Being relatively young, I didn't think it was cancer. I was a healthy eater and didn't smoke, it wasn't on either side of my family and, naïve as it sounds, thought the fact that I'm relatively flat-chested was in my favour. When I was told I had to have a double mastectomy it seemed way too extreme. I couldn't believe I was in a situation where I would need something that drastic. I thought possibly the doctor was being too cautious. But he wasn't.
I found out that I had cancer on a Wednesday and it took me about 10 days to go to find out my prognosis. I'd had such a hard time in the months leading up to it - I'd been very ill, I'd lost my mother, I'd broken up with my girlfriend - and it had taken me a while to go to a doctor and find out what was going on because I was so emotionally backed up. I was scared that I was not going to live, mainly because things had gone so badly.
I did a comedy set the day after the doctor told me that it was stage-two cancer, that the cancer wasn't contained and that they wouldn't know until surgery whether it had spread or not. I went out on stage, and I said: "Hi, how are you? Is everybody having a good time? How are you? I have cancer." That show was important. It was finding hope anywhere I could. And just right there in the moment on stage, the support that I got from strangers - that was hope for me.
In the end, I decided not to have reconstructive surgery. I was given a lot of second and third opinions from oncologists and surgeons, and nobody told me it was an option to not have it. But while sitting there listening as one doctor was talking, I started thinking: "What if I don't have reconstructive surgery?" It just seemed so odd for me. I feel more comfortable with the idea of having scars than having fake boobs. Then I phoned my friend Kyle and told him what was going through my mind. And he said: "Yeah, that's way more like you." I said: "OK, I thought I was just some freaky weirdo because nobody mentioned I could not have it."
Reconstructive surgery seemed like so much to go through and I thought: "Why the hell would I go through so much to have so little?"
I feel great about the scars. Oddly, I'm glad I had cancer. It was ultimately a very positive thing. I don't just mean I'm glad I had cancer because it has done wonders for my career - and it has done. It goes deeper than that. The image I have is of having been shoved on to a ledge that I was wobbling on. I could have lost my balance, but I didn't. Then I got safely removed from that ledge. But the view was something I couldn't have seen otherwise.
When they pushed me on the gurney from my hospital room into surgery, I was still feeling: "Is there anything else we can do?" I pictured my fingers grabbing for the walls of the hallway to stop myself. I thought, for the first time in my life: "I actually really like my body. I don't want it changed."
But after the surgery, after the support of people around me, I've really settled in to what has happened, and who I am and how I look. And I feel great. I love my body. I have two scars. So what?
Tig Notaro: Boyish-Girl Interrupted is at the Edinburgh fringe until August 25, 6.45pm, nightly, at The Gilded Balloon www.edfringe.com/event/TIGNOTA