Lunch with J

Dear Joanne, here is some of what I wrote after our first lunch. If you think it's okay, I'll post it on my blog.

The women's bathroom at "The Sink" in Boulder is about what you'd expect for a diner off campus. Not too dirty, not too clean. But, it's semi-private and that was all we needed. J pulled up her shirt and I pulled up mine. I wish I'd had friend like this when I was 13, a friend I liked and trusted enough to compare my blooming body with.

Well into adulthood now, we weren't show-and-telling our budding bosoms. We were comparing the places where they used to be.

Her chest looks different than mine. It's not just because she's had both breasts removed, though that was the first thing I noticed. The underlying shape of her rib cage seems different. The center of her chest reaches forward more than mine. "I need a hood ornament for my sternum," she jokes with her husband. Where my breast used to be, I have large bony lumps that stick out like the knuckles on a giant's fist. She doesn't seem to have these at all.

In some ways, having a mastectomy is like getting a permanant Xray. Our chests don't look like men's chests, or like the one's we had as girls. We can see things about our bodies, they way our bones are shaped, the way our muscles are connected, that other people can't see. Really, it's kind of cool.

The differences between us surprised me, but our sameness surprised me more. Last week I wrote about how much I've been hating the flabby puddle of fat the seems to pool under my skin, just beneath my incision. I thought this was a result of Dr. Rocco's kind efforts to leave me extra flesh in case of future reconstruction. I'd decided not to have additional surgery to clean it up. I couldn't be mad at Dr. Rocco herself, I adore and appreciate her too much. But I was mad all the same. I was mad at our culture's narrow mindedness regarding women. I was mad at the pervasive assumptions that would lead even an educated, thoughtful and devoted health care provider like Dr. R to make decisons for me, rather than discuss my options openly. I thought sexism was to blame for my flabby, puckered chest.

But J. has the same squishy spots below her fading scars, and she is confident her surgeons knew she would never get reconstruction. So now I think maybe this is just the best Dr. R could do. Maybe a certain bit of puffiness is normal for a mastectomy. I like thinking this. I feel better, knowing J's chest has a little padding left over too. Every since I saw her chest, I feel kinder towards my own.

I wonder why J's surgeons didn't question her judgement about forgoeing reconstruction. Maybe it was because she was in her 40's when she was diagnosed, rather than her 30's. Maybe it's because she was married, or because she'd already had a child. It seems like doctors and other people assume you don't need your breasts as much if they've already done their job: caught you a man and suckled a baby.

J did wonder what effect that choice would have on her kid. As young as he was at the time, he might grow up without being able to even remember her having breasts. I hadn't thought of this, but it seemed like a good point. What effect might it have on a child to grow up with a mother whose chest is flat and hard? Would that essentially change his perception of motherhood, of womanhood, of femaleness? Maybe it's a goofy question. Nurturing a child has more to do with your hands, face, arms, voice, legs and feet as it does your breasts. But, when your'e facing surgery like this, so much is serious, and so much is ridiculous, that it's hard to separate the silly from the sane.

Hi Mage- I LOVE this and you are totally welcome to use my name (full name if you want!). Just two corrections: Scott isn't my husband (partner) (<: and the first surgeon I went to thought I was nuts for not wanting reconstruction which is one of the reasons I didn't pick him. HE told me: "Women feel special about their breasts." I told him: "I feel special about my 7 year old and my life."