This is a story written base on reflections my initial year after diagnosis (2016), with added comments about what I’m thinking after my second diagnosis (2024).
The feature image is from Wikimedia Commons.
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Introduction
Before my first diagnosis, I was obsessive about breast self-exams. Every time I showered, I would check, feeling each part carefully. It was just part of my routine—not because I had any family history of cancer, but because of a high school health class. The nurse had brought in these dummy breasts with a “lump” we were supposed to find. I remember how I could never feel it, no matter how hard I tried. That really stuck with me. I was afraid that when it mattered, I wouldn’t feel anything.
I missed the lesson on looking for changes, not just lumps. Now I can tell you everything you should be looking for in a breast self-exam – changes, not lumps. However, only days after seeing initial changes, I felt a lump. I thought it was a muscle strain at first, but it didn’t hurt and it didn’t go away. It wasn’t a muscle strain, it was a 4.5cm tumour in my left breast.
~~~~ 2016 ~~~~
It has been a year since my diagnosis and treatment for bilateral breast cancer. I no longer have breasts. I have fat tissue that was transplanted from my stomach to make forms that look like breasts. The breast-self exams I did before don’t make sense anymore. I have no breast tissue. But I also have no sensation, which comes with new risks.
One of my new risks is the cold. I have body parts now—my reconstructed breasts, my belly—that I can’t feel. They’re living flesh, warm to the touch, but numb. I have to relearn what “normal” feels like, but also how to check myself to make sure I’m not getting frostbite.
I’m still exploring what a breast self-exam means for me now. This was how I found my cancer. I used to check every time I showered, and I saw the change almost immediately—a lump, and a strange discharge. But now, I don’t have breasts with breast tissue. My nipples are still there, but they don’t leak anymore. They’re unfeeling and unresponsive, but they’re warm to the touch.
I still examine my chest, but I’m looking for something else. No lumps—just damage. I’m scanning my skin for signs of anything that could have happened without me noticing, because I can’t feel it.
Part of my new normal is this constant exploration of my changed body. I trace the areas with no feeling, trying to find the boundaries—where sensation fades from something to nothing. I want to see if these boundaries shift. I’ve been told there’s a chance I might regain some feeling, but nerves can take up to three years to grow back. For now, I’m grateful it’s not winter. I’ll have at least a year or two, maybe more, before I need to think about what snow and freezing temperatures mean for my body.
~~~~ 2024 ~~~~
I am used to my body. My urge to inspect it so closely fades. I stop any form of breast exam in the winter. Now, it’s during the warmer months that I need to check. Instead of worrying about frostbite, I’m prone to heat rash, especially under my breasts. I don’t feel it when it starts; I only notice it later, after it’s become severe. By the time I see it, it needs days of treatment—creams and patience—to calm down. I can’t always tell if the creams are working; I just wait for the rash to fade.
I stopped looking for cancer years ago. Then came a regional recurrence, in my lymph nodes. They found it on a scan. I couldn’t feel the swollen nodes, even with a 2.5 cm tumour growing in the largest of the five cancerous nodes. My family doctor also could not feel it. That experience stripped away any faith I had in self-exams to detect recurrence. The familiar routine I once had, washing and inspecting my new breasts, has fallen by the wayside, offering no comfort now. All I can rely on are blood tests and scans.
My new normal feels like my old normal. After a shower, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror, just to check if anything looks wrong. That’s it. I don’t dwell on it. There’s nothing left for me to find. A self-exam in the shower isn’t going to catch cancer if it comes back. So, unconsciously, and now consciously, I’ve moved on from that practice.
