I sent dozens of women videos of my breasts recently.
On Feb. 27, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Specifically, Stage 3A invasive ductal carcinoma that spread from my right breast to the lymph nodes in my armpit. The news, initially delivered via notification through my hospital’s portal while I was watching an old episode of “Love Island UK,” hit me like a truck. I hit pause on a challenge involving whipped cream and a slip-n-slide to sob into my boyfriend’s chest. I’m only 40. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to lose the life I’ve been dreaming and working so hard to have.
After I let out every fear in me, I locked in. Cancer became my job. I began to prepare for what was to come, scrolling Reddit for advice from people who had been through it. I got my teeth cleaned, eyebrows tattooed, chopped my waist-length hair into a cute, yet drastic pixie cut, researched financial support organizations to help cover costs, and bought everything I’d need for this weird new life. And I wanted to ensure that as many people with breasts in my communities and beyond could be on higher alert of their possibly traitorous tits.
Fifteen years ago, my dad died of kidney cancer. In just seven months, a leg pain his doctor ignored took his life. Since his diagnosis I’ve lived under a cloud of paranoia, going to the doctor for any ailment fearing my own diagnosis. And then, it actually happened. The thing that killed my dad wanted to take me too. What a greedy little asshole.
I went for my first mammogram and ultrasound last year at 39, where I was informed I have dense breasts ― breast tissue that is more glandular and fibrous than fatty. It wasn’t until I read a piece by Dyan Neary in The Cut that I fully understood how prevalent dense breasts are, the fact that it puts me at greater risk for breast cancer, and what I need to demand medically to ensure I don’t fall through the cracks and die.
As Neary explains, fatty tissue appears on a mammogram as dark gray or black. Cancer tissue, which shows up as white, would stand out against the darkness. However, because dense breast tissue also shows up as white, a mass or other cancerous tissue could go undetected. This makes it necessary for those with dense breast tissue, particularly those with family history of breast cancer, to get mammograms, ultrasounds and MRIs performed more regularly.
In further research, I learned Latinas like myself and Black women have some of the highest levels of breast density, putting us at even greater risk for breast cancer. Again, no doctor had explained this to me.
This is how I ended up topless in my bathroom making an instructional video on my iPhone and whipping out my boobs for any person with breasts to cop a virtual feel. And if they were nearby, I invited them to come get a real time squeeze.
Boobs can be lumpy mysteries. We just have to pay attention to our bodies, go to the doctors we trust, who can examine us and give us answers.
I’ve never been shy about my boobs. I’ve flashed them on girls’ trips, dropped them on friends’ foreheads (consensually) in a move I coined “the titty drop,” and any other time they craved a cool breeze. I gave my treacherous boobs a good, fun-filled life. Now it was time they did something more than produce a laugh and perfect cleavage. I was determined to help others one topless DM at a time.
In the video and in person, I explained all my symptoms and signs that had me worried: a sharp pain in my breast that often felt like a hot needle poking in, tender achiness, acne-like rashes across my chest I’d never had before, skin on my breast that looked like an orange peel that when pinched was so thick my fingers were unable to meet (this would later be found to be inflammatory breast cancer), and eventually a very large lump. I pinched the thickened, leathery skin and pressed upon my tumor, describing its plum-like feel, and invited them to do the same on me.
Photo courtesy of Alex Zaragoza
At a get-together, the hair salon, wherever, I offered my boobs. I’d lift my shirt and explain everything on my breasts, inviting their curious hands to squeeze, pinch, and push around. I could sense their fascination and anxiety as they let out an occasional “whoa, that’s crazy,” shared their own fears, or confessed that they’ve been putting off their exams.
I figured if they can feel and see a breast with cancer that it could help them as they examine their own breasts. They can say, “I remember Alex’s boob had this. Let me call the doctor right now,” and that could possibly save their life. That meant something to me. So much of having cancer is scary and humbling, leaving you at your most vulnerable. But in taking this small bit of control, I could direct the cancer. I’m not completely at its mercy.
One acquaintance asked me how to tell the difference between normal lumps or benign cysts and cancerous ones. It seemed like a question with such an obvious answer until I realized we are all navigating with fear, a lack of knowledge, and with hope that maybe that thing we perhaps do feel is nothing. It’s all very scary, and remaining in the dark offers comfort.
But I had to tell her we’re not doctors; we’re regular people. Boobs can be lumpy mysteries. We just have to pay attention to our bodies, go to the doctors we trust, who can examine us and give us answers. And, most importantly, we have to advocate for ourselves like our lives depend on it, because they do.
The hospital where I was initially getting my mammogram and ultrasound failed to schedule me at the six-month mark after my first exams showed the presence of calcification in my right breast. They couldn’t fit me in until three months after, at the nine-month mark. And when my ultrasound came back abnormal in January of this year, their scheduler said they had no appointments for my MRI and biopsy until late March. I moved all my testing to City of Hope ― the No. 5 cancer hospital in the U.S. whose main campus is, blessedly, 20 minutes from my house.
My boyfriend and I drove an hour-and-a-half multiple times to one of their newer facilities to ensure I could get further tests performed as soon as possible. From there, my treatment has been swift and aggressive.
On March 7, I did my first round of chemo, eight days after official diagnosis. My surgeon informed me I was her second patient who had been seen at the other hospital who, because of testing performed later than medically required, discovered their cancer was more advanced than it would have been had we been tested at the six-month mark.
I think about what that could’ve meant for me as I lose my hair in thick chunks and get such bad diarrhea that I bleed, and pass blood clots that land me in the ER. As I slather myself thick with special creams to avoid my skin getting chemo burn or feeling like sandpaper. As I discover that a nasty UTI is actually the chemo giving me early menopause. As my tongue begins to feel like a fat, dried out sponge and everything tastes bitter.
But then it passes as I get further away from my infusion and I start feeling almost…normal. Then the next round comes and it’s back to square one.
I also think about those of us who, compelled by politeness or the brick wall that the health system can be, accept that later appointment time. I think about people who may struggle with language barriers and people with bad insurance or no insurance or the ability to research their very best options.
I think about people who don’t have access to a top tier cancer center. People who have so many responsibilities that their health isn’t even a top 10 priority. People who are undocumented and being targeted by this administration. People struggling financially and people who are without a support system that can help them navigate this stressful disease. And I thought about people overwhelmed by the tidal wave of emotion and information that begins to flood you the second the doctor says, “Unfortunately, I have bad news.”
Even with the cancer of it all, I realize how fortunate I am. I’m humbled every day. My doctors are confident I’m going to beat the cancer. The next two years are going to suck, sure, but this thing already wants me dead. I’m not going to let it kill my stupid, silly spirit. Since sending out my boob videos, I’ve gotten tons of DMs from friends and strangers that they set their mammogram and ultrasound appointments. One person had put it off for 10 years.
This was the goal of sending my videos ― to remind us to talk to each other and take care of each other. And in doing so, I’ve found so much support coming my way as well. I cry over that more than having cancer, and carry it all with me as I continue to fight.