My Badass Battle

(A timeline of chaos, courage, cussing, and whatever the hell comes next.)

AUGUST 2025 — The “Well, Shit” Mammogram

I walked in expecting the usual annual boob squish —
you know, the one where you make awkward small talk while your nipple tries to find Jesus between two cold plates of metal.

But this time…
the room felt different.

The tech got quiet.
The air got heavy.
And before anyone even said a word, my gut whispered,
“Well… shit.”

I walked out not with peace of mind,
but with a suspicious spot,
a follow-up appointment,
and a brand-new emotional support Starbucks drink clutched in my hand like a lifeline.

That was the moment everything shifted —
quietly, subtly, but unmistakably.
Because here’s the thing:

Your gut knows before your brain is ready to catch up.

And mine was already sounding the alarm.

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SEPTEMBER 2025 — The Day My Hormones Got Evicted

Cool cool cool.
Love that for me.

So, before we could move one inch forward with treatment, I had to have my IUD removed — immediately.

“Acca excuse me?”

TMI moment — but you asked for real, raw, and unfiltered, so buckle up.

I’ve basically been on some form of hormonal birth control since the dinosaurs roamed the earth (aka high school). Heavy periods?
Hormones.
Regulating them?
Hormones.
Turn 40?
Doctor says: “No more pill, but here’s an IUD. It releases a little hormone, keeps things lighter, maybe no periods at all.”

(Spoiler: that “maybe” never happened. Not once.)

That little device carried me all the way through age 47. Then I got a new one. Now here we are, seven years later, suddenly needing it ripped out like a band-aid on a sasquatch.

I called on Thursday.
They scheduled me Friday.
Wham. Bam. No thank you, ma’am.

And for my parting gift?
A full-on “siege level” reenactment of why I needed the damn thing in the first place.
Thanks, uterus. You always know how to make an exit.

So now I forever get to wear this shiny badge:

Breast Cancer Patient — Stage 2
Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS)
Estrogen Positive, Progesterone Positive, HER2 Negative.

Basically:
“My cancer eats hormones.”
And I’ve been feeding it for decades like the generous woman I am.

So yes — this is why, from here on out, I will cry at:

• the word cry,
• commercials involving pets,
• wind,
• possibly dust,
• or for absolutely no goddamn reason at all.

Do I need to justify it?
No. I do not.
My hormones got evicted, and the emotional tenants that moved in afterward apparently have zero chill.

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OCTOBER 10, 2025

THE TA-TA PARTY — WHERE REAL LOVE SHOWED UP

Before surgery, my crew threw me a Ta-Ta Party — equal parts hilarious, awkward, and deeply human.

We laughed.
We cried.
We celebrated the boobs that had been with me through everything… and were about to clock out for the last time.

And because my people are nothing if not creative, we had root beer floats served in breast milk storage bags (yes, really), and boobie cupcakes complete with perfect little frosting nips.
It was ridiculous.
It was thoughtful.
It was unforgettable.

These humans showed up for me in ways that matter —
not because they were on the schedule,
not because it was expected,
but because love doesn’t need an invite.

This moment wasn’t about losing something.
It was about seeing — really seeing — the people who stood beside me, cracked jokes with me, fed me cupcakes shaped like body parts, and held space for every emotion in the room.

That is my real family.
The one that shows up when life gets real.
The one you don’t earn with a title…
but with eight years of blood, sweat, tears, heart, and soul.

A forever extension of the family I never even knew I needed.

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OCTOBER 16, 2025 — The Day My Boobs Left the Group Chat

Double mastectomy.
Tissue expanders installed.
Three lymph nodes removed.
A crash-course in drains, compression bras, and learning to sleep at a 47° angle like a medically confused vampire.

This selfie?
I took it alone in the hospital, sent it to Casey as proof of life — because we are absolutely not a couple who does “time apart” well.
That’s kind of the whole point of marrying your best friend, right?
You pick the person you never want to be away from…
and then you send them a half-drugged, flat-chested hospital selfie like,
“Look babe, I lived!”

