My
Physical Therapist asked me yesterday how I felt about loosing my breast.
Without thinking I answered him, “It’s not an issue, it’s
just a lump of fat,” He told me his mother almost had her breast removed
and she had a difficult time with the thought of losing hers. This morning
after bathing I looked at myself in the mirror and thought of his question
once more. I looked at my nipple-less reconstructed lump that mimics a breast,
and truly thought it odd looking with its scars and patched center. My good
breast, swooping down and moving in the soft manner as breasts do had such
a good way of shifting with my body. And I realized that is how a breast is
meant to be. I have never attached any emotional association with my breast
and it’s never been a problem. I did not grieve for my lost breast.
It does not define my female character, the person I am. And why should I?
Why should such an object be the defining factor in my relationship with my
female self? A male friend told me this weekend if he ever had to lose a testicle
he would be devastated as it was his manhood and he would feel a loss. I know
every person has a different relationship to his or her identity but should
a lump of fat or a testicle change the thought of yourself as self? And should
the thought of one’s disease outweigh the external losses such as flesh?
As I move into my second round of chemo this week my thoughts are centered
and balanced on simply being able to eat, to have a day where everything is
good, and where the sun shining can actually make its way to my face. I feel
thankful for the things I have today: an appetite, eight hours of sleep and
the ability to walk without too much distress. Life is good. And so is my
fake breast sitting round and high without the mark of a nipple. Life is really
good because the essence of my self doesn’t need to be based on the
notion of a female identity, but rather my identity as an individual, clear
and subdued, like the endless horizon of the desert floor rising from dusk
into night.
