As per the usual birthday post, here we go…
1. A Sculpture Called Validation
The room is softly lit, yet a single stage light ovals the corner of a white room. In it, there is an art installation, though you are unsure of what. Is it Greek column, as pedestal, chest height? Something rests upon it. You approach. The column is actually the trunk of a tree, whitewashed and strangely shaped. Part orante, part not, there is something rough about it that makes you contemplate intention — for control, for normalized aesthetics, for standardization — and how intentions may never achieve their greatest desires, may never possess their purpose, may never fully erase what came before. Engraved into the lip of the pedestal is a sentence: Be Good To Me.
Your attention is now drawn to what is upon the pedestal. Something is encased beneath a cube of frosted glass. It is somewhat shaped like a head, but maybe it is a bouquet, a miniature hedge, a stone, an array of trinkets in an anthropomorphic pile. There is texture, and the colors are dark, but you really can’t see much else. You rotate around the pedestal in the corner of a room that is otherwise empty. You are now in the oval of stage light.
There is another engraving, but it is nearly too small to discern. It is on the back of the glass cube, and it reads, “For I Was Myself Until You Came.” You think about the title of the piece. Then you think about the artist and how the words could even be a self-reflective critique, using materials that were once innate things to represent other innate things. “Where does validation begin and end?” You wonder. “Who decides when or how much it matters? Who or what are we forgetting when we choose what something means; when something is deemed final in its presentation; when someone shows up to observe it?” You have become a part of the installation, after all.
The validation, you realize, is itself the glass cube, and it is so because it obscures what is underneath. You can only glean what you yourself find valuable, interesting, standardized in your world view; and there are likely those who will find nothing except repulsion or apathy. You leave the room. Whatever someone thinks can, obviously, both matter and not. When you are gone from the room, the piece is itself once again (or, technically, always was), but you carry something of transferable and delicate value now, and you either share it or you don’t.
2. From the Journal
2/24/25 – I have in a box at home my mom’s journals, many of which surround the years of her diagnosis, her time spent sitting at the hospital, awaiting or undergoing chemotherapy. It feels strange to begin this journal now. I currently do not have cancer, but surgery is nonetheless my path. At 36 years of age, I can imagine how normal my mother felt before she found that fateful lump (at age 38). How fleshy. How intertwined with all that is daily: The news. The weather. What to eat. What not to eat. How a sweater stretches as you pull it over your head. What earrings will look best today? Do you even bother getting “ready”?
I imagine her thoughts were much more vast. She had four children! Divorced. Working. Downsized to an apartment. School. Kids. Money. Bills. Let’s buy our groceries from the 99 Cents store. I was in 7th grade. I didn’t understand the body as I do now. There was so much taking place for her. Her body probably felt very similar to mine. She was warm, wore sweaters often. She was in love with music. I suppose I could go on and on, but the point is to cement myself and this body, that I sit on the AirBnb couch with, as something very real. She was as present with her body as I am now with mine. I don’t like that I am here now, but at least I’ve arrived by manner of prevention. She had no choice in that. No knowledge. BRCA1 wasn’t a thing for her, yet. She was just a single, working mother. Four kids. Dreams.
My fears are both rational and not. I fear dying in two days. Complications or that the surgery reveals my fate really is my mother’s. At the vest least, what if the implants look horrible? What if my nipples die? Become sunken or misshapen?…What if everything goes well? Perfect? Near perfect? These are possibilities, too. Perhaps the most likely, but I fear nonetheless. I panic imagining my boobs gone. The flesh permanently numb. Sacks of saline merely existing upon my chest.
Per my therapist’s suggestion:
Dear Boobs, I’m thankful and privileged to have identified with you. That you were mine and I wanted you there. I appreciate all you’ve done, a further shaping of my body, a means to feel the world with in a very intimate way. You’ve endured chimney climbing and off-width. You’ve endured ultrarunning training cycles, despite your shrinkage. You’ve blossomed with hormones when the cycles dictated. You’ve been sore, heavy, dense, but also, frankly, fun, confidence-inducing, and dare I say, sexy. I think we both like it when you look good in a dress. You belong with me. Are obviously very much a part of me. I do not abandon you without grief. You are not at fault. You were made how you were made. You’ve always done, simply, what you know. My blood is your blood. You are what helps shape my identity, my gender. I honor you, agree with you, and I will continue to hold (literal) space for you, on your behalf...
2/25/25 – Today has been surprisingly calm. I succeeded in my FKT attempt of a local 7-mile route. Hung out with Rene. Finally did the Treasured Chest project. Rene and P helped. Film peeps have been around here and there. But, yeah, I’m surprised my fear hasn’t blown up on me. It’s almost an emptiness. Maybe tonight or tomorrow it’ll come. The panic. The sadness. Maybe it’s because I feel really supported right now. At peace with my decision. I just hope the “other side” isn’t treacherous in some way.
