Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. She is an avid photographer, freelance writer/blogger, wife, mother and grandmother.

Bonnie Annis

Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. 

If you’d asked me a few years ago what I kept on the top shelf of my walk-in closet, I would have said old handbags, photo albums or maybe Christmas decorations. I never would have said boobs.

All lined up in neat little pink zippered cases, each one nestled lovingly in its own fabric hammock, like it’s headed to summer camp instead of storage. They are silicone breast prostheses — perfectly shaped, softly weighted, remarkably realistic. And they are no longer in use.

Cancer changes many things in your life, but one of the strangest is how casually you can end up talking about body parts that used to feel intensely private.

This afternoon, I walked into my closet looking for a sweater. Instead, I found myself staring at that top shelf. And that’s when the strangest Christmas idea drifted into my head.

I stood there holding a sweater in one hand and contemplating those 20 spare breasts up on the shelf, and the absurdity struck me all at once. I laughed so suddenly and so hard I had to sit down on the little ottoman I keep by my shoes. Cancer has taken a lot from me, but apparently, it has not taken my ability to think completely ridiculous thoughts at inconvenient times.

 planning to hand out prosthetic breasts at Christmas like stocking stuffers. Breast cancer is serious business. Life-altering. Life-ending for far too many. But sometimes, in the middle of all the heaviness, an unexpected thought comes along and reminds you that you are still allowed to laugh. Even about the parts that hurt.

And once the thought landed in my brain, the images followed.

Would someone quietly slip it into a drawer and never speak of it again?

Would one curious soul hold it up to the light like a museum artifact and say, “Well… I’ll be.”

I could immediately picture one of the fellas on my list tossing it like a baseball. Someone else might try to bounce it. And yes, in my imagination, at least one of them absolutely using it in a game of cornhole.

That’s the thing about Southern imagination, it doesn’t whisper, it hollers.

My family wouldn’t be shocked. They’ve been with me through diagnosis, surgery, scars, doctors, drains, fear, healing and everything in between. They know my body has been altered by survival. They would receive a prosthesis with tenderness, maybe even reverence. Not because it’s silicone, but because of what it represents: what was lost and what was endured.

I’ve done my best to keep my breastlessness a private matter. Not out of shame, goodness no, but out of choice. Some people know because I told them. Some know because they’ve read my writings. And some probably have inwardly wondered and then politely minded their business, which is a Southern love language if ever there was one.

One friend, bless her heart, would immediately cry and hug me until we were both sniffling and my mascara had surrendered completely.

Another would ask questions. Practical questions. “Does it feel heavy?” “Is it hot under there?” “Can you sleep on your stomach?” (No, No, I cannot.)

Someone else would approach it like an anthropological study. “Fascinating,” she’d say, gently poking it as if it might suddenly breathe.

And then there’s that friend. You know the one. The one who laughs first and thinks later. The one who would slip it in her bra for exactly three seconds just to say she did and then shriek herself into next week.

Cancer does that to friendships. It rearranges them. Some get deeper. Some grow quieter. Some don’t survive the strain. But the ones that stay, they learn how to hold both the sacred and the absurd at the same time.

The truth is, those prostheses on my shelf are not party favors. They were companions for a while. They helped me step back into the world when I felt lopsided in more ways than one. They helped my clothes hang right. They helped strangers not stare. They helped me feel balanced when everything inside felt like it had tipped over.

They carried weight, in more ways than one.

Now, they rest in their pink cases, unused but not unimportant. I keep them because I don’t quite know what the right ending is for them yet. You throw away old shoes. You donate old coats. But you don’t casually discard something that once helped you feel whole again.

And that’s where the humor sneaks in, soft-footed, not loud. Because if you don’t laugh now and then, the seriousness will crush you flat as a pancake.

Cancer is scans and scars and blood work and waiting rooms. It is terror and bravery and grief and grit. But it is also standing in your closet with a sweater in your hand, laughing at the idea of gifting boobs for Christmas, and realizing you are still alive enough to find that funny.