It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t painless.
But it was the first step in becoming the badass version of me you’re reading about now.

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NOVEMBER 2025 — Healing Part 1, Hiding, and Waiting

Learning how to ‘enjoy’ sponge baths was a whole new adventure. Then came the realization I couldn’t wash my own hair, reach my back, or bend over far enough to wash my legs. Cue my amazing husband stepping in to bathe me—this time in the shower. (Not that he has ever once complained!) Lord, it felt heavenly just to stand under hot water again.

Meanwhile, I perfected the art of pretending to ‘rest’ while doing every single thing I was not supposed to do. I became a full-blown T-Rex—tiny arm movements only, trying desperately not to use my arms for anything. “Spoiler alert: impossible.”

The Wild World of Tissue Expanders (a.k.a. The Alien Claw Bags)

If you’ve ever crushed an empty plastic milk jug with your foot before tossing it in the recycling bin, you already know exactly what tissue expanders feel like.
Now imagine that crunched-up, sharp-edged milk jug… inside your chest.

Yep.
Welcome to my world.

These things are currently compressed in there like an alien trying to burst out of its cocoon — claws, edges, attitude and all. They don’t sit quietly, they don’t behave, and they most definitely do not move with your body.

Instead, they wait…
They lurk…
They choose the most inappropriate moment to flex on their own — like when you’re reaching around to wipe your own ass with your right arm and suddenly the left expander decides:

“Hmmm… you know what would be hilarious?
Shooting a lightning bolt of pain through Tina from under her toenails and out her nose holes!”

Just for fun.
Just to see if it can knock me clean off the toilet.

So, on Day 2 of recovery, my amazing husband looked at me with tears in my eyes as I stumbled out of the bathroom, looked at the situation, and installed a bidet.
Because if cancer thinks it’s going to take me down in the bathroom, THINK AGAIN.
I come armed with water pressure and spite.

And yes — when I say, “little turds,” I’m referring to the expanders… but if the shoe fits…

The Fill Process (a.k.a. How to Inflate the Human Capri Sun)

Here’s where things get real… and a little science-y… and a little gross…
But hey, if I can live through it, you can read about it.

Inside each of my lovely alien milk-jug expanders is a magnetic port — basically the “bullseye” where the needle needs to go. Every week, my plastic surgeon whips out this special magnet, waves it over my chest like she’s checking out groceries at self-checkout, and ding! it locks onto the hidden port.

She marks the spot on my chest, smiles sweetly, and then—
Here comes the needle.

I almost always walk away with a bruise on at least one side.
But hey, that’s just my new version of “body art.”

First, she injects the fresh saline.
That part is fairly straightforward — you can actually feel the pressure as the bag inflates, and the plastic-jug-from-hell stretches itself a little wider.

Then comes the gross part.

Remember when you were a kid and shook a snow globe?
Imagine that, but instead of glitter, it’s old blood that collects between the breast tissue envelope (skin flaps) and the expander pocket.

Yummmmy.

So what does the doctor do?
She just gently backs the needle out of the expander — somehow magically knowing exactly when she’s now “just under the skin” (which is why she gets paid the big bucks and I do not).

Then she drains off the old blood — the seroma — into a syringe like it’s the world’s worst juice box.
She always shows it to me and to my husband, who hasn’t missed a single appointment.

Speaking of my husband…

For the past 35+ years he has been my partner in life, laughter, and chaos —
but now he is also:

• my chauffeur
• my chef
• my maid
• my wound-care nurse
• my dressing-change assistant
• my shower engineer
• my “help me get this shirt on/off” specialist
• and the only witness to just how ridiculous these expanders really are

The only thing I haven’t asked that man to do is wipe my butt —
and honestly, with the way these expanders behave, that day may still come.

Let me tell you — the sloshing is… an experience.
It is a deeply unsettling “is there a water balloon inside me?” sensation.

