Mind your own coconuts.

9-ish months A.D. (after diagnosis)

After mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, I’m grateful to have breasts again. Truly.

But they’re not real. And I’m super self conscious about them.

I recently saw a meme that another survivor referred to hers as amputitties and I can’t unhear it. It’s a hilarious way that I now, too, will to refer to them by. Because, truth – I had two amputations.

I also find that humor helps me cope with the mental part of survivorship.

I joke about my amputitties because it takes the edge off the fact that they’re awkward. Don’t get me wrong, my plastic surgeon did a great job, but these are still weird, alien beings on my body. Under my skin.

They feel weird. They’re painful sometimes (the nerves). They’re still mostly numb, though there is some progress on my right side. The shape is…off – not horribly, but again, these aren’t real boobs and never will be. They ripple a bit when I move (trade off for doing over the muscle). They. Just. Look. Fake. Like super fake. Like 1990s rise of silicone fake.

Which is fine if that’s your thing.

It’s not mine.

This is why I have another surgery scheduled in December to transplant fat to my boobs and smooth them out. Help them look a touch more natural.

So, you can imagine how I can get in my head when I put on a bathing suit to enjoy the pool and sunshine on a hot summer day. I know what they look like to the unknowing eye and I’m not interested in the male gaze on my amputities, nor am I interested in judgmental stares by catty women.

That takes us to this past weekend.

I went to my neighborhood pool by myself to relax and maintain my summer Mexican melanin for a bit longer. I put on a bikini because that’s what I usually wear. Then I found an open lounger facing the sun.

The pool wasn’t as packed as usual but it wasn’t empty. There were a handful of families, a few teens and a couple of men about my age.

I quickly took off my coverup, sprayed on my sunscreen and laid on my lounger. I was happily soaking in my vitamin D for five or so minutes when I started picking up on the conversation the men were having poolside, not too far from me. Nothing too interesting for a while there.

But then I heard cackling.

I can’t be certain, but it seemed like they were talking about me. Then I heard a reference to “softballs” and “coconuts”, followed by “more cackling, and “you wanna crack those coconuts”.

Are you f’ing kidding me?

I know. It’s possible they could have been talking about someone else or something else completely. But my brain was hijacked in certainty that that wasn’t the case.

I wanted to cover up and hide. But I also wanted to get up and ask them if they felt good commenting on my amputitties and ask if they’d still think they’re fun to comment on when they find out they’re nipples-less due to cancer.

It makes me want to get a visible survivor tattoo even more, so that people can see that I’m branded a breast cancer survivor and maybe they’ll hold their oggling or glares.

But, then again, maybe they weren’t talking about me.

So, I might have paranoia as a result of body image self consciousness – as a result of breast cancer.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’d be nice if people just didn’t comment on women’s bodies. Period.

Mind your own damn coconuts!