Well, it’s finally happened.
I wasn’t sure it ever would. My boobs have become boobs again.
I have always had this weird love/hate relationship with my
boobs. (Sorry, the word breast sounds too clinical to me.) Anyway, I got mine
early, well before most of the girls I knew, and I was both proud of them and
embarrassed by them. Boys in my class
picked on me, while at the same time wanted to slow dance me with on the Bar
Mitzvah circuit. (Did I mention that I
was also really tall when I was 12? Most
of the guys were about boob-high to me.)
My boobs look great in a bathing suit, but I have NEVER been able to
button up a blouse. It’s really weird to love and be annoyed with
something at the same time.
And then one day, I found out that my boobs were trying to
kill me. These things that were supposed
to be part of my sexual being, a bit of a nuisance at times sure, but an
integral part of my womanhood had challenged me to a duel. It was either them or me.
I won.
We both came out of the skirmish a bit battle-scarred. I lost the feeling in my feet from
chemo. Rightie lost a whole chunk of
herself. That has never bothered me. A piece of a
boob in exchange for life is a fairly easy price to pay. Other breast cancer survivors have given up a
lot more. But the interest on that
payment was a feeling of disconnection from two important parts of my
body. I didn’t have to separate myself
from my boobs literally, but emotionally and mentally we were three
individuals living in the same skin shell.
But just a few weeks ago, a surprising thing happened. I
went to my regular six-month appointment with my oncologist. Somewhere, during the oh so familiar exam,
a thought popped into my head – “this man is touching my boobs!!!” Now any breast cancer survivor knows that
part of the whole experience is experience is getting felt up – ALL THE
TIME. I used to joke that when I went
back to work, I would sit down in my cube and take off my shirt. But suddenly, my boobs and I were one, and
none of us were entirely comfortable having some man with whom we weren’t
intimately involved poking and prodding.
A lot of people talk about cancer and sexual wellbeing –
about how to feel like a whole vital person during and after a cancer
experience which messes with your parts, your hormones and your head. I don’t know entirely what I think about
that just yet, but I must be on my way to figuring it out. After all, my boobs are boobs again.
