Missing Pieces...Still Whole

                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.”