I’m sitting here in my sexy green (much more preferable than white) support stockings and a very well-worn hospital gown. I have completed the ensemble with a large fluffy oversized if a little short dressing gown. I am relaxed and slightly sleepy, but fine.
My friend has left to go to work and I am alone, but that’s okay. I know I am loved and I am happy for the peace and quiet.
Today I lose my right breast.
To be honest it barely resembles a breast and isn’t exactly a pretty sight, so it is no longer any great loss. I just hope I am ready for the scar that replaces it, the constant reminder of what this disease is doing to me, the progression and where it will eventually lead. I am hoping that one day I will wear it proudly as a war wound. Years from now when I have defied the odds! I am trying to stay positive thinking of the millions of cancer cells that will leave my body with it.
I think this is probably a good time to apologise to my breasts, my body, and to myself for the lack of love and appreciation I have given over the years. The chance of finding a photo of me revealing a proud strong lovely cleavage is pretty much impossible.
At the age of 11, I got my first bra. A whopping size of 36B. I was tall, sturdy and overweight. I was, what in the country they refer to as a ‘Fine Girl’. I hated it, hated these things protruding from my body. Mentally I was a child and very much wanted to remain that way. I hated the attention that came with them. I did everything I could to hide them, to hide me. Large breasts were associated with low intelligence and promiscuity, or so we were led to believe. I felt branded. I wanted to be lithe and elegant; I wanted to be taken seriously. In Art College I did a project, breasts as a necklace, where you could change the size according to the occasion. Small and pert for me all the way.