I had to keep repeating to myself, I don’t have cancer, I don’t have cancer. But it barely helped. I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was that there was no way in hell I was going back to that hospital. I was getting as far away from Dr. Awful as I could and I was never, ever going to get a double mastectomy. Cancer wasn’t a priority for me in that moment, but the size of my breasts was. (Did I mention that I was a size 32G? At 5-foot-2? Yes.) For my big day, I wanted an off-the-shoulder dress, and I needed my breasts to defy gravity. After much stress and expense, the dress fit, and the wedding was killer. But I was getting more and more tired of my breasts, too. They nearly ruined my wedding, and they were definitely upstaging me at every turn. Plus now they were threatening to kill me.