Progress, baby.
One Capri Sun at a time.

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DECEMBER 9, 2025 — Chemo Round 1: Bring It, Cancer

The Bad News: My Last 3 Weeks of Plastics

(And yes, we call it Plastics now — because Mean Girls walked so my boobs could run. And of course, on Wednesdays, we wear pink.)

So, here’s the deal:
My right-side incision has decided it does NOT want to behave.
The left side — the one with the bigger tumor — is healing like a damn honor student.
The right side — tiny tumor, barely a blip — is being a full-blown problem child.

Even my entire medical team is like, “Ummm… what?”So here’s the deal:

Origami Boobs: The Saga

My plastic surgeon used the Bostwick technique, which basically takes my excess skin, deepithelializes it (Google it!), and folds it into a supportive sling — like a delicate little breast burrito — to hold the expander in place.

Why?
Because if you’ve ever laid on your back and felt your boobs migrate into your armpits, you’ll understand EXACTLY why we don’t want expanders or implants doing the same thing.

So now, thanks to all the intricate folding, we call them Origami Boobs.
It makes the whole thing feel a little more high art and a little less medical horror movie.

The Whole “Wound That Won’t Heal” Situation

Real, Raw, Unfiltered — Just Like I Promised

This is what a post-mastectomy anchor incision actually looks like.
No filters. No pretending it’s “not that bad.”
This is my right-side T-junction a few weeks ago, back when it was behaving. I’m sparing you the nasty, open wound, gaping hole picture of now because even I can’t really look at it. In this photo, the hole on the bottom was actually a little bigger than the 1 – 1/2 cm that it is now — the one holding up the show right now and keeping my skin from healing the way it should.
If you’re here because you’re facing this surgery too, I want you to know exactly what it looks like, so you never feel blindsided like I did.

Right now, at the T-junction of my scar, the top layer of skin has basically said,
“Nope. Not today. Not healing. Try again later.”

Which means:
No fills. For three straight weeks.
I’m still sitting at 150cc — the official size of a Capri Sun pouch — and it’s not moving anytime soon.

Why?
Because any added pressure on that wound risks splitting the delicate origami flap underneath… which would mean another surgery.
And since chemo wrecks your immune system faster than a toddler with a Sharpie, healing will already be slow.

So no fills until this diva wound decides to get its act together.

The Photo Shoot Nobody Wants

At yesterday’s plastics appointment, the nurse had to take a photo of my boob with a ruler next to it — literally measuring the hole — and send it to my oncologist with a “Heyyyyy, sooo… is chemo still happening tomorrow?” note.

Crunch time.

Chemo was supposed to be this morning.
Plastics was last night at 4:30pm.
We had planned all the appointments for the next 3 months carefully around my expected blood count cycles.
My whole damn treatment timeline depended on that wound getting a green light.

And here I was with a gaping T-junction hole and zero fills allowed.

Cue the Anxiety Parade

Normally, I take an anxiety pill before Plastics, mostly because looking at my own disfigured body is still incredibly hard.
(At my first appointment I sobbed like a newborn the minute the nurse removed all the bandaging — big ugly cry.)

And Then… the Oncologist Called

We were driving home in that heavy emotional fog when my phone rang through the car speakers.
It was my oncologist — the angel of decision-making, the queen of “are we still doing chemo or not?”

She’d reviewed the photo.
The wound looked like a bit over 1 cm.
Her worry? Infection.

My worry? EVERYTHING.

So, we negotiated.
Terrorist vs. hostage-level negotiations.

I agreed to:
✔ seal the magic bandage (silver, foamy, bougie, very fancy) on all four sides
✔ keep a photo log (sorry Casey, that’s now your new part-time job)
✔ call at the first sign of redness, swelling, or fever
✔ not cheat, push, or overdo it

And in return…
CHEMO WAS STILL ON.

Chemo Day: The Great Storm

This morning, we left the house with plenty of time for the 45-minute drive.

