My Stomach Is Building a Breast

and Other Post-Cancer Plans

I’ve always been the strong one.

The one who gets the call when things hit the fan.

My family’s go-to fixer, organizer, and occasional emotional punching bag.

I held my brother’s hand as he battled alcoholism, making sure his final days were peaceful.

My hand was on his heart when he took his last breath.

I helped my mother navigate everything from doctors to cat food, ensuring her life had all the essentials—like Diet Coke, boxed wine and a cat named Sky.

I laid at the foot of her bed as her soul left to be with her husband and son.

And back in the ’90s, when Gregory, my children’s father, went from HIV positive to full-blown AIDS, I held it together for my kids, who were just babies.

I didn’t cry; I didn’t crumble.

I locked those feelings up so tight that even Houdini couldn’t find them.

My husband and children’s step-father, Michael jokes that I’m like Jack Benny—funny but completely unemotional.

But now, I’m wondering: how do you stay strong for yourself and be comfortable with emotions?

---

It all started with a mammogram.

Just routine, nothing to worry about, I told myself.

And then came the callback.

Then the biopsy.

And then, the words that felt like someone hit me with a frying pan: Ductal Carcinoma In Situ, Stage 2, non-invasive breast cancer.

I’m still in shock.

Cancer?

Me?

The strong one?

This wasn’t in the script for my golden years.

I’d been planning my second act—art, grandchildren, travel, maybe even a villa in Italy where I could pretend to be Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun.

Now I’m meeting with surgeons instead of learning Italian curse words and planning my next adventure.

After weighing my options (and realizing I had way too much cancerous breast tissue for the “small surgery” option), and fear of an accidentally radiated heart, I decided on a single mastectomy for my left breast and to keep the healthy one.

Bonus?

They’ll reconstruct the mastectomy side using tissue from my stomach.

Who knew I was walking around with the makings of a new boob in my belly?

When the plastic surgeon saw my stomach, he squeezed my belly fat with both hands and exclaimed, “Oh, Yeah!”

I love this guy.

---

Surgery is January 22.

Mark your calendars—it’s the day I officially kick cancer to the curb.

I tried joining online cancer support groups.

Big mistake.

They were a mix of doom, gloom, and well-meaning strangers sending “healing light.”

One group felt overwhelming, like a gathering where everyone shared their fears, and I wasn’t sure how to contribute.

I decided to step away—it just wasn’t the right space for me right now.

---

But then I found a book called Radical Remission. It said the first step to healing is finding your “why.”

I stared at that question for days, because honestly, when you’re trying to process cancer, your “why” can feel like, “Why is this happening to me?”

But then it came to me, clear as day:

• My family: I want tender, meaningful relationships where we laugh together, respect each other’s space, and leave judgment at the door. I want to be here for my grandchildren—to see them fall in love, be disappointed, get a tattoo, stumble, and then rise stronger than ever.

• My art. I want to create messy, emotional, wildly expressive pieces that tell stories and make people feel something.

• My coaching. I want to help women in their second and third acts live big lives filled with courage, creativity, and connection—without the pressure of being “strong” all the time.

• Travel. I want to visit places that light me up and sometimes bring my family along for the ride.

And that’s when I realized: this is how I will live my life post-cancer.

I’ll wake up every day with purpose—and maybe a little more gratitude for the days I don’t wake up in pain or groggy from anesthesia.

I’ll create art that comes from my soul, not just my hands.

I’ll open my home to other women who, like me, are navigating this wild and unpredictable second act, sharing stories over coffee and connection.

I’ll write, using my slightly warped sense of humor and my hard-earned wisdom to connect with others.

Maybe it’ll be a book, or maybe just a collection of stories for my grand-kids to read one day and think, Wow, Nana was a trip.

I’ll reconnect with my body—not as some enemy trying to sabotage me, but as an old friend I’m learning to trust again.

Sure, part of that trust comes with a reconstructed left breast that’s essentially a stomach overachiever.

And most importantly, I’ll live.

Really live.

Cancer won’t define me; it’s just the thing that reminded me to stop holding back and start taking up space in my own life.

So here’s the plan: more laughter, more creativity, more travel, more time with the people I love.

And if cancer thinks it can take that away, well, it clearly doesn’t know who it’s dealing with.

---

Thank you, for reading my story. It is my hope that in some way you have been touched, helped or had a laugh.

What is your story?

What’s one moment in your life you’re determined to be around for—something that fills you with hope, excitement, or even a little fear, but reminds you why you keep going?