Chapter 7
Two weeks—not one—pass before my scheduled surgery date.
A few days before surgery, I stand in the nursery. A soft lullaby fills the space with joy. The faint smell of paint still lingers. The room is filled with love poured into every brushstroke.
I pick up a small box and trace my fingers over the intricate design etched onto the lid. It’s a memory box, something I thought long and hard about.
Over the past two weeks, I filled it with letters, each one written with a love so profound it aches. I wrote about the day I found out I was pregnant, about my dreams for the tiny life growing inside me. I wrote several other notes and birthday cards to be opened if I’m not there. There are small mementos as well—the first ultrasound and a pressed flower from the day we announced the pregnancy to our unique family at Insanity.
Each item tells a story I hope my child will cherish.
Tears blur my vision as I write another letter. The words are pieces of my heart inked onto the paper. I don’t know what the future holds, but my love will always be with my child, even if I’m not here.
No need to guess where Noodles is. He’s in the study, and the laptop’s glow illuminates his face. He scans information on the screen and occasionally jots down notes. Always a man of action, he believes in knowledge and preparation. In the past week, he’s become an expert on mastectomies, breast cancer, and how to be a supportive spouse.
But it’s taking a toll on him—fear of losing me, feeling helpless despite all his research, and the worst one of all, feeling powerless to protect me.
It breaks my heart to see him preparing to fight.
This isn’t my battle.
It’s ours.
The next day, we sit opposite Dr. Samuel for the pre-op appointment to sign consent and learn about what she’s going to do during the surgery. Her office is designed to be welcoming. Soft music floats through the air. The chairs are comfortable. There’s plenty to read.
But I’m terrified.
Sitting across from Dr. Samuel, I hold Noodles’s hand as she explains the procedure. Diagrams, percentages, risks—it’s an onslaught of information. Unreal and too much to process.
“During the mastectomy,” she begins, her voice steady, “we’ll remove the entire breast tissue to ensure we’ve gotten rid of all the cancerous cells.”
Those words hang in the air, cold and clinical.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
My heart thuds painfully as she explains the possible complications and risks of the procedure.
Part of me wants to scream, to run away from all of this, but I need to understand what I’m facing. For myself. For Noodles. For our family.
This isn’t a routine medical procedure. We ask all manner of questions. Noodles is amazing. He’s done so much to learn what to ask. I can barely string one sentence together.
Later that night, Noodles and I put Kai down to bed. Bedtime is a simple ritual, something we’ve done hundreds of times. Something I look forward to every night. One of us reads Kai a bedtime story, teaching him the letters and the sounds they make. How they turn into words and describe the pictures on the page. After story time, we tuck him in with a gentle kiss on his forehead.
Will I still be able to do this after the surgery? Or will Noodles be alone and have to do this all by himself? I brush away tears and take a deep, shaky breath. After putting Kai down, Noodles and I retreat to our bedroom.
It’s late, but sleep won’t come for either of us. I curl under the covers, my fingers twisting and untwisting as anxiety rushes through me. Noodles drapes his arm over my belly, providing support, but he clearly struggles with his thoughts.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.” I break the silence, my voice barely a whisper.
“I’m scared.” He confesses his fears, his voice rough. “I’m scared of surgery tomorrow. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of what this is doing to you. I’m scared of what this could mean for our baby.”
His honesty unravels something within me. It makes me stronger. My hand finds him in the dark. His fingers intertwine with mine, holding on tight. I appreciate his honesty. I’d rather know his fears than have him lie to me.
“I’m scared too.” My voice trembles, mirroring the shaking of my hands.
Noodles rubs circles over my knuckles. “We’re going to fight this, and we’re going to win.” He pulls me into the warmth of his embrace.
This isn’t a conversation that provides answers. It’s not meant to be that. But it’s honest. It’s raw. And it’s real. It’s a shared moment of facing our fears and standing together.
The next morning, I take a long, hot shower. The bathroom fills with the soothing sound of rushing water, and the special soap they told me to use before the surgery smells funny. Steam fogs the mirror as I let the water wash away my fear.
It can’t, but I pretend it is.
I trace the familiar curves and planes of my body with my fingertips, taking in every freckle, every scar, and every part of me that makes me who I am. The warm water trickles down my belly, rounded with new life. My hand slides higher, ghosting over my breasts.
They’re round and full, growing with my pregnancy. I stare at the tiles, the patterns blurring together as I let my mind wander. This body has seen me through every stage of life, every triumph, every setback. It has carried me, protected me, and betrayed me.
But now it’s about to change.
Drastically.
I cup my left breast, my thumb caressing the soft skin. I think of the lump hidden underneath, an invader in my body. It’s hard to comprehend that I’ll wake from surgery in just a few hours with a part of me missing.
My mind fills with fears. What will I look like after the surgery? Will Noodles still desire me? Love me? Will I still feel like a woman? Or will I feel… less?
What about breastfeeding my baby?
I can’t afford to be weak like this. Not now. I can’t let fear hold me captive.
But that’s a very hard thing to do.
The water rinses off the suds on my skin. I wish it could wash away my fears as well. I whisper a silent farewell to my body as I know it. The reflection in the mirror might change, but I won’t. I will still be Me.
As I step out of the shower, I make a promise—I’m stronger than this cancer.