And sometimes it looks like inappropriate laughter at a shelf full of flesh-colored prostheses.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Joy and sorrow are not opposites. They ride in the same truck. They sit on the same couch. They both show up uninvited and make themselves at home.

I will not be wrapping up silicone breasts with bows this December. But I will be wrapping up gratitude, and stubborn hope, and the kind of joy that shows up sideways when you least expect it.

And every time I reach for a sweater and glance up at that shelf, I will probably smile.

Because that shelf holds proof that I lost something precious.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

Cancer profoundly alters one's life, often leading to unexpected reflections on previously private matters. The author humorously contemplates gifting unused silicone breast prostheses, highlighting the absurdity and resilience found in the cancer journey. These prostheses, once essential for restoring balance and confidence, now symbolize survival and the complex interplay of joy and sorrow. The narrative underscores the importance of humor and gratitude amidst adversity, illustrating how friendships and personal perspectives evolve through the cancer experience, ultimately celebrating life and the strength to find laughter in unexpected places.

After cancer, even your closet tells a story you never imagined living. One quiet afternoon, that story took a hilarious and unexpected turn.

A Closet Full of Boobs and the Thought That Caught Me by Surprise

This year, as I sat at my kitchen table preparing my Christmas cards (a seasonal ritual I’ve cherished for decades) I realized I had run out of postage stamps. Normally, that never happens. I’m old school, and I still enjoy writing letters, sending cards, and surprising friends with a handwritten note. Keeping a stash of stamps on hand is just part of who I am. But somehow, over the past few months, I had used every last one.

So off to the post office I went, blissfully unaware that something as small as a postage stamp would stir a storm of memories, gratitude, and determination in my heart.

When I stepped up to the counter, the postal clerk assumed, quite naturally, that I was looking for holiday stamps. With Christmas approaching, he pointed me toward a small display of festive options: Madonna and Child, Santa Claus, pretty wreaths, snowflakes, and all the beloved symbols of the season. Normally, I might have chosen one of those. But not this year. None of them spoke to me. I wanted something special—something meaningful.

Seeing my hesitation, the clerk shrugged and said, “Well, the only other ones I have left are the Flag Forever stamps… and these breast cancer awareness ones.”

Breast cancer? That caught my attention immediately.
“Let me see those,” I said.

He placed the sheet of stamps on the counter, and right away I felt a jolt—the kind that hits your heart before your mind fully understands why. The stamp featured the silhouette of a woman standing with her right arm raised behind her head, the posture recommended for a breast self-examination. Across the top, in bold letters, were the words Breast Cancer. Circling her breast were two simple but powerful phrases: Fund the Fight and Find a Cure.

I leaned closer, drawn in by the artwork and by the memories it quietly awakened. Before I could even ask, the clerk added, “The art director for these stamps, her name is Ethel Kessler, she’s a breast cancer survivor too.”

“I’ll take fifty,” I said, without hesitation.

When I got home, I spread out my stack of Christmas cards and my sheet of postage stamps. Each time I peeled one off and pressed it onto an envelope, I felt something stir inside me. These stamps weren’t just postage; they were reminders. Tiny, sticky-backed echoes of my own fight with breast cancer, and the fights so many others are in the middle of today.

I don’t know how much of the cost of the stamp actually goes toward breast cancer research. Part of me hopes—perhaps unrealistically—that it’s one hundred percent. That every penny from every purchase helps bring us one step closer to a cure. The practical side of me knows there are administrative costs, salaries, overhead, and advertising. But the survivor in me can’t help but wish that every dollar would land in a lab, directly fueling the work of scientists searching for answers that generations of women, and men, desperately need.

Still, even with those questions, there was something profoundly meaningful about placing each stamp on each card. As I sealed the envelopes, I wondered whether my friends and family would notice the image. Would they pause to take in the message printed around the silhouette? Would they feel the weight hidden behind those white block letters on that beautiful blue background?

The words are simple. The need behind them is not.

