

And now reconstruction is part of trying to feel whole again.

Not hotter.

Not younger.

Not perkier.

Whole.

Or at least closer to whole.

And even that comes with a lot of asterisks.

Expanders are not fun.

They are hard.

Uncomfortable.

Weird.

They do not feel like real boobs.

They do not move like real boobs.

They do not look like real boobs.

They are temporary medical chest rocks slowly being filled while my skin and muscles try to cooperate.

I had one side deflated to zero for radiation.

Zero.

Deflate Gate was not a cosmetic vacation.

It was emotionally brutal.

Then we started filling again.

One appointment at a time.

One needle at a time.

One “please let my bloodwork be good enough” prayer at a time.

That is not free.

That is not simple.

That is not a boob job.

And the final exchange surgery?

Also not the same thing as getting implants for fun.

My plastic surgeon will have to work around radiated tissue.

Scar tissue.

A divot from where the tumor was close to the chest wall.

Uneven expanders.

Different healing on each side.

Possible different implant sizes.

Possible extra work to fill the void.

She will not fully know what she needs to do until she gets in there.

So yes, I may joke about gummy bear implants and Christmas Vacation boobs and trick-or-treating for my new boobs around Halloween.

Because humor is my coping mechanism and I will absolutely bedazzle trauma if I have to.

But underneath the jokes?

This is serious.

This is medical.

This is reconstruction after cancer.

This is not a free boob job.

This is not a prize.

This is not a perk.

This is not the universe saying, “Sorry about the cancer, here are some complimentary boobs.”

No.

The universe can keep that nonsense.

I would happily take my original body back.

The one that did not know what chemo felt like.

The one that did not need radiation.

The one that had normal feeling in my hands and feet.

The one that could work.

The one that had stamina.

The one that could clean the house without planning recovery time.

The one that did not need a compression sleeve.

The one that trusted random aches.

The one that did not have scars across my chest.

The one that did not have to decide whether or not to have nipples.

The one that did not know what BIA-ALCL was.

The one that had boring, regular, original equipment boobs.

I miss that body.

Even if I complained about it sometimes.

Even if I wished things were lifted or smaller or perkier or whatever nonsense we tell ourselves when we do not realize how good “normal” actually is.

I would take boring normal back in a heartbeat.

So no.

This is not free.

And it is not a boob job.

It is survival.

It is reconstruction.

It is grief.

It is healing.

It is learning how to live in a body that has been changed without your permission.

It is trying to feel feminine again.

Confident again.

Sexy again.

Strong again.

Safe again.

It is standing in front of the mirror and trying to be kind to the woman looking back.

It is putting your shoulders back even when your instinct is to curl forward and hide.

It is wearing the compression sleeve.

Doing the stretches.

Lifting the two-pound dumbbells.

Drinking the protein.

Going to the appointments.

Letting the nurse poke the expander port.

Letting your plastic surgeon make a plan.

Letting your body heal at a speed that is deeply inconvenient.

It is not glamorous.

It is not easy.

It is not free.

And if someone is reading this who has ever said that to a breast cancer patient, I am going to say this with love, sparkle, and just enough side-eye to make my point:

Please don’t.

Do not tell someone who lost their breasts to cancer that at least they get a free boob job.

It may sound like a harmless joke.

It may even be said with good intentions.

But it lands like a glitter-covered brick.

Because we did not ask for this.

We did not choose cancer.

We did not choose amputation.

We did not choose scars, drains, chemo, radiation, neuropathy, lymphedema, weakness, or reconstruction delays.

We are not lucky because plastic surgery is involved.

We are surviving because it had to be involved.

There is a difference.

A big one.

A huge one.

A “please do not make me explain this while I am already exhausted” one.

It is sad how cancer wins some of the battles.

The body image battle.

The energy battle.

The savings account battle.

The strength battle.

The confidence battle.

The mirror battle.

The work battle.

But it does not get to win the war.

Not mine.

Not today.

I am still here.

Still healing.

Still rebuilding.

Still under construction.

Still snarky.

Still sparkly.

Still very much not accepting the phrase “free boob job.”

So let the record show:

These are not free boobs.

These are battle boobs.

Reconstruction boobs.

Survival boobs.

Barbie-for-now, gummy-bear-later, medically complicated, emotionally expensive, no-refunds, no-warranty, definitely-not-free boobs.

And Tiny Tina paid for them in ways I would never wish on anyone.

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One Badass Day at a Time