But Mother Nature said:
“Let’s make this fun.”

Flooding.
Storms.
Traffic stopped dead.
Power outages.
Every road looked like a scene from a dystopian drama.

GPS ETA: 8:12 am
Appointment time: 8:00 am
Me: Hyperventilating
Because I do not do late.
Bus drivers are NOT late.
Okay… fine…
Not usually double digits late.

I called the chemo clinic the second their phones turned on at 8:00.
A miracle happened:
A human answered.

Thank God I have a human life preserver named Casey.

When I sink, he doesn’t just throw me a rope — he jumps in.

And Then… the Nurses Made Me Cry AGAIN

When I finally got to the infusion room, something unexpected happened.

Three of the nurses recognized me.
From Bryan’s treatments.
They cared for him during his three battles.

And when they learned he had passed…
We all cried.
Right there.
In the infusion room.

They told me they rarely, if ever, get updates on patients after treatment ends.
It meant the world to them to finally know.

He mattered. He still matters.

The Pregnancy Test Fiasco

Then the doctor ordered a pregnancy test.
LOL.
Girl.
No.
This oven has been turned off for FIFTEEN YEARS.

My IV basically said,
“I accept incoming fluids only, thank you.”
It refused to give up any blood.
Not one drop.

One of the nurses literally said,
“Come on, Bryan, that’s not funny. Help your mama out.”
We laughed through tears.

The doctor finally said if I accepted responsibility, she’d waive the test.
I was like,
“Doc, the only way I’m pregnant is if the Virgin Mary herself blessed me personally — I had Essure put in 15 YEARS ago.”

And with that…
CHEMO ROUND 1 WAS ON.

Chemo-day glow and all.

💗 Introducing: Sir Drips-A-Lot

(My new, tall, shiny, clingy chemo boyfriend)

At some point during chemo, after my fifth close encounter with death-by-IV-pole, I had a realization:

If this thing is going to follow me around, bump into my ankles, and get tangled with every other patient like we’re doing the world’s slowest tango…
he deserves a name.

We will spend HOURS together.
He holds all my fluids like a champ.
He doesn’t judge when I ugly cry.
He doesn’t flinch when I swear like I’m trying to win a rap battle.
And he NEVER tells me to calm down.

Honestly?
He might be the most dependable male I’ve ever met who isn’t my husband.

And because Casey and I raised four kids who basically came out of the womb knowing how to rap, the name practically chose itself.

Behold… Sir Drips-A-Lot.

My tall, shiny, slightly wobbly chemo boyfriend.
He may not have rhythm, but he’s got BASS.
(Okay fine, it’s a pump motor… but let me have this.)

He rolls along beside me everywhere I go — to the bathroom, to the chair, to the next chair, to the OTHER chair because I can’t sit still.
We’re basically committed at this point.
If he had a Facebook profile, our status would be:
“It’s complicated (but medically necessary).”

Chemo Day 1: Meet My New Dance Partner

Chemo comes with a lot of unexpected side quests…
but no one warned me about the pole dancing.

You’re pumping people full of fluids for four hours straight.
You know we’re going to have to trot on over to the “patient only restroom.”

Would it kill someone to add:

• a cord hook (hello, even $40 vacuums have that),
• a phone shelf,
• a cup holder,
• and maybe a damn rhinestone option?

Because if I’m dragging this pole around like a reluctant toddler on wheels, the LEAST they could do is make it pink and sparkly.

The Bathroom Debacle (AKA: The Day a Stranger Saw My Whole Ass)

My very first trip to the “patient only restroom” gifted me a valuable life lesson:

👉 You have to double-click the lock.

Why? Because I learned the school of hard knocks way — mid-pee, pants around my ankles, — when a RANDOM DUDE opened the door.

At this point in my life, modesty has packed her bags and left the country.

