Friday, January 30, 2026 was the day my breasts were amputated. Bilateral mastectomy is the technical term, or DMX, not to be confused with the 90s/Y2K rapper.
I refer it as an amputation because it is—two very distinctive female body parts were surgically removed and replaced with prosthetics. I wish society and the medical field would just call it what it is, and represent the seriousness of it.
Friday morning, I started the day lying in bed not wanting to get up. Getting up means getting ready for surgery. I had given the girls hugs last night since they go to school early, I knew I wouldn’t see them in the morning. Zander snuck in my room to give me a big hug before he left. I finally sucked it up and took a shower using the Dove antibacterial body wash the doctors recommended. It was an emotional moment knowing this was the last shower I would have in my natural body.
After I dried off, I dressed in clothes that were loose, comfortable and tied in the front. I put on socks some friends gifted me with “I am strong” stitched on the toes. With it being a freezing day, I grabbed my wool poncho and short Ugg boots. I figured I won’t be going to the gym for at least two months, so I emptied out my gym bag and threw an extra hoodie in there just in case my other shirt was too tight.
We checked in at the Overland Park hospital location at 10:30 a.m., where my sisters caught up with us in the lobby. The four of us headed upstairs to the second floor where I checked in at the surgery desk. Mounted on the wall behind the desk was a screen with patient numbers and status updates. I joked with my husband that he could check up on me like I was a fast food order. A few of us started to take a seat just as my named was called to go back.
“Shit. It’s showtime.” I thought to myself. I hugged and kissed my sisters, then hugged Zach. He would be able to go back to sit with me soon.
Heading back to surgery, I was weighed, peed in a cup, then headed to bed 8. I was met with two nurses, Veronica and Kelly, coincidentally the name of one of my sisters and my late dad. They ran through all of the medical questionnaires and consent forms then instructed me to undress and put on the plaid gown and bright yellow hospital socks laid on the bed.
My stomach began to flip. I had managed to remain semi calm up until this moment. I dug into my gym bag that held my extra hoodie and poncho, to retrieve a ziplock baggie that contained a knitted “prayer square” that I received in a really nice kit from Phil’s Friends, a faith-based non-profit organization that sends care packages to cancer patients going through treatment. The baggie also held my mom’s wedding band and a beautiful pink rosary that belonged to the mother of a friend of the family. Pink felt fitting. As I sat in my bed, I said a few prayers for a successful surgery.
Shortly after, the nurses came back to administer the I.V. They played around with the veins in my left hand and in my left forearm. I didn’t even know the forearm was an option for I.V.s. But of course, my veins were too tiny on my hand so the forearm it was. Boo.
Eventually, Zach was able to join me in the prep area. I was a nervous wreck, trying to practice breathing and using the grounding techniques from my therapist. I thought it was crazy when I looked down at my phone at one point and the time was 11:11. A symbolic number to me that I always make a wish on. I wished for calm and peace—to be brave in the moments leading up to surgery and of course, for surgery to go well.
We sat together for over an hour. In that time, Zach shared with me some of his memories of being in the same spot that I was in, when he was preparing for his brain surgery back in 2019, what helped him stay grounded. He shared that being in KU’s surgery prep area again made him feel more hyper-aware of the titanium plate beneath his left temple and the long scar running from ear to forehead. I can only image how traumatic it would be for him to relive a surgery like that, which made me even more grateful that he was here by my side. We kept busy by joking, I posted my latest blog story and responded to texts and messages. I was happy to have the distractions. Finally, my plastic surgeon stopped in.
“Let’s get you unplugged so I can draw on you.” he said. And then he accidentally slammed his hand on the side rail of the bed pretty hard.
“Are you ok?! I need those hands today!” I joked.
“It’s fleeting. I’ll be just fine.” he reassured with a smile.
“Did you decide if we are we sparing nipples today or no?” he asked, looking up at me. I hadn’t noticed in our first meeting how blue his eyes are and how curly his blonde lashes are. Also, how his voice strangely sounds like one of the executives I work with.
“No. I don’t want to add any risk of reoccurrence.” I responded.
He then proceeded to use a black sharpie marker to draw a straight line down my sternum, separating my breasts. Then he made two horizontal lines going just around each nipple on each breast. These would be the incision lines, indicating what tissue was being removed. He gathered the skin together to represent what size the breast would be after surgery.
“Is this going to work for you?” he asked.
“Yes. But what about the accessory breast tissue in the side boob and arm pits?” I asked. “Once that’s removed will it sag?”
His response was “it depends but it shouldn’t”. I’m young enough that the skin should flatten out, however if there is fat there, the fat will stay for the time being. After this surgery heals, we may go back in for liposuction to fill out the area around implants with fat from other areas in order to give the breasts a more natural look. Ugh. But, if it helps the prosthesis look more natural, I would rather have that. Just as if it were an arm or a leg prosthesis.
He helped me back in bed, plugging me back into all the machines he had unhooked me from, and promised to see me soon.
After a short while, my breast surgeon came in. She is such a cute, slender woman. I recognized her hot pink sparkly clogs right away. She was also wearing a Wonder Woman surgical cap. Her presence just made me smile.
“Are we ready?” she asked.
“As ready as I can be. Still super nervous.” I replied.
“We are going to take good care of you.” she said.
She also pulled out a black sharpie marker to draw an arrow on my right armpit, indicating that would be where they would remove the lymph nodes. She put a small star over the left armpit to denote accessory breast tissue requiring removal.
