After much angst and indecision, I finally succumbed to all the medical advice—chop them off! Since I’m almost 60 you might say, “What does it matter at your age?”. And 6 months ago I would have agreed. But there’s some kind of weird emotion attached to those protrusions.
Mind you they have always been a bane to my existence. They interfered with clothing choices--making it impossible to find any shirts that fit and would also reach across the ta-tas. They have caused me an enormous amount of physical pain—causing back issues for years. They were an incredible cross to bear during puberty because I “blossomed” before my peers and of course, garnered the attention of the boys entering puberty.
Good riddance you might say. Adios. Sayonara. Adieu. But parting with these annoying mounds of tissue can only be described as sweet sorrow. On the one hand it’s nice to finally breathe deeply and know that I’ve removed the BRCA threat. On the other hand for about 45 years they have become a part of who I am. Jokes have been made, some by physicians (“the breasts are too large”—to map for radiation) and my family who all in fun made comments about how I can’t see my feet, how food drops on them and stops before reaching my lap, etc. etc. On the other hand, I used them to nurse my two babies. An experience I will always cherish.
A good friend of mine who is going through her own cancer battle reminds me that you have to take the negative and turn it into a positive, so here it goes:
10 reasons why I’m glad the ta-tas hit the medical waste bin:
- I can finally see my feet
- My shirts actually button for a change
- My back should feel better
- They can’t be cancer carriers any longer
- I probably lost an automatic 10 pounds (could be more)
- I don’t have to ever wear a bra again (unless I choose to)
- I will no longer be the brunt of family jokes
- I can go wardrobe shopping
- It’s easier for the cardiologist to hear my heart now
- The breasts are no longer “too large”
So there you have it—farewell to the ta-tas. It was a relationship feathered with good times and bad times. And yet, they can no longer be the carriers of the dreaded big C. Adios. Adieu. Sayonara. I know I will miss them but I have to wonder why we all place such a high value on those blobs of fatty tissue. After all, I’m still the outspoken, opinionated crazy lady that laughed at the chemo nurse when she read me a list of side effects and asked me to sign on the dotted line. With or without my ta-tas.