I’ve given birth.
I’ve had a lifetime of “scoot down a little more… a little more… a little more” PAP smears.
I’ve been squished, smashed, scanned, and unfolded like origami.
I attend weekly appointments where my front-opening gown is basically optional.

And now?
I’m built like a 12-year-old boy with medical tattoos — so WHY the gown?
Do preteen boys have to wear those?
Asking for a friend.

The Dress Code for Chemo Day #1

If I must sit in a chair for hours, I will do it in STYLE.

So, naturally, I showed up in:

• My “I AM THE STORM” shirt
• My pink leopard Princess Blanket of Emotional Support™ – Thank you Teri!
• And the grand finale…
  DEAR CANCER, YOU PICKED THE WRONG BITCH socks. Thank you, Jenn and Sarah!

I feel they set the tone, don’t you?

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Now for the other fun facts they don’t tell you…

For the first 3 days after chemo, I’m supposed to use my own restroom — and flush twice each time to avoid leaving behind any toxic radioactive glitter.

If Casey has to clean up anything that escapes from either end (sorry, but if you’re here you signed up for raw and real), he must:

• glove up
• double-bag anything used
• and wash his hands like he just handled uranium

The man didn’t sign up to become a Toxic Body Fluid First Responder, but here he is, earning medals daily.

If I get chemo funk on my clothes (Jesus take the wheel NOT the pink satin leopard PJs), they must be washed solo, then washed again with my regular laundry.

Our water bill is going to send the city council into retirement.

Meanwhile, the IV pole is still my clingy new boyfriend.

He goes everywhere with me.
He holds all my fluids.
He beeps when he wants attention.
And he will absolutely yank my arm out of socket if I walk too fast.

But you know what?

He can stare all he wants, because between my socks, my shirt, my fluffy blanket, and my attitude…

I still look like the better half of this relationship.

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JANUARY–FEBRUARY 2026 — Chemo Rounds 2, 3 & 4

Otherwise Known As: The Great Shedding Season

Chemo dates are officially set:

• Round 2: December 29, 2025
• Round 3: January 20, 2026
• Round 4: February 9, 2026

And according to my doctor, the hair clock is ticking… days 17–19 after Round 1.
Translation?
December 26–28 I’ll officially enter my “Cue the Snowfall, Time for the Hair to Fall” era.

So instead of sitting around waiting for gravity to do its thing, we’re doing this my way:

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🎉 THE GREAT HEAD-SHAVING PARTY 2025

Location: My house
Dress code: Anything but sadness
Theme: “If my hair’s leaving, I’m throwing it a damn party”

And you guys… the outpouring of love?
I can’t even.

• One of my coworkers — already bald — plans to shave off his entire leprechaun beard, and this thing is down to his chest.
• One of my badass ladies is gearing up to shave both sides of her head and rock a full Mohawk in my honor.
• Others are threatening to bring clippers, champagne, and possibly questionable judgment.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

🧠 Nerves?

Shot.

⚡ Energy?

Lower than my will to deal with stupid people.

❤️ But hope?

HIGH.
Because every round — every drip, every flush, every moment I want to sleep on the bathroom floor — brings me closer to the finish line.

And with this tribe behind me?
I swear I can feel God, the universe, and every angel we’ve lost cheering as loud as my crew.

This isn’t just treatment.
This is momentum.
Painful, exhausting, ridiculous momentum…
…but momentum all the same.

And I’ll take progress any damn way it comes.

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Chemo: The Final Round

February–March 2026

(Halle-freakin’-lujah)

Six to eight weeks to recover.
Six to eight weeks to remember what “normal” used to feel like.
Six to eight weeks to rebuild whatever pieces of me chemo didn’t chew on.

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like the old me again…
but maybe the point isn’t going back.
Maybe it’s becoming someone stronger, sharper, louder, and far more done with everyone’s bullshit.
Maybe this is my new normal — and maybe she’s actually kind of unstoppable.

