I’ll Fit It Into My Life—Not the Other Way Around

When I first heard from my oncologist that the new treatment I’m undergoing for this recurrence didn’t have a set end date—even after a negative diagnosis—I told myself that even if it took a couple of years, I’d eventually be done with it.

But during my last infusion this week (I get them every three weeks), I asked him again because I’m planning a trip to Brazil and wanted to stay longer than three weeks. To my disappointment, he told me he still can’t predict an end date. There just isn’t enough data yet, and every case is different. The only thing he knows for sure is: if I stop, it could come back.

Not fun.

He told me that ultimately, I’ll have to be the one to decide if skipping an infusion for something important—like staying longer in Brazil—is worth it for me.

Hearing that hit me with a mix of emotions. It took me two days to even write about it. I never imagined I’d go through breast cancer once, let alone twice. No genetic markers, no family history, no unhealthy habits. And still—here I am. Again.

And now, knowing I’ll need to rely on this medication for an unpredictable amount of time is heavy.

You might think, “What’s the big deal? Some breast cancer survivors take daily pills for 5 or 10 years.” But for me, it’s the fact that I need to go to an oncology facility every three weeks. That I have to take pre-meds that mess with my mind—especially the steroids. That I lose an entire day because they make me tired. That I depend on someone to drive me. That I can’t just plan a trip to visit my family and friends for more than three weeks without considering treatment.

My whole life has to be planned around infusion days.

Thankfully, I had my port removed, because the thought of having it as a “forever friend” for who knows how long was too much. That thing bothered me so much.

Right now, the only thing I can do is reframe this. Maybe it’ll take some time—or maybe not—but I need to find a way to fit this treatment into my life, not the other way around. I don’t want to feel like a slave to it.

This whole cancer journey—both times—has brought so much to reflect on. And especially, to adapt to.

It’s a lot to process. But the only way I know how to move forward is to reframe each little challenge… and be grateful. Yes—grateful for the experiences, the possibilities, the strength we find within ourselves, and the support we’re lucky to receive. Give me a few days. I’m reframing it.

From Big Boobs to Little Cherry

Since buying my first bra, going to the beach wearing a “top,” through my teenage years in school, and even in the caricatures I drew of myself (or others drew of me), I was always the girl with the big boobs.

2011 and my first boudoir photoshoot <3

When silicone implants became more common in Brazil — around the early 2000s — I overheard two women chatting in a movie theater bathroom about how people were going overboard with implant sizes. As I walked out of the stall to wash my hands, they stopped talking. Maybe they thought I had implants too — my boobs were that big.

Some random flings from my past have told me they still remember my boobs from school. Finding a dress shirt that fit my small back and large chest? A nightmare. Triangle bikini? Not a chance. Going braless? Sweet illusion. I carried these big boobs through life, always kind of thinking I’d reduce them one day — but that thought felt far off. I was terrified of surgery.

Now, after four surgeries (and heading into a fifth in two days), I laugh at that fear.

When I was 14 years old

Having big boobs, just like having a prominent nose, a certain type of mouth, or legs shaped a certain way — it becomes part of who you are. It might sound silly, but me, Rita with the big boobs, was one version. And this new version that’s emerging — who I affectionately call “little cherry” — is definitely another. Not better or worse. Just different.

This new version will need new tops, “no bra” moments (that I always dreamed of), new necklines. Maybe she’ll be bolder — who knows? Different, for sure.

When I got my first breast cancer diagnosis in 2022, my first question was: Will I have to remove my boobs?The oncologist said no. In my case, the chance of recurrence was the same whether I removed them or not. So we went with a lumpectomy (removing just what was left of the tumor after chemo). I was relieved — still very attached to my big boobs. I knew I’d have to reduce them eventually, and honestly, I kind of wanted to. But I kept them — still a big part of my identity.

In my 20's

When the cancer came back less than two years later, mastectomy was the only option. Initially, they considered removing both breasts, but later decided to remove only the right one, where the cancer had returned both times. I panicked.

The panic only eased when I saw the reconstruction options. I realized I could still have breasts that reflected my “booby personality” — not massive anymore, but with presence.

My hubby's description of me

The unilateral mastectomy happened. And the recovery? It was rough. June was a complicated and delicate month because of the skin on that side, previously treated with radiation, now as fragile as tissue paper. I had two urgent surgeries within 10 days, and my breast was reduced by half — until it became the “little cherry.”

I haven’t had the final implant yet. Right now, I’m still using a tissue expander, which stretches the skin in preparation for the implant. The other breast? Still the same ol’ big one — but it’s going to get a reduction soon too, to match the cherry.

Have I cried through this process? Absolutely. And I’m still figuring out who this new Rita is — the one with the small boob.

But now, I welcome this new woman: bold in her attitude and courage, with a small breast that, thanks to a side lift and the future implant, will stand perky for quite some time — proudly saying: "I made it."

Or I Stop and Rest, or I Stop and Rest

⚠️ Trigger warning: This post touches on sensitive topics and may stir deep emotions. Or simply can make you think!

People who know me—those who’ve spent real time with me, my friends, family, or even anyone who’s read my birth chart—would describe me as “energetic,” “passionate,” “a hard worker.”No one close to me would ever say “calm,” “cute,” or “zen.” That’s just not me.

Patience? I've been working on it since forever. Procrastination? Not in my vocabulary. I’m a doer. Always with a new project or idea. I feel like if I don’t create, I’ll explode from excess energy.

Meditation? I like it—for 5 minutes. Yoga? Love it—as long as it’s fast-paced. That’s just my nature. Denying it doesn’t help.

On top of that, I like to control things. Not people—just me: my schedule, my health, my routine.Annoying, I know.

Now mix that: high-energy + control-freak…Add physical limitations, being 95% at home, needing help for nearly everything I usually do, for at least five weeks, plus the looming fears: “Will my skin heal? “Can I still do the reconstruction? “How long until I get back to my active life?”“When will I be able to raise my right arm again?”

Simple questions with no simple answers. And the only thing I know for sure is: I need patience. Which, of course, is the one thing I lack.

I was doing really well with this second treatment, just like I did with the first. I was even recovering fast from the one-sided mastectomy. But then my skin (thanks to previous radiation) decided not to cooperate. Two unexpected surgeries within two weeks later, and here I am… deep in “WTF is life?” mode.

Yes, I’ve had my “poor me” days—they’re mostly gone. I’ve had (and still have) sad days. But I’m managing: therapy sessions, spiritual tools, and lots of venting to my mom and Alan (thank you and sorry!).

I know that in a couple of months, I’ll read this and think, “Why was I overthinking? Everything’s fine now.”But right now, riding this bumpy road is exhausting, and my butt is tired.I want to reach the final destination—with new boobs, good news, and full independence. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. But this time, there’s no other option.

Either I stop and rest, or I stop and rest. That’s it.

It may sound silly, but I wrote myself a Post-it note that says “REST” and stuck it to my laptop.I even set daily timers to remind me of this incredibly hard task: just relax. Ommmm.