Almost everyone I know has been touched by cancer in some way. A mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a coworker. It seems impossible to find someone whose life hasn’t been brushed, if not devastated, by the disease. Survivors like me often wonder if we’ll ever see the day when breast cancer is no longer a threat hanging over the heads of future generations.

Research has come far. Treatments have improved. Survival rates have risen. But we are not there yet. To cure something, we must first understand it, and despite decades of progress, breast cancer remains a mystery in many ways. Why does one woman develop it while another doesn’t? Why do some cancers spread while others stay dormant? Why do some respond beautifully to treatment while others defy every effort?

These questions keep scientists, doctors, and patients awake at night. And research, real research, the kind that changes futures, takes funding.

That’s why this little stamp means so much.

Not just because it supports research, but because it speaks. It reminds. It nudges. It reaches people in quiet, unexpected ways. A Christmas card may be opened for only a moment, but a message like this? It lingers. And maybe, just maybe, it will be the gentle push someone needs to do a self-exam or schedule a mammogram. Maybe it will inspire someone to give or to advocate. Or maybe it will simply remind someone that survivors are everywhere, carrying stories of courage and scars that speak of battles fought and won.

One of my hopes in choosing these stamps is that my friends and family will actually notice them. That their eyes will catch the silhouette of the woman raising her arm. That they’ll read the message circling her breast. That they’ll pause long enough to let the image settle into their memory.

And sometimes it’s the smallest things, the things we nearly overlook, that make the biggest difference. A woman sees that stamp, thinks about self-exams, and later that evening checks herself. Maybe she finds something early. Maybe that early detection gives her a fighting chance.

If something as tiny as a postage stamp can plant that seed, then it carries more power than we give it credit for.

During my own fight with cancer, I learned that awareness isn’t a one-time thing. It isn’t a month on a calendar or a fundraiser that comes and goes. It is a continuous weaving of reminders, visual, emotional, and spiritual, that keeps us mindful of the importance of proactive care, research, and compassion.

This year, that reminder came in the form of a stamp.

Each one I placed on a card felt like a prayer, quiet and unspoken, but deeply felt. A prayer for the newly diagnosed. A prayer for those currently fighting. A prayer for the ones who didn’t survive. And a prayer of gratitude for the life I still get to live.

I could have picked pretty Christmas stamps. I could have gone with snowflakes or angels. But I wanted something more. Something with purpose. Something that matched the gratitude I feel for each day I get to wake up, alive and whole.

If even one person who receives my card notices the stamp and gives themselves a moment of awareness, just one moment, then the tiny square of paper will have done more good than I could ever measure.

It’s easy to overlook small things. A kind word. A soft reminder. A simple gesture. A tiny stamp.

But sometimes, those small things ripple outward in ways we never expect.

This year, a postage stamp reminded me that I am still here. That countless others are still fighting. That awareness is still needed. That research still matters. And that hope, no matter how small, still travels far.

As you mail your own cards this season, look closely at the stamp in the corner. It may seem insignificant, but you never know who might be encouraged, reminded, or even saved by that little square of paper.

Small things matter. And sometimes, they matter more than anything else.

The narrative reflects on the profound impact of a seemingly small item—a breast cancer awareness postage stamp—on the author's life. While preparing Christmas cards, the author chooses these stamps, which evoke memories of their own battle with breast cancer and highlight the importance of awareness and research. The stamps serve as a reminder of the ongoing fight against cancer and the significance of early detection. The author hopes that recipients of the cards will notice the stamps and be inspired to take proactive steps in cancer prevention and support.

A stamp on my Christmas cards stirred deep memories and reminded me that small actions can make a meaningful impact in the fight against breast cancer.

The Power of a Tiny Postage Stamp in Breast Cancer Awareness

Surviving breast cancer changes the way you see your body. Every ache, every spot, every unfamiliar sensation becomes a quiet question: “Could it be coming back?” When a small lump appeared beneath my mastectomy scar, I tried to stay calm. But sometimes, even something small can awaken memories we thought we left behind.

