Choosing to Go Flat

Sewing a new version of myself across my chest

I opened my gown to flash the plastic surgeon sitting in front of me, his eyes staring squarely at my chest.

It was one of those moments where I couldn’t believe this was my reality.

“What the fuck am I doing here? Am I really seeing a plastic surgeon discussing the future of my breasts?” I thought, as he dictated his notes to the nurse; analyzing my anatomy with a no frills, cold, medical observation.

At the end of this appointment I asked to see photos of his previous patients — a plastic surgeon’s portfolio, if you will. It was advice I found on the internet and blindly followed, unsure of the intended purpose at first.

I mindlessly flipped through this boob binder, a little numb, trying to decide if enough time had passed so I could politely leave. Until a photo of a woman jumped out at me. She was unlike all the others — a perfectly flat chest without breasts or nipples, just scars. Perhaps it was because we shared the same arm tattoo, but I saw myself in her.

And then a feeling of overwhelming confidence washed over me. A calm knowing that carried me out of that office with my surgical decision made.

For a time, I actually felt grateful that out of all the cancers, I got breast cancer. That feels hard to admit because what an odd thing to be grateful for. But in my defense, the treatment seemed straight forward. Breast cancer is common meaning well researched and funded, and most importantly, the cancer can often be removed with surgery.

My surgery was the first step of my treatment, and deciding what to do forward felt like an impossible decision. I was just handed a cancer diagnosis and now I am supposed to decide on this life-changing, significant body modification?

I knew it was going to be a decision that was always going bring me back to my diagnosis — a reminder of cancer every time I looked in the mirror. So I spent a lot of time trying to connect with my future self.

How do I want to physically wear this chapter for the rest of my life? What do I want to look like? How do I want to feel in my body? How important are breasts to me? To my gender? To my self-image?

There weren’t really any clear answers.

The only way to make a decision like that was to trust the overwhelming confidence I felt in that plastic surgeon’s office — to trust the feeling of my intuition guiding me.

Before heading back to surgery and my last few moments with breasts. RIP to this version of myself <3

Medically speaking, there is no survival benefit to a mastectomy versus a lumpectomy. The survival rates are the same. However, in my specific case at a stage 1, a lumpectomy would require radiation. But a mastectomy, with cancer free lymph nodes, would not.

I was adamant about reducing the amount of medical intervention in my life so I opted for the aggressive surgery approach and had a bilateral mastectomy with a flat closure.

I was foregoing any future reconstruction and would no longer have breasts.

Frankly, I hated all the options available to me. I wanted none of them but “going flat” felt the most uncomplicated. It meant less surgery, no future mammograms, no breast prosthetics, no reconstruction to consider, and no plastic surgeons.

It felt like ease amid the chaos, which at the time of initial diagnosis was a significant feeling.

I was still incredibly afraid for the surgery — for the radical change that was about occur. I was afraid of not recognizing myself in the mirror. Afraid of how it would change me. Afraid of a never ending grief now sewn into my body.

I loved my body with breasts but like all feminized people, it took a lot of work to get there. The work of building self-love and confidence happens over a lifetime, and having this surgery felt a little bit like having to start that process over.

The surgery kicked off my cancer treatment and it taught me to ritualize every step of this journey. These portraits are from a pre-surgery photoshoot - shot by my dear friend and a fellow artistic visionary, Ann Little. It was a beautiful way to close out this iteration of my physical body. Upgrade to paid for the high art NSFW pics (just kidding...maybe)

I was going to have to learn how to love this new body as much as my pre-diagnosis body. But self-love is very strong value of mine and something I knew even cancer couldn’t take away or change.

Actually, in my experience, cancer has only strengthened my values and this one wasn’t any different.

Being forced to significantly change my physical appearance taught me that true self-love has to be fully unconditional, in its entirety. No exceptions.

So if I wanted to sincerely and genuinely stand firm in my value of self-love, then my expression of it could not change in form or frequency; regardless of my surgical decision.

By nature, self-love should be absolute and unwavering, right? Like a faucet of love flowing freeing a deep well.

But in practice, it isn’t. I didn’t practice unconditional self-love before my diagnosis. There was always a critical, nit-picking voice that disrupted the flow.

Self-love is unconditional

I can’t remember where I read this, but it has become a mantra for me. A mantra that I repeat to myself when I look in the mirror, or wear a shirt that I used to love but now doesn’t fit quite right. I am integrating it in deeply because I think it’s a really good one.

I am not saying there isn’t still grief around my surgery. There is. And I try not minimize it because I do still miss my pre-cancer body at times.

But really, beyond my physical body, I just miss the old me — the one who didn’t have a surgeon or an oncologist or know shit about cancer. My diagnosis is a demarcation in my life. There is a me pre-cancer and a me now. And my scars are a physical representation that. It is like my outsides match my insides.

When I looked in the mirror for the first time after the surgery, I was flooded with fear. It has taken over a year to really acclimate to the change. With a lot of exposure therapy and repetition of my mantra with my hand over my heart, I feel at home in my new body.

And those pre-surgery fears came true, but with entirely different meanings.

There is a new version of myself when I look in the mirror — one without breasts or nipples, just scars. A version of me that allowed intuition to be the guide. A version I am immensely proud of.

The grief is sewn into my body.

But so is my resilience. My unconditional self-love. My relentless zest for life.

And I can’t think of a better place to wear those parts of me than straight across my chest.

Me and my battle scars swimming proudly in Italy (!!!)

And for anyone considering going flat, I highly recommend using this website as a starting point. It helped me immensely. I am currently working on a cancer resource library of sorts — so stay tuned!