One of my earlier blogs regarding my cancer diagnosis was about how I wasn’t wholly invested in my breasts or hair or how I truly haven’t given much thought to my breasts lo the 30 years I’ve had them. I developed early (at 12) and after Logan was born, I breast fed for almost a year. Any similarly situated woman will tell you that that combination means my breasts, at 42, are … well, we’ll just call them “asymmetrically un-perky.” So, with all the drama of the diagnosis, the chemo, the surgeries and radiation in my future, I felt that the least I could get out of this madness would be two symmetrical, perky B cups. Always looking on the bright side of life, am I.
Anyway, as the time of surgery draws nigh, I’ve begun to think a bit more deeply about my breasts’ significance. These are the breasts from which my son nursed. I remember having a thought, 7 or so years ago, while sitting in the rocker nursing Logan at some unfortunate a.m. hour, that if Logan and I were stranded somewhere, I could still sustain him; that I, at that moment, was all he needed. It was such a weird and wonderful thought to have and brought up all these feelings of usefulness as a woman, a mother, a person that I hadn’t felt before. With that memory resurfacing, the idea of giving up these “sustaining” breasts has begun to feel a lot more like “loss” than I anticipated.
So, in an effort to process this quickly, since, regardless of whatever attachment I may have suddenly acquired to my breasts, they’re going away on Tuesday the 21st, I have tried to modify my perspective. I am having no more children, thus there will be no one else to sustain in that way. Therefore, these breasts have done their job. And they have done it quite well.
One unfortunate casualty is Greg, since he’s a “boob guy.” But that’s an entirely different blog post.