It was Sept/2012 and I thought I had already gone through all kinds of challenges and that nothing else would threaten my world. But of course it wasn’t the case… It was not yet the time to be sure of myself, strong, and with a confident self-image.

A bomb was dropped in my lap. My usually normal yearly mammogram came back with a Bi raids 4 – “suspicious abnormality on your breast imaging studies. A biopsy should be considered as a next step” – they tried to do all kinds of imaging but unfortunately it did not work. I had once again to go through surgery…

As soon as they said that, that very moment, I convinced myself that I had breast cancer. Watching all those women sitting around in an unfamiliar waiting room of the very same hospital I was so used to, has impacted me tremendously. Some were losing their hair, others lost it all already, a few were wearing scarfs beautifully shaping their perfectly round heads, elegant and purposely planned. Most of them did not have at least one of their breasts… and there I was entering a completely new journey I was not okay with, doomed by Micro calcifications no one could diagnose without once again cutting, checking and removing another piece of my body. 

My first marriage had ruined my self-image, my ex-husband was really good at pointing out all my imperfections and making sure I was aware and completely self-conscious of my body.  After I divorced him, it took me perhaps 10 years to rescue myself from down the heel and finally recover. 

As I was approaching a new positive self-image milestone, I was almost happy with myself, the way I looked, my general appearance, my body… and then this… 

-“Just in case, we will make sure we remove all the micro calcifications, instead of just biopsing” – Doctor Maria do Socorro explained to me. 

So what!? Why?? I thought… then you come back and even though you’ve got it all already, once it is confirmed, you take the whole right breast? What is the point… I don’t get it… I was so upset I could not rationalize…

The conversation in my head was so loud I couldn’t ask any question or even acknowledge her approach or decisions towards what to do with my own body, but just accepted whatever she said…  I walked out of her office – the appointment to understand the next steps, already mastectomyED…

The surgery day arrived and I had multiple and diverse fantasies I had created in my head. All of them were really bad… they would open and see “all those ugly things” and decide right there that the best thing to do would be to remove the whole breast right.  Another one would be that they would remove only the micro calcifications, but the damage done during the surgery was irreparable. This last one was based on my own experience at the Cancer hospital – because their focus is always to remove the “thing” they consider the problem, whatever it takes, even if you have to walk out of there handicap. 

I became a master in fantasizing “worst-case scenarios” and to me, they were real.

I was completely shocked with what I saw the day after the surgery, when I could finally “check” the result of their work and the impact in my body. The scar was a state of art, immaculate perfectly around the nipple curve, almost imperceptive. Except for the bruises, there was nothing visually depressing. It was almost a relief if I did not start focusing on the mystery of the pathology results. 

Another way too long unknown period of apprehension and expectancy. 

One thing that I most hated was the never-ending waiting time, either to know what was going to be the prognostic, what the doctor had to say about such and such image or test result or every time something went to be “checked” – the timeframe of pathological anatomy results. More time in my hands to live in depressing fantasy land and the fear of the unknown.

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas when I finally got to see the doctor again and finally talk to her, because even if I did before the general anesthesia took effect, I had no recollection of the fact. 

This time my boyfriend was with me, American and just barely started to speak Portuguese decided to get into the doctor’s office with me and chat with the doctor, ask questions, next steps, etc. I felt cared for and protected and actually loved that he did. I remember sitting at the bed, the doctor examining me, and they two talking back and forth. There were moments I believe the doctor was talking directly to me, but the conversation in my head was way too loud and busy. I was having a hard time trying to make sense of becoming bald, wear a wig or not, hide with a scarf or not, would my head be nice and round as many women? what about my gigantic ears? everybody was going to make fun of me… I was going to look terrible… no one would look at me anymore – my long hair signature tale was over. What about losing the breast, the boyfriend, bringing my self-image back to the mud. If she ever talked to me directly, I have no idea what she said, truly. 

Then I heard “Bom Natal”, which means “Merry Christmas” and apparently it was time to leave, but I had no idea what just happened there.

My then boyfriend looked at me as we walked out of the office and mentioned” What a weird doctor!”. – Really? I asked… Why do you say that? Wasn’t it inappropriate of her to tell me that? – What do you mean? I asked. You didn’t hear!? He asked, shocked. She called me “Bonitao”, he nodded incongruently, not believing what just happened…

No, she didn’t. I corrected him. She said Bom Natal, not Bonitao. My sense of humor was numb. The grieving process was taking its course in my head.

I kind of felt he was trying to cheer me up with his usual corny jokes, but he actually thought the doctor called him: Handsome. My thoughts took over again. I was numbed and now frustrated, having no idea of my own prognostic. I was very low, devastated, but he seemed to be okay and in good spirits. We stopped at the “Casa do Pao de Queijo” still inside the hospital and ordered two coffees and a basket of mini pao de queijo – a traditional cheese bread brazilians die for it. I was having a relationship with my own coffee, the pao de queijo and my thoughts. Speechless, blinded. A thousand things coming to mind at the same time, I couldn’t stop them. I was devastated, I couldn’t see the positive in that, I wasn’t in the mood to talk, to be cheered up, to listen or to do anything, but just to  keep giving energy to the crazy negative thoughts that seemed to have taken over my ability to choose for myself, make decisions, or make them stop. Aren’t you happy!? he asked… Relief!? He carefully added…

-Me!? No. Why? Why should I be?  

-He looked at me confused, but very aware of the mining zone he was stepping into… 

I kept staring at my coffee, breast-less, bald, unloved, uncared, ugly, no self-image, tired of cancer and all the destruction it had already caused in my life. I thought I was a survivor, graduated, MBAed in cancer… a fortress, almost immortal. I thought there wouldn’t be anything that would bring me down, that I got it… but that one really played a role on me. Put myself back into the familiar and automated butchery material mode – no self-image. You are okay… he said, carefully spelling every letter in each word

-You say that because it is not you. Enough of this! I said angrily. 

-Honey, he called carefully, firmly and lovingly… did you hear what the doctor said?

-Bom Natal? I replied

-No, before that. Do you understand what is happening? He very gently started

-What? I tried to raise my head and look at him. 

-You are okay… he said very slowly and beautifully

-Even if you are okay with me without my breast, I am not, I said. I never thought this would affect me like this. I don’t want to go through this. It took me a lifetime to rescue myself from my marriage, my past and the way I used to feel about myself. I started crying, desperate.

He took my hands, looked deep into my eyes and repeated.

-Honey, you are okay, the results were negative. There is nothing else you have to do. It is over. You are healthy and I love you no matter what.