Lefty Got a Pep Talk

Lefty Got a Pep Talk

🌼 Date: Tuesday, July 28, 2026

⚡ Energy: Hopeful, surprised, and cautiously feeling myself up

💗 Status: Plastics appointment with an unexpected fill

🥰 Outlook: For the first time in a long time, I feel a little more like me

Today I had a plastics appointment, and the unexpected happened.

I got a fill on the left side.

The left side.

The radiated side.

The side that has been sitting at 515cc since March.

The side that went through radiation and decided to become stiff, tight, thick-skinned, and dramatic.

That side.

This was the first time since March that we added anything to the left expander.

And honestly, I was not sure how the skin was going to behave.

Radiated skin is not regular skin anymore.

It has opinions.

It has trust issues.

It does not always stretch the way we want it to stretch.

It gets tight.

It gets firm.

It gets stubborn.

Basically, my left boob and I have more in common than I expected.

So on the way to the appointment, I gave her a pep talk.

Yes.

I talked to my boob.

At this point in the journey, nobody should be surprised.

I have talked to my blood counts.

I have talked to my neutrophils.

I have talked to my stomach.

I have talked to my immune system.

I have talked to my neuropathy feet.

So naturally, today I talked to Lefty.

I told her we needed cooperation.

Stretching.

Calm behavior.

No drama.

No tantrums.

No sudden “absolutely not” energy.

Just one nice, polite, medically supervised fill.

I have been pretty good about keeping up with my lotion routine to help keep the skin as soft, supple, and stretchable as possible.

Which sounds fancy, but really means I have been rubbing lotion on my chest like I am trying to negotiate peace with a very irritated leather couch.

Whatever works.

And today?

Apparently, it helped.

They added 50cc to the left side.

So now the left side is at 565cc, while the right side is still at 515cc.

And yes, that means the numbers are uneven again.

But visually?

They are actually starting to look more even.

Because, as we have learned, reconstruction math is not regular math.

It is cancer math.

It is divot math.

It is radiation math.

It is “the left expander has to fill the chest wall void before it acts like a boob” math.

Very advanced.

Very rude.

Not taught in school.

The NP doing my fill thought they looked pretty even once she got to 50cc while I was in a partially reclined position, so that is where we stopped.

And now comes the weird part.

I have to figure out if this is where I want them.

Which means I have homework.

And the homework is basically:

Feel myself up.

Hold them.

Check them.

Squeeze them.

Well, squeeze is a generous word, because these expanders are still rocks.

So it is less “squeeze” and more “firmly inspect the medical chest boulders.”

Very sexy.

Very scientific.

Very “please do not walk in right now because I am doing reconstruction research.”

I am supposed to live with them for the next week and see how they feel.

How they look.

How my clothes fit.

How my body feels.

How my brain responds when I look in the mirror.

Then we will assess at my next appointment.

For today, I think they feel pretty even to me.

And when I put my shirt back on and looked in the mirror, I could immediately tell a difference.

Immediately.

Not a tiny difference.

Not a “maybe if I squint and tilt my head” difference.

A real difference.

For the first time since I lost my own boobs in October, I felt like a real person.

And I do not even know how to fully explain what that felt like.

Because yes, I know I have been a real person this whole time.

Obviously.

But cancer does something to your reflection.

It changes the way you see yourself.

It changes the way clothes feel.

It changes your posture.

It changes your confidence.

It changes how much time you spend looking in the mirror trying to decide if you look like yourself or like someone still under construction.

And I have definitely felt under construction.

For months.

Surgery.

Drains.

Compression bras.

Deflate Gate.

Radiation.

Uneven expanders.

Tight skin.

Chest wall divot.

One side flat-ish.

One side full.

Then refilling.

Then comparing.

Then questioning.

Then trying on bras like an awkward sixth grader with medical rocks.

It has been a lot.

So to put my shirt on today and see something closer to even?

Something closer to a shape I recognize?

Something closer to me?

That hit.

In the best way.

I know these are still expanders.

I know they are not the final implants.

I know the exchange surgery is where the real magic happens.

I know my plastic surgeon still has work to do.

I know my body is still healing.

I know this is not the finish line.

But today felt like progress I could actually see.

Not just a number in my chart.

Not just saline in a bag.

Not just “we are getting there.”

Today, I looked in the mirror and thought:

Oh.

There I am.

Maybe not all the way.

Maybe not finished.

Maybe not fully confident yet.

Maybe still Barbie boobs.

Maybe still rock-hard reconstruction boulders.

Maybe still no nipples, no soft gummy bears, no final reveal.

But closer.

And closer matters.

After everything cancer has taken, any piece of myself that I get to recognize again feels like a victory.

Even if that victory involves me feeling myself up for the next week like I am conducting a very questionable science experiment.

So yes, today was unexpected.

Lefty got a fill.

The radiated skin behaved.

The lotion routine may be doing its job.

The numbers are technically uneven, but the boobs are starting to look more even.

And for the first time since October, I put my shirt on, looked in the mirror, and felt a little more like a real person.

A real person with medical chest rocks, yes.

But still.

A real person.

And that is a pretty damn good feeling.

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One Badass Day at a Time