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I met Stefanie on a Facebook video. She wore cowboy boots and a pink feather boa and a blond wig with long braids. Stefanie was married to a Marine and her shirts read “FU Cancer,” “Today I Make Cancer My Bitch,” and “Cancer Warrior Babe.”

Stefanie’s Facebook story ended in eight minutes and 23 seconds. My story began the week before with an anesthesiologist that looked like Michael Douglas and a surgeon with a Sharpie—a preventative mastectomy.

The possibility of cancer had been haunting me for three years ever since I found out I carried the breast and ovarian cancer gene: Happy birthday! You’re 35. You don’t have cancer, but you should get your breasts removed.

The doctors were foreboding; my cancer was probably coming soon. But there was soon and there was Stefanie. On St. Patrick’s Day with bright green hair and shamrock sunglasses. At a fundraiser with her husband. Finishing a race. Shopping for wigs. Halloween with her children. Blowing out candles on her birthday. At a dance. In a play. Living life right until the end.

My life was on hold. For two months, I defined everything by whether it was going to happen Before Foobies (fake boobies) or After Foobies:

Next time I go to the dentist, they will be gone.

Next time I get my hair cut, they will be gone.

Next time I take my son to school, they will be gone.

Tomorrow they will be gone.

Today they will be gone.

They are gone.

I know I am not alone. There is an online message board filled with women who have the same gene I do. They talk about the exact operation that I had done. And they discuss the decision, the procedure, the aftermath and after the aftermath. I was supposed to feel relief at not having to worry about breast cancer. I was supposed to be glad “to be on the other side.” Instead, I was in a lot of pain and wondering if I did the right thing. You can’t get cancer in silicone! was my pre-surgery mantra.

“Why are you crying?” my husband asked from across the table.

“Stefanie died,” I told him as her favorite quote scrolled across the screen. “She died of cancer.”

“Who’s Stefanie?”

In the hospital, there was an elderly woman whose bed was in the hallway. I walked past her as I made my required loops with my morphine, tubes and bags in tow. She was trying to sit up, trying to see, and her head would swoosh from side to side as if she was searching for someone. She rubbed the hair from the back of her head because of her frantic searching, and in the middle of the night, she called out for someone named Henry.

She woke me up. I wanted her to stop. I wanted her to find Henry, not because I felt bad for her, but because I wanted sleep. Before Foobies, I might have cared. After Foobies, I felt numb to everything and pushing the morphine button didn’t ease the pain.

There were three reasons for getting rid of my breasts: my seven-year-old, my three-year-old and my 11-month-old. I wanted to be around to see my children grow up.

But when I got home, I looked at the kids through the car window and didn’t know what I would say. I couldn’t be their mommy right now. I couldn’t be anything to anyone right now.

I eased myself out of the car and onto my feet. I didn’t know if I could make it from the road to the house: back to my life.

“Mommy needs to get upstairs,” my husband said, parting the way so I could get inside. “She doesn’t feel well. Sorry, guys. She needs to get to bed.”

I walked past them with a soft hello. No kisses, no hugs, no Henry. I went to bed.

My body craved sleep, and I couldn’t get enough of it. When I crawled out of bed, all I could think about was when I would go back to bed. Time crept by while everyone else made life happen.

After Foobies, I couldn’t taste food, my gums hurt, sitting up from bed was impossible and there was pain. And doubt. And after a week, there was Stefanie staring back at me from Facebook.

What was I supposed to do about her? She made me look bad. Like a coward! She would have given anything to be in my situation. To have known about her cancer before it even happened, to have the choice of when and where instead of letting cancer creep up and kill her at such a young age.

Stefanie and her cowboy boots. Stefanie and her wigs. Stefanie and her husband who could no longer sit across the table from her.

I put Stefanie’s name into the Facebook people search. There was her page. Even though I couldn’t view it, I imagined that it was being filled by people telling Stefanie how much they loved her, how much of a difference she made in their lives, and how much she meant to them.

I imagined that Stefanie would tell me to get over it. To get back to my life. To get back to living. Stefanie was someone who gathered up her surgeons and convinced them to flip the middle finger at the camera, to screw cancer.

She would tell me that I made a choice. To kiss my kids more often. To believe in myself. And to put on a pair of cowboy boots.

Janine Boldrin Gwinn has been bonding with her new foobies since the beginning of October.
In addition to crafting her Facebook updates, Janine spends her time writing short stories and enjoying her family.