In February of this year, I was diagnosed with stage-three-A invasive ductal carcinoma, the most common type of breast cancer, which originates in the milk ducts. I freaked out, unsure if I would survive and scared of what was surely going to be hell on my body as I fought for my life.

I had two days to prepare for chemo, and I did so by getting my eyebrows tattooed to avoid looking like Voldemort once my facial hair fell out. My oncologist recommended I “ease into baldness,” so I also chopped my long hair into a cute pixie cut. Despite loving the cut, I still cried in the salon chair.

I decided to do chemo, a bilateral mastectomy, and radiation, which have all taught me plenty about indignity: I had so much diarrhea during chemo that my insides felt like beef jerky. Radiation burned m

See Full Page