The Truth About Reconstruction After Mastectomy: More Than Just a “Boob Job”

My Situation: Choosing to Rebuild While Still Fighting

I’m having a couple more lymph nodes removed—some that still have stubborn cancer cells—but I’ve decided to go ahead with reconstruction at the same time. I’m already scheduled for surgery. While it adds to the physical and emotional weight, it felt like the right moment to begin rebuilding.

It’s not about looking a certain way. It’s about healing. It’s about reclaiming my body from all that’s been taken. It’s about moving forward in the only way I know how—deliberately, bravely, and on my terms.

What DIEP Flap Reconstruction Really Is

There are a couple of options for reconstruction after a mastectomy, but the one I want to talk about is DIEP flap reconstruction—a complex, deeply personal surgery. It involves taking tissue from the abdomen and using it to rebuild what cancer takes from the chest.

DIEP stands for Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator—a long medical name for a surgery that’s anything but simple. It involves taking skin, fat, and blood vessels from my lower abdomen and using them to reconstruct a breast. The intricate process requires microsurgery to connect tiny blood vessels in my chest.

I didn’t choose this surgery because it sounded appealing. I didn’t weigh the options and pick the one I liked best. The truth is, radiation damaged my skin so badly that implants were no longer an option. My body had already been through enough, and this was the only path forward.

Let’s be clear: this is reconstruction after a double mastectomy—but let’s call it what it really is. My breasts were amputated. They were surgically removed. Gone. It was an emotionally devastating, life-altering surgery. One I didn’t choose but had to face to survive.

So, now, I’m looking at a significant, physically demanding reconstruction—not out of a desire for cosmetic change but as a means to heal from the trauma of amputation. I am trying to feel like I belong in my body again.

The Reality of DIEP Flap Surgery

DIEP flap reconstruction after mastectomy is considered one of the most advanced forms of breast reconstruction. It’s also one of the most intense. It means hours on the operating table, a long hospital stay, multiple scars, and weeks—maybe months—of healing. It’s exhausting. It’s vulnerable. It’s necessary.

While I didn’t choose this path, I’m choosing to walk it.

This Isn’t Just a “Boob Job”

There’s a strange narrative surrounding reconstruction. Some think it’s like a silver lining. They assume that I’ll wake up from surgery with new, better breasts and maybe even a flatter tummy—and that should feel like a win.

But it doesn’t.

This isn’t about looking better. It’s about putting something back together after cancer tore it apart. It's about recovering from amputation, navigating complicated physical reconstruction, and living with the emotional aftermath that never seems to end.

And it’s not just the reconstruction. I’ve had lymph nodes removed—some during my mastectomy and more are coming out soon. Each removal adds another layer of risk, pain, and fear. There’s the looming threat of lymphedema, the tightness under my arm, and the constant wondering: Is this healing normally? Or is something wrong?

Here’s the hardest part to say out loud: Even after removing a node, I still live with the fear that cancer might be somewhere else… just lying in wait. Despite the surgeries, scans, and medications, there could be something we haven’t caught yet. Something silent, hidden, patient. And that fear doesn’t go away just because I’m "done" with treatment.

On top of all that, I’m heading back to hormone therapy—a necessary step to prevent estrogen from feeding any rogue cells. It means dealing with mood swings, fatigue, brain fog, and a version of myself I don’t always recognize.

Honestly? I don’t know what life is going to look like. Some days I feel strong and clear. Other days, I’m barely holding it together.

My mental health is struggling. I’m tired of being in survival mode. I want to feel like I’m truly living again.

So no—this isn’t a “boob job.” This is grief, healing, survival, and hope all tangled together. This is the work of rebuilding after everything changed.

When People Think You’re “Done”

There’s a moment that comes after active treatment ends—after the chemo, surgery, and radiation—when people start looking at you like you’re better. Healed. “Back to normal.”

They say things like, “You did it!” or “Now you can move on with your life!” with big, hopeful smiles. They’re trying to be encouraging. They want to close the chapter and tie a neat little bow on it.

Then there are the other comments. The ones softly spoken or laced with a smirk. “You’re slacking—why aren’t you back at work yet?” or “Still using the cancer card, are we?”

Let me be clear: those words hurt. Deeply.

Because I will never be the same. Cancer didn’t just take my breasts—it reshaped my entire life. I live with chronic pain, constant anxiety, and a body that doesn’t move or feel the way it used to. Some days, simply getting out of bed takes everything I have.

This isn’t a break. It’s not an excuse. It’s not a “card” I play. It’s my reality. It’s grief. It’s trauma. It’s surviving something most people couldn’t imagine. And those flippant comments? They minimize something I fight through every single day.

This isn’t the end of the story. It’s the part no one openly discusses. The part where I have to figure out how to live again—with fear, with hope, and with a body I’m still learning to love. And it’s not simple. It’s not clean. It’s not over.

Rebuilding, One Piece at a Time

I’m still in it.

The healing. The waiting. The not knowing. The fear that whispers at night. The grief that crashes in waves. The exhaustion from trying to be “strong” for everyone. Some days I feel like I’ve made peace with it—but other days, I feel as though I’m falling apart.

But I keep showing up. For the appointments. For the decisions. For my family and for myself.

Reconstruction isn’t the end of the story. It’s just another chapter in a journey that keeps unfolding. It’s as emotional as it is physical. One that asks me every day to choose softness, grace, and patience—for my body and my spirit.

If you’re reading this and you find yourself in a similar place—caught in the middle of uncertainty after treatment—please know you’re not alone. You’re not weak for feeling afraid. You’re not broken for not bouncing back. You’re human. And you’re healing.

If you love a survivor, please don’t assume it’s over just because the chemo is done or the scars have started to fade. We’re still carrying it.

We’re still rebuilding.

One piece at a time.

---wix---