In Appreciation of My Breasts

I'm home now -- an event which, in of itself, is still feeling beyond comprehension. I'm here, nominally, to cook and clean and generally take care of my mother, who had a simple masectomy last Tuesday. (Simple, as opposed to radical, means they "just" removed the breast and not any of the lymph nodes and muscular tissue underneath. It still seems awfully radical to me.) Despite my best efforts, however, the caretaking is not going so well, mostly because my mother is bound and determined not to be taken care of.

I cook dinner. Instead of lying on the couch or doing something else equally invalid-like, she insists on cleaning up behind me as I go. I've tried offering to start cleaning projects - mopping the kitchen floor or organizing the desk or whatever else needs to be done, and she tells me not to bother. I get the feeling watching me clean would just stress her out more. I'm feeling, shall we say, a bit useless.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my mother is doing so well. She's up and about, she's active, and aside from some complaints of itching where the bandages are, you wouldn't be able to tell that she just had a masectomy.

Well, except for the fact that she's missing a breast.

And there's the kicker, that missing breast. She wears baggy shirts and you can't really tell unless you stare (which I'm trying not to do), but I know she's constantly aware of that missing piece. She cracks jokes, and we all laugh -- they are funny-- but I wonder if she's actually feeling self-conscious.

Lord knows I am. All I can think about are my own breasts. I can't help but look at them and appreciate them. I like the way they look in my shirt. I like the way my baby niece nestles up against them and falls asleep. I like the shape they make when I see my reflection in the window right now.

See, the thing is this. My grandmother developed breast cancer in her early 40's. My mother got it in her late 40's. It's looking like the chance of me getting breast cancer by the age of 50 or so is ridiculously high. I figure I've got about 25 years left before I, too, lose my breasts. So I think I'd better appreciate 'em while I've got 'em.

I like my breasts. The girls and I are friends, you know? We get along just great. I've had issues with just about every other inch of my body throughout the years, at one point or another, but never with my breasts. They've never been too big or too small for me. They've always bounced just the way I'd like them to. They really work for me. I'd rather not lose them.

Every time I see my mother, down to one breast, all I can think is "I had better get some good use out of these babies while I've still got them." All I want to do is cup them in my hands and say "Hey, now. These are mine. You can't take them." I sort of want to run around town topless.

My mother works in retail. She told me that one day, a few weeks before the surgery, a girl came out of the dressing room and asked for Mom's opinion on the shirt she was trying on. "Do you think it shows too much cleavage?" she asked. My Mom replied, "Sweetie I'm about to lose my cleavage in a few weeks. If you've got it, you'd better flaunt it."

So if you see me bouncing around in a low-cut top one of these days, just remember -- I'm doing it because my mother told me to. I'm just following her advice. Better use 'em before you lose 'em.