“My part should take a couple hours to two and a half hours. Then plastic surgery will take another couple hours.” she explained. “After that, recovery time depends on how you do with the anesthesia. We will give your husband detailed care instructions before discharge.”
“Ok.”
“You’re going to do great” she said before leaving.
Only a few more minutes passed before Zach was asked to leave. The operating room was ready and so was the surgical team. He gave me a hug and a kiss. I told him “see you on the other side”. Almost as soon as he was gone, the Anesthesiologist was back and informed me that he was starting the I.V. so I could have a nice, long nap.
I remember the nurses starting to roll me out of my prep area, past the nurse’s station.
Then, it went black.
—
My post-surgery recollection seemed like a total of ten minutes:
“Nikki, wake up. Nikki.” called a far away, quiet voice. I as in a dream like state and don’t know if the voice was real.
“Water,” my quiet, scratchy voice demanded.
Did someone give me a cracker? I think I had a bite of a saltine on my mouth. Terrible choice for how dry my mouth was. It felt like I had walked miles across the desert without one sip of water. I felt no pain anywhere. Just a scorched throat.
“Nikki, can you get up? You can’t go home until you walk.” said the same voice.
I don’t remember how I got up, but I hung onto a walker, and with one eye open, determined to walk the recovery floor.
“You don’t have to go all the way around if you don’t want to. We want you to take it easy,” she said.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ do this. But I’m only using one eye. It helps me focus.” I remembered saying.
The next thing I remember was getting in the car.
“It’s fucking cold!” I mumbled
The last thing I recall was walking upstairs at home.
Then blackness.
—-
Zach’s post-surgery recollection was a little different. His was a total of four and a half hours:
The doctors texted him updates as each part of surgery was completed as well as when I entered recovery. It was also on the “fast food order screen” behind the desk. I had been out of surgery for two hours before he was able to go back to the recovery room with me. Doctors and nurses expected it to have been sooner, but I was struggling to wake up.
When he arrived, the nurses were coaxing me to open my eyes.
“Nikki, open your eyes,” the nurses softly commanded, over and over again for what he said seemed to be thirty minutes.
“Can you eat your cracker?” she asked. Zach saw a saltine cracker sitting on the table beside me, assuming it had been there for a while.
“Ice”, I murmured.
“Ice? Do you want ice? I have water here but can get you ice,” the nurse replied.
“Water,” I changed my response.
The nurse tried to have me reach to grab my own water cup, but I knocked it over two times trying. She eventually handed it to me, and I proceeded to slowly attempt to sip water from the straw. But, my hand was in its own world at that moment. I was lightly poking my cheek and chin with the straw as my eyes remained closed. The nurse rescued my sad attempts and guided the straw to my mouth so I could take a few small sips of water.
Another nurse entered the room. “Has she eaten the cracker yet?”
“No. Nikki, open your eyes and try to eat the cracker,” the first nurse pleaded. “We can’t send you home until you open your eyes.”
They placed the cracker in my hand where my movements mimicked the cup and straw. My aim was anywhere but pointed toward my mouth. Zach said I had nibbled off a tiny corner but the majority of the cracker became a pile of crumbs on my gown below my chin.
I was soon asleep again.
Both the surgeon and plastic surgeon came in and advised Zach that surgery went really well, exactly how they wanted it. They were able to place implants, not the tissue expanders, just as I had hoped. They went over drain care instructions, showering and medication management. They also advised that since it had now been over three hours, if I don’t open my eyes and begin to wake up, I would need to stay overnight. I was required to walk down the hall and back before they can release me.
“Nikki, if we can’t get you to walk the hall you have to stay the night here. Do you want to stay the night here?”
I shook my head no, eyes remaining closed.
An anesthesiologist came back in to flush out any remaining sedative in the I.V. to see if that would help.
I eventually, I responded saying, “I’ll walk but I’m only opening one eye.” I guess my rationalization was that only one eye helped me focus. Who knows…I blame the drugs.
The nurses helped me up and got me hanging onto a walker. Zach said I was gone for a while on this little walk. The requirement was to just walk down the hall and back, but apparently I felt the need to overachieve.
The nurse told Zach I said, “I’m going all the way around. I’m gonna fuckin’ beat this.” The nurses around the unit were amused by my determination. I guess most patients don’t walk the whole perimeter. Most patients probably also don’t curse as much or are as stubborn as me either.
When I eventually got back to recovery area 8, there was something in the way of the entrance.
“Let me move that,” the nurse said.
“I’ll go right fucking through it,” I blurted, belligerently. Which was met with laughter.
“Ok you get to go home.” the nurses said with a little giggle. They sat me down next to Zach as they retrieved the release paperwork.
“How do you feel,” one nurse asked when returning.
“I gotta pee. Is that thing still in me?” I slurred. “I gotta go.” Assuming I was probably referring to the catheter.
The nurse directed Zach to go pull up the car and get it warmed up. She would stay to help me get dressed and use the restroom.
Zach turned on heated seats and blasted the heat as high as it would go. The nurse wheeled me out to the main entrance, where he helped me get in the car.
“It’s fucking cold out here.” I blurted.
The hospital parking lot exit had four speed bumps Zach had to drive over. Going as slow as he could, I allegedly cursed as he went over each one.
“Water”, I murmured. Zach offered me his tea, to which I refused and demanded, “Just get me home.”
I was passed out the entire 45-minute drive home. When we finally arrived, Zach helped me up the stairs to my bedroom where I parked in my recovery chair—where I’d be for the next few days.
It was about 9 p.m.
Midlife Mamacita 