One Tit McGillicutty

The nurse looks me up and down as I walk myself into check in. “Well you don’t look sick enough to be here,” She says with a smile. “Let me show you to your room and get you your uniform.” She escorts me in and comes back with a star patterned Johnny. “This is a kid’s size because you’re a peanut. And it has a star pattern because you’re too cute for anything else we offer,” she says with a wink. 

Last week I developed a fever of 102. I figured it was due to a germ ladden bouncy house extravaganza which I partook in 2 days after chemo (yolo) but when I awoke the following morning with a swollen, red and throbbing right breast I knew it was something else.

I had developed a serious infection behind my breast. The radiated skin wasn’t strong enough to support the surgery and my implant needed to be removed. I required hospitalization for a few days with IV antibiotic treatment. 

Sitting in my hospital bed I close my eyes and rub my fingers over my right breast. Well the space that was my right breast. The skin is caved inward. Gone isn’t the word. It’s backwards. I can feel the bone where the soft, comfy, malleable tissue should be. I’ve never felt this bone before. It’s shocking. Jarring. 

Tears start falling. They catch me by surprise. Big, huge, wet drops soaking my cheeks and pillow. I imagine myself like Alice after eating the cake that says, “Eat me,” subsequently growing 9 feet and after discovering that she can’t fit through the doorway she begins to cry. Her massive tears forming a giant pool at her feet.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to feel it. But I wanted to. I wanted to feel my once again new body. A chapter of constant introduction to my new self that I thought was complete.

“It’s not the end of the road,” one of my surgeons reassures me. It might not be the end but it feels like the edge of a cliff. “Skin stretches and in time we will re-expand the tissue and re-insert the implant.”

I love my scars. They’ve become my medals of honor. I’ve grown to love my body. I’ve learned how to reintroduce my psyche to my ever changing physical form over and over again but this isn’t a scar. This is a concave.

This week, December 3, 2021 is my final chemo treatment. It’s no coincidence that I’m ending my treatments three weeks before Christmas. One month before the new year. Starting fresh. New beginnings. The end of several chapters. 

It’s hard to view this hour as a time for celebration now that I have another hurdle to overcome but it is. This isn’t chemo. This isn’t fighting for my life. This is reconstruction. This is the fun stuff. 

My nurse reads my chart and her eyes fill up. She leaves the room and comes back 10 minutes later. 

She kneels down and fixes my pulsating leg wraps designed to prevent blood clots. Without looking up she says, “They call you Nelly?” “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. “That was my best friend’s name,” She says as her voice cracks. “She passed away when she was 28 from breast cancer. When I saw your chart I knew that she’s here with us now. Watching over you.” She touches my knee with a warm caress. Her smile evident even with her mask on. “Thank you,” I reply. “That means so much.” She silently nods and walks out of my room.

This has never been about the destination. It has always been about the journey. Trust the process. Believe that everything happens for a reason. When life hands you lemons throw those mother fuckers back and go get a milkshake because that’s what you wanted in the first place. I’m a unicorn. A one titted McGillicuty. Who are you?

Fight for your right to ... live

8:18 am, Tommy’s birthday is August 18, I awaken from a dream crying. In my dream, Jack, my newly departed 16 year old best friend was sitting on my left hand. I could feel the weight of his body. His soft white fur grazing my hand. It was so white, whiter than it had been when he was a puppy. He was staring at me. Right into my eyes like he was transferring energy or sending a message. His fur was moving ever so slightly. Waving in a gentle breeze. He looked calm. Peaceful. Like he wanted to tell me he that loved me one last time. I didn’t say anything but I didn’t have to. I just cried. Tears streamed down my face. When I awoke I said, “I know buddy. I’m safe now, you brought me home. You did your job. Thank you.” This was my first day in Texas.  

Feel to heal

Peace

Serenity

Calm

Listen

A yellow butterfly lands on my right breast as I lay on a lounge chair by the pool. It is so close that I can see the fur above her eyes and her proboscis moving in and out in synchronized unison. In and out, in and out. Her wings open and close gently. Back and forth in a graceful rhythm. I sync my breathing with the natural eb and flow of her spirit. Open, close, in, out, back and forth. We seem to stare at each other. “Yeah,” I say out loud. “That’s the side that needs healing. Can you feel it?” Open, close, in, out, back and forth. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me to breathe. Thank you for reminding me that it is healing. That I am healing.” And just as quickly as she approached, she departed.

The only noise here is the silence of the surroundings. The insects and the trees know the right time to start and the right time to stop. It’s a dance. A balance. An eb, a flow. A start, a stop, a pause, a go. Gently. Carefully. 

I walk barefoot around the outskirts of my cabin because it feels right. If I walk too hard or too fast, the ground reminds me to slow down. The rocks remind me to go lightly. 

Go lightly.

Open, close, in and out, back and forth.

Release Danielle. Just be. Feel the peace. Softly. Carefully. Quietly. Internally. Feel to heal.

In the middle of the summer, 4 weeks after I left my husband, 1 week after learning he was in a relationship with another woman, a friend sent me a link to apply for a trip to Dripping Springs Texas, all expenses paid, through an organization called First Descents designated for cancer fighters and survivors. What the hell, I’ll apply, no way I’ll be selected but lord alfucking mighty knows that I could use a break. How old are you? 38 What is your diagnosis? Stage 3 breast cancer. Are you currently receiving chemo? Yes. Do you have children if so how many and what are their ages? Yes, Lilah age 9, Tommy age 6. 

Like I said, no way I’m being selected but okidoki. 

And what the fuck do you know? I WAS SELECTED. 5 days, my own cabin, rock climbing, fresh country air and most importantly people that can commiserate with my condition. Moms that are clutched with concern contemplating that their children might grow up without them. Daughters that can’t process the daunting legitimacy that their parents will be forced to bury their child. And people getting a divorce while fighting for the right to live.

Texas changed me. I might be Boston learned and raised but I ascertained how to live in Texas. I looked inward and saw myself. I saw who I became during my fight and I thanked her.

I learned that I need and needed help. The reality of realizing that I actually needed help and that my mantra of “Oh I’llll be fineeeeee. I’m okkkkkk. I don’t neeeed a lightbulb I’ll just sit here in the mother fucking dark and eventually develop my other senses so I can “see” in pitch blackness” no longer held water. NO. FUCK THAT. NO.

I have, with the help of many other warm souls, dogs, my parents and my children been doing it on my own. My time in Texas forced me to realize that help is critical to survival. Yeah great I have gotten through 40 out of my 42 chemotherapy treatments relatively unscathed but that’s physical. Emotional support is just as, if not more crucial. Without emotional back rubbing you might as well buy your plot and reserve the hall for your celebration of life ceremony cuz you dead bitch. 

I have 2 chemo sessions left until freedom. 40 treatments under my belt and 2 left. A year and a half ago I had a life. Today I know what it means to live it. Let’s fucking go.