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What
a Waste of a Beautiful Pair of Breasts PAGE
3 The next few hours, days, and weeks were filled scouring the internet and books, and talking to friends, family, doctors and survivors. I needed to suck in every single piece of data I could. It was information overload. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. We went off to Kauai and did a lot of laughing and a lot of crying, just trying to swallow the whole thing. We spent a lot of money too. Things are very expensive there. But we deserved. We had a very good year up until now. And we had cancer. We got back to the mainland and it was time to make a decision. All the research and soul searching kept bringing me to the same conclusion. It was time to let the beautiful pair of breasts go. By doing so, I'd most likely avoid chemo and radiation, I wouldn't have to worry about boob #2 getting hit, and I'd have that perky set of B's I'd always longed for. Win/win. A no brainer. And this time Mom had my back. She tells me now that she knew it wasn't good when she was doing her internet research on calcifications. And I kind of knew it wasn't good all along. Just a feeling. In fact, after I was called in for the second round of mammos, I subconsciously started to flaunt 'em. I wore tighter shirts. I showed more cleavage. Something was telling me to appreciate them while I had them. They're gone now. The beautiful pair of breasts I was born with and hated when I wanted to swim topless with the boys. The breasts that many a passerby seemed to enjoy when I jogged in nothing but a sports bra. I missed them so much when my bandages first came off a week after surgery. When I saw these bizarre nipple-less bumps where my old melons used to be. With criss-crosses stitched in the middle, like cartoon drunk eyes. I despised them so much I put off showering for days. Eventually I broke down and got naked in the tub. I think I had to 'cause I was going somewhere. I couldn't look at them; they were so foreign and ugly. And I couldn't reach my head. My girlfriend had to come in and help me through. I hated not being able to wash my own hair. And I hated seeing her real, beautiful breasts. I cried the whole time. And I'm not a crier. At least I didn't used to be. Seven months later and I'm cancer free. Looking back, I know it wasn't a waste of a beautiful pair of breasts. In fact, it's just the opposite. The old boobs of 34 years served as a tremendous sacrifice for everything I've now gained. Thanks to them, I experienced firsthand the incredible support team I have in my friends and family. What a gift to get to see how much you are loved. And to get to see the effect you have on others. It's invaluable. And thanks to them, I'm also acquiring that special insight that comes with a life threatening disease. I think they put it in with your stuff before you leave the hospital. Suddenly my car leaking oil doesn't feel so dire. And I hardly notice that we still haven't painted the trim in our living room and dining room. Oh, and the hallway trim needs painting too. The doctors say that my mom saved my life. That if I didn't have that mammogram, in another year it would've been too late. Against my better judgment, I told her what they said. To my surprise, she took it with a grain of salt. I'm sure if I bring it up in a few months she won't even remember. And now, in mid-reconstruction, I'm loving my new nipple-less boobs. I love not having to put on a bra. Ever. I love being able to wear nothing but a tank top, a feat for a formerly big bosomed gal. I love that when I jump up and down, nothing moves. I love how the smaller girls suit my smaller frame. I love how free they make me feel. But I want my old boobs to know that I will never, ever forget them. I will always appreciate who they were and what they did and will be forever indebted for what their absence has taught me. Like I said, they were not a waste. At all. My beautiful pair of breasts were my salvation.
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My
mom is not good in these situations. I immediately prefaced the
call with a, "Mom, I need you to be strong for me." She
proceeded to tell me that I was going to have to have chemo, which
would make my hair fall out and I'd probably put on weight. Hefty
words from the woman who constantly reminded me throughout my teenage
years that I could afford to lose a couple. I burst into tears and
my girlfriend promptly hung up on her.