Chemo tried to take me down — but it clearly underestimated the power of a pissed-off woman married to a man who refuses to let her quit.
Chemo: 0
Tiny Tina: Still standing.
Casey: Still dealing with my shit — voluntarily.
Now that’s love.

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APRIL–MAY 2026

🔥 *Next up? Radiation BBQ Season

Where I’m the one on the spit.
Kind of ironic, isn’t it?
Grilling the vegetarian.

What to expect:
15–20 radiation treatments — five days a week, for 3–4 weeks.
Basically… microwaving the cancer out.
I joke about glowing in the dark, but honestly?
There are days it feels like I just might.

After meeting with the radiologist, I found out they’ll be targeting:

• the lymph nodes up near my clavicle,
• the nodes in my armpit, and
• the entire chest wall beneath my breastbone.

So yeah… not exactly a tiny bullseye.

I’m not looking forward to the “sunburn,” the itching, the peeling, or the recovery.
If it were only one spot getting zapped, maybe it wouldn’t seem so daunting.
But this?
This is a full-body exhaustion, skin-frying, stamina-testing beast of its own.

And still —
another fight I’m ready to win.

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Summer 2026 — Healing, Part Deux

(because French makes it sound fancy and I deserve fancy)

The burns finally chill out.
My skin stops sizzling like an overcooked Hot Pocket.
My body whispers, “Are we… good?”
I whisper back, “Don’t jinx it.”

This is the awkward in-between phase where nothing dramatic happens —
except waiting, healing, and trying not to twist wrong and piss off the alien expanders still living rent-free in my chest.

But this season is quiet — not empty.
It’s the space where my body rebuilds after being lit up like a damn rotisserie chicken.
It’s the waiting room between who I was…
and the woman emerging on the other side.

Now begins the mandatory 6-month timeout so my radiated, laser-baked, trauma-hardened skin can soften up enough to swap these barbaric devices for my shiny new Foobs.

Estimated boob-upgrade appointment: November 2026.
(Yes, even my tits have a long-term project timeline.)

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NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 2026 — Barbie Boobs, Baby!

Expanders out → GUMMY implants in.
This is the moment where I finally feel one step closer to myself again—
just smoother, shinier, and honestly?
A little more aerodynamic than I ever expected to be at 54.

They call them “Barbie Boobs” because until the future nipple-construction stage
(yes, that’s a real procedure… no, we’re not opening that chapter yet),
they’re perfectly smooth.
Plasticky.
Blank-canvas chic.
Basically, the factory-reset model straight out of the Dreamhouse.

But after the burns, the bags, the sloshing, the needles,
and the emotional demolition derby of the last year?

You bet your sweet ass I’ll take the Barbie Boobs.

Because this phase—
right here—
is the first time in a long time that I’ll look in the mirror and think:

“Well, damn. She made it.”

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2027 — The Fine-Tuning Phase

The implants “settle.”
How long does that take?
No one knows.
Not me. Not my surgeon. Not even NASA.

(Foobs: Now with GPS. Apparently, somebody, somewhere, is tracking their migration patterns like endangered wildlife.)

Then comes nipple reconstruction —
the “cinnamon roll” technique, the origami fold,
the artisanal hand-crafted breast garnish…
a true crafting stage.

Beautiful.
Weird.
Badass.

A reminder that art doesn’t always hang in museums.
Sometimes it grows from survival.

Michelangelo could NEVER.

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LATE 2027 — Tattoo Time

The grand finale.
Areola + nipple tattoos — hyper-realistic, 3D, permanent.
A reclamation.
A declaration.
A work of art painted on skin that has survived fire, steel, poison, and grief.

Some women choose delicate.
Some choose bold.
Some choose nothing at all.
But whatever I choose…
will be mine.

And maybe — just maybe — this will be the chapter where the mirror stops feeling like a medical chart
and starts looking like me again.

Hopefully, this marks the end of one hell of a journey…
and the beginning of the next version of me.
Stronger. Softer. Stranger. Braver.
Rebuilt — and rising.