A few months ago, I noticed a tiny bump on my chest, just beneath the faded incision line where my breasts were removed years ago. At first, it seemed harmless — the kind of thing you ignore the same way you ignore a new freckle or an itchy mosquito bite. I assumed it was just a clogged hair follicle, stubborn ingrown hair or maybe a rebellious pore staging a protest.

But as the weeks passed, the bump grew and no longer felt small or harmless. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. After surviving breast cancer and enduring mastectomies, you learn not to panic over every ache and oddity. But as a survivor, you also learn to listen closely to your body.

Eventually, the little bump became a noticeable lump, one that seemed determined to make its presence known. I picked up the phone and called my dermatologist.

The dermatologist examined the area and announced that it appeared to be a small cyst. Easy to remove. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. I nodded, but inside, something tugged at my peace. I explained my breast cancer history to her, expecting that it would shift the conversation into a more serious tone. She assured me that once the cyst was removed, they would do a biopsy to rule out anything concerning.

It felt like someone had cracked open a door I’d worked so hard to close, a door labeled Cancer.

I scheduled the removal surgery for the following week, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed a second opinion. Not just anyone’s opinion. I needed to hear it from the people who once saved my life.

After a few days of unease (and more Googling than any survivor should ever do), I called the cancer treatment center where I’d received my care. I explained everything the bump, the sudden growth, the planned removal and my rising anxiety. A nurse listened and recommended I come in for an ultrasound before any removal or biopsy was done.

Then came the reality that insurance doesn’t always agree with common sense. The cost of the ultrasound was far more than I could manage at the time. I had to decline the appointment, and in doing so, I felt like I had to decline my peace.

Was I making the right decision? Was I risking my health because of money? And how unfair is it that those two things should ever be tied together?

As the days passed, the cyst became larger, redder and downright rude. What once looked like a skin-level annoyance now felt like a tiny alien plotting its hostile takeover.

A greenish fluid with a smell so foul I wondered whether I should name it, call an exorcist, or just petition Hollywood to cast it in the next sci-fi horror film. Even while stressing over it, I couldn’t help but think: If ever there was an infection auditioning for a role, this was it.

I contacted the dermatologist’s office immediately. They asked me to send photos through their online portal. I’ll admit, it felt oddly intimate and slightly absurd photographing this oozing, mysterious creature attached to my chest. But the office responded quickly and confirmed what I had begun to suspect: an infection.

They prescribed antibiotics and hoped the infection would clear in time for the scheduled removal. I hoped so, too. Because at this point, I just wanted the alien evicted.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to have a cyst or lump in your body after you’ve faced cancer. Even if you know it’s probably nothing, it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like a shadow creeping back into a corner you’ve tried hard to illuminate. It feels like your body whispering memories you didn’t ask to relive. And it feels like fear disguised as responsibility.

As survivors, we’re told to watch our bodies. Pay attention, report changes and keep up screenings. But no one tells us how exhausting that vigilance can be. No one tells us that sometimes, the worry itself feels like another illness. We don’t want to obsess over every bump and blemish, but we also can’t afford to ignore them.Walking that line is harder than anyone realizes.

The night before the scheduled removal, I looked at the spot in the mirror, thinking how strange it is to feel both grateful and terrified at the same time. Grateful that we have doctors, surgery, antibiotics and science. Terrified because scars don’t just mark our bodies, they mark our memories.

Breast cancer taught me that strength isn’t refusing to feel fear. Strength is learning how to walk with fear and not let it dictate every step.

So tomorrow, they will remove this little invader. They will send it to pathology. I will wait. I will pray. And I will breathe deeply, intentionally and without letting the unknown suffocate what I know to be true: I am still here. I have lived through worse. And whatever this turns out to be, I will face it the same way I faced cancer, one breath, one prayer, one step at a time.

