No. I am not excited about my new breasts. Really not even a little bit.

To start with, they are not my breasts. They are man-made replicas. And not even replicas. The old ones were well-loved. These guys are fresh off the rack (see what I did there?).

The number 1 question I’ve been getting and for obvious reasons is, ‘Do you love your new breasts?’. Now I understand this question, but unfortunately for everyone in the situation, I can’t in good faith yell out, ‘ohhh, I just love them!’ which seems to be what most people expect me to say.

Throughout this process, so many times, I have been told that the silver lining of breast cancer is that you get new boobs. I am here to tell you that is not a silver lining.

A silver lining is something good that comes out of something bad. Breast cancer is really fucking bad and new, fake, sensationless breasts do not qualify as something ‘good.’ I would call it more like a pale brown lining.

Let’s break this down a bit.

Yes, I have brand spanking new perky breasts. But I did not ask for them. Sure, I had fantasized about upgrading down the line, but this is certainly not the way I would have chosen to go about it.

Also (and this is a big also), my new breasts have zero sensation. I could walk into a brick wall and only feel the pressure as a wall pushed into my body. The breasts would register nothing. Not a single thing.

So they are the equivalent of a costume. They are all form, zero function. They will probably end up looking lovely in a tshirt someday once I am healed. Is that my consolation prize? A shirt that says, ‘I am only wearing this t-shirt to show off my new boobs that replaced the old boobs that tried to kill me?’ (I actually do have a tshirt that says something to this effect. I will wear it ironically).

My new breasts are so abstract to me that I will pretty much show them to anyone who asks. They do not feel sacred or private. They seem like a store-bought add-on, certainly not something my genes whipped up.

Here’s a short list of people I have shown my boobs to in the last week:

• My mom, sister and husband
• Any friend who has asked (I’ll email a pic to you! Guess I’ll never run for public office now that my tots are in the Cloud)
• My neighbor
• My mother-in-law

When I look at the new breasts in the mirror I don’t know what I am looking at. I can’t remember what they used to look like. My breasts have had so many incarnations since April that I’m fuzzy on what was real and what’s been superimposed on my memory.

I suppose the plastic surgeon did a good job. They look round, symmetrical and in the correct location. They just don’t look like mine.

So am I happy with my new breasts? Not really. They represent some real shitastic stuff. They are my new scarlet letter. Every time I get a compliment on them, (I’m not sure where I’m going where multiple rando’s will stop me to compliment my rack, but whatevs), I will have to stop myself from saying, ‘thanks! I had cancer and now I have these feeling-deprived silicone balloons, yeah!’

I hope someday I will wake up (hahaha that would mean I actually slept) and feel some kind of positivity towards my breasts, but I am allowing myself the space to never expect that to happen. I don’t ever have to love my new boobs. 

What I will try to do is love the person I’ve been forced to become because of this silly disease.

You know, the one with the really nice fake rack?