Why I Like Not Having Breasts
In June, 2014, I was diagnosed with
early-stage cancer in my left breast. The news came about ten days after my
very first mammogram. I had spent most of my adult life half-heartedly
performing self-examinations, and never felt anything resembling a lump, so my
diagnosis came as quite a shock.
It turned out my cancer was the kind that
was not in lump form. It was in my milk ducts, and is known as invasive ductal carcinoma, and ductal carcinoma in situ. I was lucky
enough to have both. There were about four centimeters of fully-developed
cancer cells in total, and more warming up in the bullpen. To make things even
more interesting, the doctors suspected that my lymph nodes also contained some
malignant cells, and a biopsy proved they were right.
Lumpectomies are not an option with the
type of cancer I had. When the surgeon told me it would be best to have a
mastectomy, I looked at him, and without hesitation said, “Fine; take them
both.” He sensed my certainty and replied, “Alright, we’ll do a double.”
I realize that most women are not
particularly eager to part with their breasts. Boobs, titties, girls, knockers,
fun bags, headlights – whatever you care to refer to them as – are the
embodiment of womanhood. Without them, some of us tend to lose our identity. I
never felt that way. At 47, I never had children, and, quite honestly, I never
thought my breasts were particularly attractive. I am of Eastern European
Jewish descent on both sides of my family, and I’d inherited a pair of
low-hangers from my mother and grandmother. My nipples pointed towards the
ground ever since I was a teenager.
Since I was a bit unlucky in the genetics
department, my breasts proved challenging when it came to buying bras. I wasn’t
burdened with a pair of mammoth, back-breaking breasts (I was a D cup), but as
I got older, finding bras that fit me well became harder to procure. I was once
molested by a saleswoman in a lingerie shop – the kind where they measure you
and attempt to “fit” you into the best bra for your size and breast shape. The
woman became extremely frustrated because my nipples refused to hold their
place in the center of the cups. I kept trying to explain I’d been dealing with
that problem most of my life, but she couldn’t find a shred of empathy for my
plight. I was 34 years-old when that happened, and from that day forward, I had
a sneaking suspicion that maybe I wasn’t meant to go through life with such
troublesome appendages attached to my body.
Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t wishing for
cancer. I was thinking maybe I’d go for a breast lift, or a breast reduction
when I was older. I knew several women who were diagnosed with breast cancer,
and watched a cousin to whom I was very close, suffer with metastatic disease.
She’d had a lumpectomy and chemotherapy in the early 90s, and the cancer came
back in her other breast. Then, it spread to her spine, and eventually to the
rest of her body. When she died in 2005, I vowed that if it ever happened to
me, I would “lop off my tits” without hesitation. And that’s exactly what I
did.
The breast cancer lottery awarded me with
the full enchilada. Because cancer was found in my lymph nodes, I had to
undergo chemotherapy, and as I write this, I am preparing to embark on six
weeks of radiation. In addition to that, having 26 lymph nodes removed (five of
them cancerous) left me with nerve damage and lymphedema in my left arm.
Despite all that, I am not sorry I got rid
of my breasts. There will be no more mortification in the lingerie department,
and gravity no longer has dominion over my nipples. Yes, my cancer might come
back, but I’ll sleep better at night knowing I did
everything I could to hopefully prevent that from happening.
Science and unchecked vanity might say that
I mutilated my body, but I disagree. I made an informed, educated decision to
do what I thought was best for me. And I’ll never get poked by an underwire bra
ever again.
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