In
layers I can feel almost normal. At
first glance you wouldn't know I have scars instead of breasts. This is just one of many reasons I prefer the
winter.
In the
summer it is too hot to cover. Ever
since chemo I simply cannot handle the heat.
I get dizzy. I get nauseous. I get weak in my knees and all of my insides
feel as if they are melting. And so I
layer with limitations. I will put a
tank top over another tank top. I try to
go with a more delicate flowing look.
But no matter what I try my lack of breasts is obvious. For me this
is okay, but what about for the rest of the world?
I work
with the public. The more brazen people
will ask me out right.
“What
happened to your breasts?”
“When
are you going to fix your boobs?”
“I bet
it is hard to find clothes that fit.”
“You
are so lucky.”
“Does
your husband care?”
“Are
you going to get reconstruction?”
“Are
you going to get reconstruction?”
“Are
you going to get reconstruction?”
It is
one of the most difficult accomplishments to be comfortable with one’s self
when the world is not. This is something
I have learned.
I wish
sometimes I could see another person like me.
I would not say anything. We
would just see one another and we would lock eyes and we would know. We would understand. Even in my own breast cancer community I am
surrounded by breasts whether fake or real, and so I asked my doctor.
“Am I
the only one?”
He says
no, but sometimes I’m not so sure.
I
worked a breast cancer event shortly after returning to work. No one thought I was ready, but I agreed to
go for only one reason. I wanted to see
women without breasts. I wanted to see
what styles they choose to wear for shirts.
I wanted to see their confidence.
I wanted to see their beauty.
There were easily one hundred women
at the event. They flowed through the
room like a river of pink. All different
shapes. All different sizes. As far as I could tell all had two humps on
their chests.
I do
not have judgment for women who choose reconstruction. Nor do I have judgment for women with prosthetics. After all, I can still be found to wear a bra
with certain shirts. It’s a tight
fitting sporty bra that covers my scars in case my shirt hangs forward. We all have our own personal battles and
journeys and no other person has the right to question those decisions, so
please do not misread my words. It is
not judgment. It is only mild surprise
mixed with the longing of a more understanding culture.
I am
not ashamed of the way I look. I can
stand and look at myself in the mirror without flinching. My reflection may represent a different
person than it once did, but I am still a woman and I still can find
beauty. But it is after I am dressed and
walking in this world that the battle of acceptance is challenged by stares, by
comments and by questions. By our
culture’s pure obsession with breasts and outward beauty. Yet this is a challenge I will not lose.
Cancer
has not only been a lesson in surviving.
It has also been a lesson in accepting myself even as the odd woman out.
So to
the public I say in response,
“I had
cancer.”
“They
aren’t broken.”
“Isn’t
it always?”
“You
have no idea how very much.”
“Of
course not. He loves me.”
“No. I don’t need it.”
“No. I don’t want it.”
“No. This is who I am.”
