Previously, on The Breast Cancer Diaries…

On Friday, as I posted, I met with the plastic surgeon. He said I am a good candidate for the flap reconstruction. While that news was exciting—because it means there’s a plan for me moving forward—it was also terrifying. To put it bluntly, I am essentially signing up to have both of my breasts removed. That sentence alone feels huge and heavy.

It’s not just the mastectomy. The reconstruction itself sounds like something from a medical TV drama: they’re going to take skin and fat from my abdomen and build new breasts. When you say it out loud, it sounds almost miraculous, and at the same time, deeply unsettling. Yes, it’s incredible that doctors can do this. But it’s also my body on the line, and that reality makes me stop and catch my breath.

So here I am, living in the tension between gratitude and fear. On one hand, flap reconstruction offers hope for feeling whole again after breast cancer. On the other hand, it means willingly stepping into major surgery that will change my body forever. And that? That’s pretty darn scary. This is the part of a breast cancer journey that no brochure can really prepare you for.

And Then Today Happened

As if I weren’t already swirling with emotions, today threw another curveball. I noticed a missed call on my phone and then saw a voicemail from the hospital. I called back right away, left a message, and a little while later—another missed call and another voicemail. My phone never actually rang, which left me playing everyone’s favorite game: phone tag with medical professionals.

But miracles do happen, and eventually I managed to get through. That’s when I heard the words that simultaneously made my stomach drop and my heart leap: they were calling to schedule my mastectomy.

Insert a terrified “yippee” here. Yippee, because this surgery means the cancer will finally be removed from my body. Terrified, because… well, see above. This is not just a doctor’s appointment. This is life-changing, body-altering, scar-inducing, emotional-upending surgery.

And in the grand tradition of life’s twisted sense of humor, my mastectomy is scheduled for Valentine’s Day. Yep. Valentine’s Day. Not exactly the romantic gift I envisioned. Forget chocolates, roses, and dinner reservations—this year, I’ll be celebrating with hospital gowns, IVs, and a surgical team.

Still, I remind myself that sometimes love looks different than we expect. Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about hearts, love, and hope—and in a strange way, this surgery is all of those things. Removing the cancer is an act of self-love. Reconstructing my body is an act of hope. And accepting the support of the people who care for me is an act of opening my heart to love in all its forms.

And Along With It…

Of course, the surgery isn’t just a date on the calendar. It comes with a cascade of appointments that have turned my planner into something resembling a medical flowchart. Behold, my new “social life”:

• Pre-surgery appointment: the rundown, the questions, the what-to-expect talk.
• PCR test: less like a precaution these days and more like a ticket to the medical ride.
• Post-op with the surgeon: checking healing, next steps, permission to breathe again.
• Post-op with the plastic surgeon: how reconstruction is settling, what’s normal, what needs care.

That’s a lot of appointments. Honestly, it feels like I suddenly have a social life. The only catch is that all my “dates” are with medical professionals. Not exactly glamorous, but still, there’s something weirdly comforting in the routine of it all. At least I won’t have much time to sit and worry—I’ll be busy rotating through waiting rooms.

The Emotional Rollercoaster of a Breast Cancer Journey

This is what nobody tells you about a breast cancer journey: it’s not just the treatments, the scans, or the surgeries. It’s the emotional whiplash. One minute you’re celebrating progress—a scheduled surgery date, a plan for reconstruction. The next minute, you’re staring at your reflection and wondering what you’ll look like, how you’ll feel, and if you’ll ever feel “normal” again.

And let’s be real—normal doesn’t exist anymore. Once you hear the words you have breast cancer, your definition of normal shifts forever. Suddenly, your social life is filled with nurses, surgeons, plastic surgeons, and lab techs. Your calendar is dotted with appointments instead of brunches. Your conversations revolve around reconstruction, scars, healing, and survival.

But here’s the thing: normal isn’t the goal. Healing is. Living is. Thriving, even in the face of fear, is.

Finding Light in the Dark

If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s that a breast cancer journey is not a solitary road. Even when it feels isolating, there are connections to lean on—whether it’s friends, family, or others who’ve walked the same path. Reading about flap reconstruction and mastectomies has helped me feel less alone. Resources like Breastcancer.org’s guide to flap reconstruction and the NCI overview of breast reconstruction offer clear, compassionate explanations when your brain is buzzing.

I also keep reminding myself that I’m not just “the patient.” I’m still me. I’m still a teacher, a writer, a mom, a friend. Cancer may be in my body, but it doesn’t get to define my spirit. That’s why I keep writing these posts—because sharing the messy, scary, sometimes absurd parts of this journey is how I remind myself that I’m more than my diagnosis.

Looking Ahead

So yes, I’m scared. Yes, I’m overwhelmed. And yes, I’m not thrilled about trading in Valentine’s chocolates for a hospital bracelet. But I also know this: every step, every appointment, every “terrified yippee” is part of a bigger story. A story about survival. A story about resilience. And a story about love—the kind that shows up even in waiting rooms and on surgery schedules.

If you’re walking your own breast cancer journey, know that you’re not alone. Fear and hope can live side by side. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is keep showing up—even when your calendar is filled with appointments you never asked for.

For more of my story, you can read previous entries in The Breast Cancer Diaries where I’m sharing this experience step by step. Writing helps me process, but maybe reading it will help someone else feel a little less alone too.