i budgeted for an upper + lower bleph, instead i got a bi-lateral mastectomy.

new year's happy to you!—the condensed version of the last few years is here, but other than that, let's dive in.

a year ago i committed to my decades-plus pursuit of an upper and lower blepharoplasty, aka an "eye job." conceived at my first botox consultation, my quest for optical excellence arose when a reyn spooner-clad plastic surgeon declared that my only recourse against my perpetual, ‘unfreshed-looking’ face was full-scale teardown and remodel to both my upper and lower eyelids. to further his hard sell, dr. aloha showed me photos of his most recent work, "my beautiful wife, portia," whose wide-eyed afters suggested an excessive amphetamine fondness. not 100% sold on transforming my face from sleep-training mother to hypervigilant adderall addict, i left his office, not with a scheduled surgery date, but with a rabid preoccupation for ocular optimization. painless and quick, an upper and lower blepharoplasty consists of a surgeon {preferably uniformed in scrubs} removing excess skin from the upper and lower eyelids.

cut to summer 2025, which began with a literal crack to my head, leaving me concussed, black-eyed, homebound, and fixated on my newly botched face. i channeled this ocularfacial angst into a full-time inquiry for what i had decided was my year of the upper/lower bleph. side note: an explore page chock-full of images showing contaminated incisions, real-time suturing, and visual diaries of post-op eye infections is an effective, albeit traumatizing, deterrent to your kid looking at your phone.

in addition to various online and in-person consultations with oculoplastic surgeons more closely vetted than a pre-2024 presidential cabinet, this summer entailed multiple brain rechecks, surf camp for sutton, a paid-in-full vacation to cabo, canceled the night before {turns out passports need to be current}, and a second/third look at an annoying, unauthorized lump not discovered by my yearly mammogram.

jump to october 14th: i received a voicemail from the ridley tree cancer center confirming me for the first appointment the following morning. the next 2 months consisted of bi-weekly oncology consultations, multiple scans, my repeated insistence that they have the wrong person, and award-winning binge eating. overruled with test results and biopsies, i yielded to my breast cancer diagnosis and set a surgery date, not for an upper + lower blepharoplasty with fat transfer, but for a bilateral, total mastectomy with reconstruction.

i had my second {and hopefully final} surgery last week. i have stage 1 breast cancer with no evidence that it has spread—other than confessing to having the wrong katie osumi, this was the best outcome. the next phase will focus on treatment options.

other than bidding adieu to an illusory career as a hooters waitress, this was an easy decision for me. i had various options which entailed less surgery and an easier recovery, but for me it was all about the numbers, “just do whatever decreases my chances of this spreading, and do it with copious amounts of propofol.” the absence of any "breast cancer" symptoms wages an unwavering, psychological warfare on my already compromised mental health. hourly, i am convinced that my cancer has discreetly metastasized in the same, symptom-free manner. a bilateral mastectomy whittles down the real estate for regrowth and narrows down the areas i am convinced it has infiltrated.

historically, i gold medal in the catastrophe olympics; maybe it's the concussion, but my prevailing mood has been uncharacteristically calm and unflustered; sure, there have been a few frantic phone calls, made to pseudo-godparents, demanding they physically intervene in all aspects of table manners, grooming, the proper loading of a dishwasher, and appropriate airplane attire {dress as if your ex-boyfriend has to walk by you on his way back to coach} should my daughter find herself motherless. my husband is superior to me in most areas, but he sets a table like he's both blindfolded and handcuffed. will someone please make sure sutton’s elbows are off the fucking table

i attribute this unfamiliar, glass-half-full disposition to my people; a crew comprised of those who have known me since preschool, who remember what i was wearing when i wet my pants at school in the sixth grade, and those with whom maybe i don't share a long history, yet share top billing on our kids' in-case-of-emergency list. they have cried with me at basketball practice, fed my family so much food we all are now on mounjaro, ambushed my doctor's appointments when my husband was out of town, indulged my sick humor of making my funeral guest list, and have made this ordeal not entirely devastating for my daughter.

how is sutton handling this? she's 10 years old, hates her hair, has a heart so tender she makes mister rogers look like stephen miller, and still asks me to hide that vile elf on the shelf—she is a young, 10-year-old. even before my diagnosis i have been vigilante-like in trying to keep sutton age-appropriate. she's the only girl not allowed on the fifth-grade group chat, not because i think it's inappropriate, but i know she hasn't developed the discernment needed to navigate text speak—i still get my feelings hurt from misinterpreted text.

as badly as i wanted to protect sutton from the scary truth of my cancer, it was more important we were honest with her. sutton, like her mother, has a genetic disposition to monstrify even the most benign reality, although she will go into a swimming pool at night, unlike me, who is terrified of chlorine-dwelling great white sharks. we gave her the facts and promised to update her with any and all news, no matter how scary.

there is now a palpable "before and after" in sutton's life. the surgeries, hospital stays, seeing me for the first time, unable to physically take care of her, and knowing that my future treatment plan may render me more incapacitated has consumed part of her innocence. she's still a very happy girl, but there's a wariness that didn't exist before, and i will forever hate myself for causing this.

i’m back writing to you because i missed it. i missed you. even before cracking my head and getting cancer {sounds like a bad song lyric}, i’ve received signs, both metaphysical and literal, to get back to posting—-i assure you this will not turn into the girlfriend’s guide to cancer.

i also promise this will be my longest post ever—-i will return to my scheduled programming of rants/raves, sharing things i think are cool, and encouraging you to purchase things you DO NOT NEED! —-which reminds me, somehow i deleted my shopmy account and followers. can you refollow me please? no need to use my links for shopping, most of the stuff i recommend doesn’t qualify for affiliates anyway, but it lets me know what you want to see, ie more peptide serum recommendations, less athleisure.

i am also committed to get back on the microphone. i’m actively scouting space for my coreplay classes; stay tuned.

so there it all is: i’m back, i have new boobs {they’re just as microscopic as the originals}, and i am re-committed to contributing sarcasm, sunscreen recommendations, and merriment to this tiny corner of the internet.

love,

katie

p.s. my upper and lower bleph with fat transfer are on indefinite hold.