Breasts. Bosom. Bust. Knockers. Tits. Rack. in Breast Cancer

Breasts. Bosom. Bust. Knockers. Tits. Rack. in Breast Cancer

Breasts. Bosom. Bust. Knockers. Tits. Rack. There are so many ways to describe the
protrusions on your chest that you are unconsciously aware of the moment you see your
first Barbie doll. Mammary glands start developing in your teens and become the focus of
much angst as they grow. Regardless of their size, their mere being seems to dominate your
physical presence in a way that no other part of your anatomy can. Breasts are what make
you sexy, voluptuous, a woman, perhaps a mother. Breasts are so fetishized in the public
discourse that it is a surprise when you think about it that they are pretty private for most
people.

Have you ever photographed your naked breasts? Have you ever had someone else
photograph them? I suspect the answer to both those questions is no. When did you ever
talk about your breasts in public? Probably never or not very much. But then suddenly,
with this diagnosis, it is all about your breasts. As soon as you are diagnosed with breast
cancer, you start to feel the stares of people, even if they aren’t staring at you. You think
people are taking a furtive glance down at your boobs as they are talking to you, because
really that is what you are talking about. Suddenly the plastic surgeon is snapping away,
taking photographs of your breasts “before” so he knows what to do “after.”

Since when did talking about your breasts become okay? Well, when you have breast
cancer it becomes sort of okay. If you were having your leg amputated, or part of your
colon removed, you wouldn’t really have any problem discussing that. It’s because of the
highly sexualized nature of the world we live in that our attitude to breasts is different.

“They are cutting off my boob” is what you want to say, but you don’t. We have this
sterile-sounding medical term—mastectomy, which is now part of everyday parlance. I,
however, see it as an amputation of the breast. All of a sudden you find yourself engaging
in matter-of-fact conversation with your brother, your male colleagues, maybe even your
neighbors about a part of your body you never, ever would have discussed before.

I have sat in a waiting room where women of all ages are talking about their breasts!

Across the room so all can hear. “I love my new breasts,” says one. “He does such a good
job,” says another. Friends who have gone through what you are about to go through offer
to show you their breasts! I actually touched the breasts of one friend to feel how much
softer and more natural the silicone implants feel after a temporary expander, which feels
like an alien interloper in your chest (see “R Is for Reconstruction”). Doing so made me
feel so much better about what I was about to go through. That friend’s offer was a
wonderful gesture. Friends promise to go bra shopping with you when you are “all done”
and have become the owner of a fabulous new silhouette. “You are going to get the rack of
a twenty-four-year-old; it will be fabulous,” my dear friend David told me. Who knew?

The bright side of a seemingly terrible diagnosis.