Home from the hospital after my mastectomy, and the Emergency Room from the effects the narcotics had on my bowels, a few days later, the plastic surgeon removed the bandage that covered my sutures and started to fill my expander. At home, my boyfriend and I were fighting; he was just not physically or emotionally available. I live in his attic, with a floor separating myself from him, his kids and that yipping dog. I feel alone, with my bloody drains, a sutured breast and a head covered in peach fuzz - not the long, blonde, wavy, high and low lighted hair I had when I met cancer. Fresh out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and felt despair. In my robe, I fell to the ground and weeped. My boyfriend came upstairs and told me to stop crying for fear it was disturbing his son, so I cried more, harder, louder. I sobbed and wailed for a while, despite his discomfort. I thought, "Last year, I was graduating from Middlbeury College with my Master's degree, now I'm living in the attic like the deformed Zelda with spina bifida in Stephen King's Pet Cemetery; a dirty secret." My sobs were driven by the broken record in my head, What has my life come to?! The beast deformed me, effected my sexuality, set me apart from my boyfriend, and robbed me of hope. This was my lowest point, but finally, finally, the tears came out. It was the first time I had given cancer my tears, and the beast heard me loud and clear.