So, let’s be frank.
I don’t mean impersonate any particular person by the name of Frank, rather, let’s say it like it is, be straightforward and candid.
There was only one way I wanted to tell my story – everyone was going to get the whole enchilada. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me…universe.
That meant including a lot of blunt and straightforward talk. I suppose that is pretty obvious to everyone from my chosen title Show Us Your Tits – Baring All and Beating Breast Cancer.
Let me tell you how this decision to be so forthright came about…
I really let rip in the early days as I was scribbling things in my notebook. Lots of cathartic swearing was ending up on the page, in between teardrops and heavy, angry pencil scratching, as I struggled to get down on paper what I was REALLY feeling about having cancer.
When I first came to type up a draft from my notebook, I was doing a fabulous job of censoring. I had unintentionally slipped into a ‘you can’t write that!’ mode and dulled down my language, crossing out this, and missing out that. The concern about receiving negative societal judgement, was at this point, innately stronger than my own voice.
As I compared my hand-written notes to the chapter I had typed on the screen, there was very little raw and real emotion left. The two pieces of writing were barely comparable. I had tamed the ‘Wild Cancer Lion’ into a cute, purring pussycat, all wrapped up in a nice pink breast cancer ribbon.
My gut instinct was telling me…
this would not do.
this is not what’s really going on.
this is not honest.
Yet, still I persisted against these thoughts, with the modified and censored version as I thought this would be the right, sensible and acceptable thing to do – as Jo the mother, Jo the wife, Jo the daughter and Jo the teacher.
This was, of course, the crux of the problem.
I was writing as Jo: the mother, the wife, the daughter, the teacher, not as Jo the breast cancer victim, the angry breast cancer warrior - who was in fact very pissed-off that this disease had decided to take up residence in her body.
So, what’s it to be – wild lion or tame pussycat?
I decided there was no room for a tame pussycat when it came to telling a cancer story.
The Wild Cancer Lion needed to be unleashed and ROAR!
So, those first couple of drafted chapters written by Jo the mother, wife, daughter and teacher, ended up in the recycle bin and Jo the breast cancer warrior took over the keyboard.
This is what you’ll find in my breast cancer memoir. A raw, honest, frank and candid recount of my breast cancer shitfest.
The pink-fluffy ribbon has been ripped of breast cancer to deliver this down-to-earth and truthful account of how it was for me.
Sometimes it is confronting. It would not be an honest recount, if I didn’t convey this in my writing. Breast cancer IS a VERY CONFRONTING disease. Most of the time, women need to have a breast, or both breasts amputated. That is very fucking confronting indeed!
Sometimes this book is humorous. I had a good-old laugh at myself whilst going through cancer treatments. There is a lot of fun you can have with a bald head, wigs and excessive flatulence.
Sometimes it is sobering. Important Australian statistics and facts are included because this disease is rife AND this disease kills. Did you know that 57 Australians were diagnosed with breast cancer TODAY (and every day?)
Did you also know that 9 Australians died from breast cancer today?
Another 9 will die tomorrow….. ☹
But ALL the time, this memoir is honest and REAL and I am completely open and vulnerable. I’ve laid everything out, and that means lots of boob pictures so that you can understand what happened. Words just aren’t enough when it comes to breast amputation and reconstruction. You need visuals. As a result, perhaps people who mean well, will stop calling a mastectomy and reconstruction a ‘boob job’. Having a mastectomy is no fun.
It is painful.
It is life-altering.
It is raw and emotional.
It takes part of your womanhood and changes your body.
It is brave.
And best of all, it is life-saving.
In my experience, a mastectomy with reconstruction ain’t no boob job. OK? At least that’s how I feel, and I feel it strongly. That said, I do know of some other breast cancer warriors who’ve had recon and use the ‘boob job’ term to reclaim the shitfest they’ve been through.
A badge of honour if you will.
The breast cancer experience and how we muddle our way through it is different for everyone – including men! It is somewhat ironic that something so ubiquitous can still have so much uniqueness.
As I sign off from this blog, I will think of being frank as a friend – my new friend Frank.
I make no apologies for Frank. Frank came to stay while I wrote Show Us Your Tits and he hasn’t really left. Perhaps it is a result of some sort of cancer metamorphosis because Frank and I are really good friends now.
Perhaps Frank needs to turn up more often in your life and in your stories?
In the end, in the name of authenticity, I couldn’t be anything else.
Acknowledgement: Much love and BIG thanks to Ali Caeiro, fellow breast cancer warrior, who helped me not only polish this blog, but also to consider a different perspective when it comes to breast reconstruction.
JO xx
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