The
paramedics arrived right before I began retching again and I could hear one of
them on his phone relaying to the hospital that I was “healthy as a horse”
until the cancer diagnosis last December. Two thoughts crossed my mind. 1) That sure is old
news; and, 2) what a great night it was when I saw Patti Smith singing Horses on a small San Francisco nightclub
stage decades ago.
My
thoughts are disconnected and nonsensical, and I’m confused. It’s been two
months since chemo and I’m three weeks outside of surgery. Why the hell am I
having this intense dizziness now?
The
surgery was my first ever, and it was major. Two breasts sliced off. Although I
feel incredibly and deeply sad for my body - for the trauma it’s had to endure
- I was okay with losing them, and this nonchalance about having a double mastectomy
has me thinking, am I not in touch with my true feelings?
It seems odd that I can be so indifferent about losing body parts,
especially those that define sexy and femininity in our boob obsessed society.
Yet, here I am. I’m okay. My attitude astonished one surgeon who got angry when
I told him I didn’t want reconstruction. He’s pretty damn sure I’ll come around
and see the error of my thinking after the dust settles.
I
don’t think so.
In the 10th grade, a boy in my class cracked a joke
about me being “a cave miner’s dream,” because of my “buried treasure.” I didn’t
get it at first, and then I realized he was making fun of my flat chest. His joke didn’t bother me at all though. I had
absolutely no problem whatsoever being small chested. I was athletic and
somewhat shy, and didn’t have a big boob personality. Small breasts suited me just fine. The joke turned out to be on him,
however, when my late blooming body blossomed with 34C’s by the time I
graduated from high school.
 |
| My small breasted teenage body |
Ever since, my semi-large breasts had always been a bit of a burden. It may sound shocking,
but I find it kind of a relief to be rid of them. I can wear snug tank tops now and
not look vulgar! I no longer have to wear clothes that hide shirt-bursting voluptuous breasts! Of course, being disfigured is not at all the same as having
small breasts, and I don't mean to trivialize the trauma and depression that many women experience after mastectomy. These are just my feelings, and in spite of the disfigurement, I'm comfortable with this new me, which feels very much like the old me, the real me.
I
did wonder how I should say goodbye to the girls though. It seemed like I
should do something to mark their
departure. The day soon arrived and I hadn’t figured out what to do to bid farewell, so at the last moment before heading to the hospital, I simply took a
couple photos of the girls in a bra, because, well, they were damn nice
breasts, even if I'm a small breasted woman at heart.
Now,
weeks later, a vertigo attack has me at the mercy of paramedics. While I’m
trying to maintain some sort of civilized behavior in my nauseous stage, I
realize one thing this former healthy horse doesn’t have to worry about are boobs popping out of my pajama top. As the paramedics load me into their truck
while their red flashing lights create a dazzling psychedelic show on our street,
I close my eyes and remember that night so long ago when I was unimaginably
young in a small San Francisco nightclub with Patti Smith screaming into a mic painful and
poetic lyrics that made me feel anything was possible.
