The Cherries on Top
When the final step of reconstruction gives something back you didn’t realize your brain had been grieving.
I wrote this reflection in pieces as the experience unfolded — the night before the appointment, the procedure itself, and the morning after.
Yesterday was my “cherries on top” appointment.
The final step in my breast reconstruction.
It was the appointment I had been waiting for since the day of my mastectomy, when I stood in the mirror and immediately knew something was missing.
It sounds like a strange comparison, but the closest way I can describe it is this:
It feels like ordering a banana split sundae and realizing the cherries were missing on top.
Since May 27th, the day of my mastectomy, I have been slowly reacquainting myself with my body in the mirror.
At first, I was afraid of the mirror.
That quiet hesitation before looking, knowing something was going to feel unfamiliar.
Eventually, I’ve learned to reframe it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My body has been through something enormous, and I’m still here.
Then, on October 6, I got my permanent “girls.”
That was a big step.
I remember standing in front of the mirror again and reminding myself: nothing to be afraid of.
But even then, something still felt strange.
The reconstruction looks good. In fact, the girls are suspiciously perky for someone about to turn 49. I joke that some people might actually be jealous.
But to me, they still feel foreign.
My brain doesn’t fully recognize them yet. There is still this quiet disorientation, as if something is unfinished.
If I’m honest, I don’t even like my husband seeing them without the cherries.
He isn’t phased. He isn’t scared. He isn’t turned off … to him they're just my body healing.
But to me, they don’t feel like me yet.
So with the tattoo appointment finally arriving, I know this is the last step.
Still, the night before feels strange.
With the bigger surgeries, most of my nerves have been about anesthesia. Being put under. The unknown of waking up afterward.
This time, I will be fully awake.
Two hours.
Headphones. Music blasting. Probably a Xanax.
And that realization feels strange to me.
During the big surgeries, I moved through everything almost on autopilot. You show up, they knock you out, and when you wake up, the hardest part has already happened.
This time, I’ll be present for the whole thing.
And somewhere along the way, I’ve realized something else.
For months, I have slowly been moving forward again.
Not as a patient.
Just as me.
But for a few hours, I’ll be stepping back into that role.
And that feels disorienting.
Friday: The Procedure
The appointment itself was wild in a way I didn’t expect.
Before anything began, we had to design them.
First came the color.
She tested pigment shades on my skin, mixing tones and asking what looked right. The truth is, I don’t really remember what they used to look like anymore.
My brain has lost the reference.
At one point, I even asked to see a photo from before my mastectomy.
The image showed my breasts with steri-strips still on from the biopsies.
And I laughed, because those girls were 48 years old and had breastfed two kids.
They had lived a life.
Then came the stencils.
Choosing the areola size. The nipple size. The placement.
Circles were drawn, erased, redrawn again and again until everything was balanced and precise.
It was incredibly customized.
And at a certain point, I realized something else was happening.
Trust.
I was trusting someone else to recreate something that had been part of my body for almost 49 years.
Before we started, I handed her one of my Fight Club bracelets.
I told her this was the “cherries on top” appointment and, hopefully, the last bracelet I would need to give to someone on my care team.
She immediately put it on.
My final Fight Club member.
Then it was time.
Headphones on.
Eye mask on.
My Fight Club Playlist music blasting in my ears.
I chewed gum like crazy, clenched my fists, and focused on breathing while she worked.
And yes… I felt things.
They don’t numb the area because it can affect how the pigment settles, especially with scar tissue.
But I also knew that feeling things meant my body was regenerating nerves and sensation, and that my surgeons did a great job.
So I kept reminding myself of the end goal.
The cherries.
Because we save the best part for last.
When she finished, and I finally stood in front of the mirror, I felt tears welling up before I even looked.
Then I saw them.
And I couldn’t believe it.
For the first time since my mastectomy, I wasn’t afraid to really look at my body.
I was smiling and crying at the same time.
The absence of nipples has been a constant visual reminder of what cancer had taken.
But suddenly, my girls looked like girls again.
Something inside me settled.
I hugged Nicole and told her how grateful I was for the surgeons who removed the cancer and rebuilt my breasts.
But Nicole was the one who restored my connection with my body.
And I don’t think she fully realizes the impact of the work she does.
Because yes, cancer treatment saves your life.
But this is the part that gives something back.
The part that helps you feel like yourself again.
Like a woman again.
We hugged, and both were teary.
The full coloring won’t really show for about six weeks as the skin heals, and because of the scar tissue, there will likely be a touch-up around six months from now.
So technically, the process isn’t completely finished.
But the biggest part of the journey is behind me.
Saturday Morning
This morning, something unexpected happened.
I felt proud.
I decided to do a little retail therapy. Jeans and maybe a new shirt.
At one point, I picked up a tank top and hesitated before trying it on.
Then I laughed and told the woman helping me a little about what I had just been through and how I got my “cherries on top.”
Both of the women there said they knew someone who had gone through breast cancer.
And half-joking, half-seriously, I said I felt like coming out of the dressing room in a sheer shirt with no bra, just to show them.
But I spared my fourteen-year-old daughter, who would probably be permanently scarred if she ever witnessed that moment.
But for the first time in my life, I felt like flashing the world.
Not in a provocative way.
In a proud way.
Later, when I got home, I walked into the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror.
For months, I have hesitated in front of that mirror.
I’ve slowly learned to face it.
And now…
I literally flashed myself and started laughing.
Because for the first time since May 27, my brain is happy with what it saw.
Which brings me back to the joke I’ve been making through this whole process.
The cherries on top.
At first, it was just humor.
A way to lighten things up and laugh my way through the process.
But now I realize it was actually the perfect metaphor.
Because the sundae had technically always been there.
It just didn’t feel complete until the cherries were placed on top.
And with two tiny cherries,
Something my brain had been grieving since May 27th
Finally feels whole again. 🍒