And if it truly is just a harmless cyst with an attitude problem, I’ll happily celebrate its eviction. Maybe I’ll even name the scar it leaves behind. After all, I’ve earned every scar I wear.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, 

Surviving breast cancer profoundly alters one's perception of their body, with every new symptom potentially signaling a recurrence. A small lump beneath a mastectomy scar can evoke past fears, leading to anxiety and the need for medical reassurance. Despite a dermatologist's initial assessment of a cyst, the author sought a second opinion from their cancer treatment center. Financial constraints complicated access to further diagnostics, highlighting the intersection of health and cost. Ultimately, the experience underscores the emotional toll of vigilance and the resilience required to navigate post-cancer life.

Surviving breast cancer changes the way you see your body. Every ache, every spot, every unfamiliar sensation becomes a quiet question: “Could it be coming back?”

More Than a Cyst: The Fear Cancer Leaves Behind 

Where should I start? I guess I'll start with my first memory of you. I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and was on Facebook looking to join breast cancer groups. I had no idea what I was facing and needed some support. I don't remember which one I met you on, but you took the time to answer one of my posts, and not only that, you offered to come and visit me. You said you'd help me understand some of the things that I was going to be facing. I was both excited and nervous to get your response. I don't normally meet with strangers, and I was scared.

You weren't able to come until a few days after I'd had surgery. I remember when the doorbell rang I was so embarrassed. I didn't want you to see me with the Jackson Pratt drains dangling from my neck. They were so ugly, and my wounds were so raw, but you said you didn't care. You'd already been through that. You knew what they were, drainage tubes that pulled fluid and blood away from the wounds.

Within just a few minutes of talking with you, I felt completely at ease. You smiled a big smile and gave me a bear hug. It was so nice to have an instant friend, one who understood the things I couldn't say.

I wasn't sure at that time whether I would go through with reconstruction surgery as my breast surgeon advised, and I told you so. You threw your head back and laughed. You even offered to show me your “Foobs,” as you called them, fake boobs. You told me they were great and that I'd get a free tummy tuck too. You wanted me to know what they might look like if I decided to go forward with surgery. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Though I didn't explain, I think you understood I was afraid to look at them. I was afraid seeing them would freak me out.

I don't remember how long you stayed that first visit, but the day seemed to last forever. When it was time for you to go, you promised to come back again soon. I was thankful.

Since that first meeting over 11 years ago, we've done our best to keep up, but often life gets in the way. I love it when we find time to meet for lunch. It's so nice to talk freely, sharing our hopes, fears and dreams. Those times are rare because of conflicting schedules. Thankfully, we can touch base through social media or quick texts. But after each contact, I want more. It's almost like you're a drug, and I need a fix. You're so strong in your cancer walk, and I'm still figuring things out.

One of the things I love most about you is your attitude of gratitude. You've taught me to look for things each day that I can be thankful for, and that has helped me develop a spirit of positivity.

When I look at you, dear friend, I don't see a breast cancer survivor, I see a thriver. I see a brave woman on the outside. I see a woman who is a world traveler, a person who never meets a stranger, and a person who always loves. You give so much of yourself to each who meet you.

None of us know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future. I pray that you will always be safe in your travels, that you will always know you are loved, and that you will always have the opportunity to share your story with others.

You are a blessing, and it is my honor to call you friend.

A breast cancer survivor recounts her first encounter with a supportive friend she met through an online group. This friend, also a survivor, provided comfort and guidance during a challenging time, offering personal insights and encouragement. Over the years, their friendship has grown, with shared experiences and mutual support. The survivor admires her friend's resilience and positive outlook, which has inspired her own journey. Despite life's challenges, their bond remains strong, underscoring the importance of connection and gratitude in navigating the complexities of cancer survivorship.

I never dreamed a stranger could teach me so much about cancer, life and living with gratitude but I'm so glad she did!

Bonnie Annis

A Closet Full of Boobs and the Thought That Caught Me by Surprise

The Power of a Tiny Postage Stamp in Breast Cancer Awareness

More Than a Cyst: The Fear Cancer Leaves Behind

A Stranger Who Became a Friend

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