Up Front
Rebecca Johnson feels lucky. Her cancer was caught early. What she didn’t know,
however, was how hard it would be to get comfortable with her reconstructed breast.
L
ast year, a man in Australia came across a
round, rubbery object on the beach, about
the size of a small tortilla. In a panic, he
scooped it up into a plastic bag and hurried
to the local police station, convinced a wom-
an had been mutilated by a maniac who had
prized her breast implant out of her body.
The police had a good laugh when they saw the object. It was
a jelly fish. That’s what I have implanted on the right side of
my body—a silicone disc that’s a dead ringer for a jellyfish.
I discovered I had breast cancer the way a lot of women
do—a routine mammogram revealed a lump in the right
breast. One out of every eight women in America will develop
breast cancer at one point in her life, but for some reason,
when the nurse came into to the waiting room to call “Ms.
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VOGUE JUNE 2017
Johnson” back for a consultation, I just assumed it was some-
one else. In my defense, Johnson is a common name.
The radiologist described the suspicious mass as pea-size
and recommended a biopsy. I asked if I could see it. She
turned the computer screen my way and there it was, a distinct
circle suspended in a ghostly web of white, like the egg sac in
a spiderweb. “Is it cancer?” I asked. The doctor turned the
screen back to herself. I have noticed this about doctors—
none of them wants to be the bearer of bad news. If they can
pass the buck, they will, and really, who can blame them?
What kind of life is it, telling people they’re U P F R O N T> 4 6
SHAPE-SHIFTER
FOCUSED ON THEIR PATIENTS’ SURVIVAL, DOCTORS RARELY PREPARE
THEM FOR THE JARRING SENSATION OF LIVING WITH A PROSTHETIC
BODY PART. BLUE NUDE, 2000, BY TOM WESSELMANN.
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A STRANGER in My House