The Ugly Boob

At just about six last Friday, I got home, and I followed my normal routine: put keys in little pottery bowl by the door, drop lunchbox in kitchen, say hello to Daughter No. 1 and partner, kick off shoes and pick them up, start walking to the bedroom to change clothes. Each day, minor aspects of this routine vary. Perhaps my partner, already engaged in preparations for dinner, kisses me in the kitchen as I leave the lunchbox on the table handmade by his grandfather. Perhaps my eldest daughter is at work, and our greetings and partings took place via text half an hour or more before. Minor aspects. I return home; I greet whomever might be there; I slip away to change.

Last Friday, my partner followed me to the bedroom to continue a conversation already underway. I began to strip away my layers. Red cardigan removed and carefully hanged in the closet. Black and red summer chiffon top removed and tossed on top of the laundry. Down to a black tank top and my bra, I intended a quasi-Jennifer-Beal maneuver in which I would remove my bra while the tank remained in place, allowing me to keep the comfort and lightweight cotton on top and slip on a pair of pajama bottoms for the evening’s wear.  My partner sat on the bed facing me as we talked and I carried on these machinations. Bra unhooked at the back, I reached upward, pulled on a strap, and tugged. When the strap fell down my arm, I felt more cool air along the left side of my body than I should have, looked down, and frowned. The strap to my black Old Navy tank hung limp to my elbow rather than the strap to my bra. I took corrective measures, grinning at my partner.

“Oops. I almost flashed you the ugly boob.”

My left breast currently sports a backwards C-shaped incision just outside my nipple, a nipple that, until a couple days ago, had begun to point decidedly off-center. The incision marks the entry point for the surgeon who removed a small mass a week ago Friday in the climax of a month-long battle with anxiety and fear and quite a bit of disbelief. On the backside of this ordeal for now, I carry less anxiety (though no less fear) and a new sort of guilt.

When I learned at the end of May after my first-ever mammogram that something wasn’t quite right on the scans, I quashed my nervousness, irritated more than anything else. I truly do not have enough hours in the day for repeat mammograms. Further, I was the good girl, getting it done on time, having all my little OB-Gyn boxes ticked off annually as I’m supposed to. Hardly fair then to have the first scan in my life turn up an abnormality.

Then the second scan confirmed the first, and the fire of anxiety flickered and caught. I began to look at the harsh realities of my life a little more closely. Forty years old and (legally at any rate) the single mother of two minor daughters and one in college, I am not wealthy. I do not have a Gatesian fortune to leave my children should I die a premature death after paying extensive medical bills. My life insurance, which felt so expansive only a few months ago, now felt woefully inadequate, and who gives more life insurance to a woman with breast cancer? Then there were the more immediate aspects of life to think about. I began to envision myself without the mane of hair that is, in some ways, a trademark of my appearance. When I learned I would most likely not need chemotherapy, I mentally put my hair back in place and started to think about my breasts.

I love my breasts. I do. My almost-A, are-you-sure-you-don’t-want-to-have-those-things-enhanced?, these-beautiful-things-have-nursed-three-daughters breasts are part of my mental makeup. I never felt them inadequate to any task despite their size, and suddenly I’m staring down the knowledge that one may be imperfect in a way necessitating radical, noticeable change. I convinced myself I would lose my breast in preparation for losing my breast just as I had with my hair.

In June, I endured the utter indignity of a stereotactic core biopsy under local anesthesia. The doctor and the nurse performing the procedure attended me with the highest degree of professionalism and skill, but sometimes life is what it is and we just have to move on without much more said. The results from the biopsy were good. I didn’t seem to have breast cancer but was referred for an excisional biopsy nonetheless because the cells extracted during the core biopsy indicated some degree of abnormality. The doctor at The Breast Center had taken the liberty of making my appointment with the surgeon; I could change that if necessary.

I kept the appointment. I had the recommended surgery a month later. I confess to not quite understanding why. It’s all a numbers game; that much I do know. That much I can understand, too. I do numbers all day long everyday for a living. Every female walking around in America has about a 12% chance of developing breast cancer at some point in her life. Because I developed a non-invasive form, my risk sky-rocketed. Because it was caught early, my risk could be decreased again (but never back to that 12%) but only if I had the surgery. Okay. I can see the reason behind that.

Ironic really, this whole sequence of events. I know people – personally and virtually – affected by breast cancer. (Who doesn’t, right?) It is my very good fortune that all have survived. Here stands the pinpoint of my guilt, and whether or not I can dance fast enough not to fall will be interesting to watch. The guilt lies two-fold. First, people worried about me. Some worried, because they’d been personally touched by breast cancer and didn’t want me to walk that path behind them. Others worried not because they had experience with breast cancer but only because they cared about me. I do not like for others’ time to be filled with worry for me. Second, despite my love and concern for others touched by breast cancer and despite my awe and admiration for the efficacy of the Susan G. Komen Foundation, I’m not a pink ribbon girl; I’m a purple ribbon girl. Throughout this mini-trial, I’ve had to acknowledge the irony that my abnormality was probably caught and my surgery probably recommended due to the research driven by SGK, while I’ve spent several years railing that the effects of domestic violence touch far more people than those of breast cancer and the purple ribbon campaign should be as widely known as the pink. So, I have guilt. (I do guilt very well and acknowledge its place in my life.)

Third, I need to acknowledge the tertiary guilt of not having breast cancer.

Please, allow me to explain. This past Thursday, I received the pathologist’s results. Clean margins and nothing unexpected in the abnormal tissue. I am cancer-free. For now. Hopefully, forever.

However, my journey began as every breast cancer survivor’s and victim’s begins. A mammogram or self-exam leads to further scans which lead to… Only my journey ended for now. I’ll have another mammogram when I’m supposed to. That’s all. I didn’t need additional surgery. I didn’t need chemotherapy or radiation. I didn’t face months of illness. I didn’t face death. There is no reason why I should have had a better outcome than other women. Thus, the guilt.

For those who worried, for not being a pink ribbon girl, for not having breast cancer today, I apologize. Now, I release myself from the guilt.

“Oops. I almost flashed you the ugly boob.”

“You don’t have an ugly boob. You have two beautiful breasts, Stephanie.”

The one with the stitches, you see, that tells him I’m cancer-free. For me, it’s my reminder if the guilt ever strays too far. The scar reminds me this was my close call and I should do a better job with my daily life: love a little more freely, enjoy my children at every opportunity, buy more life insurance, support more than one ribbon.  

I love my breasts. Even the ugly one.