Lately it seems I’ve been lifting up my shirt for an awful lot of people. Depending on when you knew me, this may, or may not, surprise you.

But these days, it is a flash of necessity, not for funny shock value. If you’re new here, I was diagnosed with breast cancer last November, and following chemotherapy, I had a double mastectomy with flat closure, including the removal of 16 lymph nodes, in April. (Radiation is next, starting at the end of June–yikes!!)  The great news is I was declared NED (No evidence of disease–Cancer Free)!!!

Recently, I started a pretty rigorous schedule of Physical Therapy in order to get my range of motion back, as a (hopeful) prevention of lymphadema, and massage to help with the scars and swelling in my chest and underarms.  I am doing really well in PT, and can now raise my arms completely over my head with little discomfort.  This is essential, because during radiation, I will have to hold them there for up to 30 minutes straight, every day, for 5 weeks.

Currently, three days a week, I enter the PT center, am ushered into my private room, and drop my shirt.  Yes, drop. I learned straight-away that a tube top works perfectly for this, since there is no need for ceremonial stripping. I just drop it to my waist. It is also quick, like when someone (turned out to be the head therapist) knocked and then entered, I was fast as lightening to yank my top up and cover myself. Of course, I was then asked to drop it, so she could inspect what they were dealing with. (Which, actually, is now a whole lotta nothin’.)

Here’s a little funny anecdote. On my first visit to PT, trying to locate the building, I parked about a block away, passing several construction sites and a mini-mart. Arriving at the center, I introduced myself and was met by two of the staff and a client on his way out. Aware of the awkward smiles, I did a self-check. You know where I’m going with this, right? Yep. My seatbelt must have been in cahoots with my boob-tube, because it was pulled down to just below my ribcage. Had I still had my over-inflated implants, I may have given those construction workers a thrill, but, no, this scarred-up, nipple-less chest of mine probably just, well, frightened them. They could have mistaken me for a boy, but I had on my big “fancy-hat” and knock-off, oversized sunglasses, so there was no mistake I was a she. Worse still? I did the same fucking thing going to the farmacia last week.

So anyway, without going into  a lot of specifics, following two rounds of antibiotics, a visit to my surgeon and several pictures send via phone, I went back in for a consult several weeks ago for a wound that just wouldn’t heal. There I had an impromptu, unexpected in-office surgical procedure called a surgical sharp debridement.  Fast forward to today, I’ve had four debridements. And let me tell you, they are no walk in the park.

My new cruiser friend has also seen me bare my bare chest. Deb happens to be a nurse, and a mutual friend introduced us virtually. I needed another opinion on my wound, and although she was more than happy to help, I apologized profusely for exposing my chest to her. (We wear surgical masks, always!)

And earlier this week, I had a home (boat) visit by a wound-care specialist. Yep, as soon she got here I basically just whipped off my top. It’s just getting to be routine, as any shard of modesty has flown out the window these days.

Although showing my chest to others has made me a little more comfortable in my own, “new” skin, I do, I really do, look forward to the day when flashing virtual strangers is completely at my own discretion.