I’ve been forgetting to write about dreams lately. I dreamt some nights ago that I was looking at photo prints of analog film shots that grandpa had taken. One was a collage of some sort, creatively and abstractly done. Most of the photos were perhaps architecture, buildings or church features, I don’t quite remember now. But there were a few of people. One of Rene, one of me, where we are both young, very young, early elementary school ages. One image was of mom, crouched down to embrace us both, still our young selves. I was so enamored with this. Another print was merely a different framing of similar scenes, more architecture than people, but it was still very beautiful. There’s something very poignant about all this. Grandpa’s photo of us three. We share in our breast journies. We are such amalgams of an extended body. His extended body: as descendants, but also, because he was the carrier of the gene.
2/27/25
2x tylenol 11am
2x tylenol 430pm
2x tylenol 840 pm
Drains 7pm
1. 25cc 3. ~20cc
2. ~25cc 4. ~23cc
3/11/25
Drains @ 720am
1. ~4 3. ~6
2. ~15 4. ~3
Antibiotic 845am
Q's
1. Timelines for lower HR/various exercises
2. Post-drain-removal wound care
3. Vitamins
4. When can lay on chest (for massage)
Scheduling/insurance error, must return tomorrow for drain removal instead
Antibiotic 744pm
3/19/25 – Looking in the mirror is still very difficult.
Swelling is still present. Some things chang daily. I’m not sure when I’m supposed to start massaging areas to prevent/mitigate scar tissue. Today is 3 weeks post-op. I’m impressed with how much I’ve improved in 3 weeks and can easily imagine that progress increasing exponentially in 3 more. I try my best to not let current concerns get to me, as in, in theory, what’s current isn’t permanent.
But as I began this entry, it’s nonetheless difficult to see everything as they are now. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever grow to like my new “boobs”.
8/3/25 – I’ve been having vivid dreams lately. A recent one was of Grandma M. I had found her down in her bedroom at the Hacienda house. She was sitting in a soft fleece pajama type robe watching TV. She looked small and meek. I embraced her and was trying to encourage her to come up the short set of stairs to the main floor, where all of us were, to come spend time with us, see us. But she was hesitant. She seemed a little incoherent, but also strangely agile. She hopped up onto something and I told her that if she could do that then she could surely go up the stairs. I don’t remember much after this.
Another dream I had recently: I was in an operating room and was having brain surgery. The top half of my skull was gone (removed) and they were gathering some “bacteria” substance from my brain, but I was awake, sitting upright. Don’t remember the transition, but then I was walking around the room and talking to the nurses. Not sure about what. Then it was time to put everything back together, so I sat back down and the doc was pulling really hard at my face skin, and I realized suddenly that the whole time my skin had been pulled down and the doc was now pulling it up my skull. It felt so weird. Fleshy mask. But I could see a reflection on a glass window and was comforted by how “normal” my face appeared despite how strange everything was feeling.
Last night, I dreamt I was trying to evade something with Rene and we went around some kind of wall only to see that a giant ocean wave was about to crash into us. I remember putting myself between the wave and Rene, but also suddenly being afraid the impact would smash our heads together. I remember swimming and diving under following big waves. Then, I was swimming in a pool and diving down and coming up for air multiple times. People were arriving and I wanted to be under the water when they did…not sure why.
3. The Patriarchy of Fake
Fake: adj. not genuine, counterfeit; (of a person) claiming to be something that one is not / n. a thing that is not genuine; a forgery or a sham; a person who appears or claims to be something they are not / v. forge or counterfeit (something); pretend to feel or suffer from (an emotion or illness); make (an event) appear to happen; (informal) improvise / [early 19th century, originally a verb, 'do something criminal or dishonest to someone', probably a variant of the obsolete verbs feak, feague 'beat, whip' probably from German fegen 'sweep, thrash'. Compare with: fig (archaic) 'dress up (someone) to look smart'.]
Breast implants, perhaps fake in their nature as being replacements, unoriginal, alternative, and not of the actual flesh, are not fake in their genuineness or intent, nor do they actually claim to be anything but their circumstance. Breast (re)construction doesn’t happen if a person is pretending to be a gender they ultimately do not wish to be. What is dishonesty when you choose survival over having the flesh your body grew? What is counterfeit or forgery when you have to be on hormone replacement therapy post ovary removal? Does your brain ultimately care where it gets your hormones from? Why is wanting to continue to show up in the world as a woman (or whomever is your truth) steeped in language whose origins are violent and criminal? And, ultimately, who is the judge? Who is this language for? Who are we supposed to please, prove, embody this purity for?
4. Leaving so much behind
This year has been difficult. From surgeries to relearning the resulting body to experiencing for the first time a genuine strain on my marriage of ten years. Adopting a cat has given me a place to immerse whatever mothering instincts I have and is poignant because of what I’ve resolved my life to (not having human children, having my ovaries removed), but Patrick’s allergies have been extremely difficult to navigate. I don’t need to get into the weeds, mostly because I’m not here to solicit input or advice from others about it. We’re navigating. We’re hopeful.
There’s much to desire for 2026. If you’ve been following my Moonbox Notes and also paying attention to the world, then you can surely agree. My annual birthday post is once again limited by how little I’ve written this year, but this is all behind me. 2025 is over in my mind. It is the ground level from which I will burst. Everything in my life up to now has been the seed. I’m ready to exist in the space above ground. New body, new chapter. New opportunities, new joy.
And so it is.
Feliz Cumple a Mi
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