My Beautiful Boobs

Have I ever appreciated my boobs as much as I have in the last week? With the exception of the 9 months I spent being pregnant (and the corresponding WOW I HAVE BOOBS NOW!!!), and the additional year I devoted to being my son's personal dairy farm, I would have to say no. And even then. No. Not until this week have I ever thought about how beautiful my boobs are...

Why am I talking about my boobs?

Well the fact of the matter is there is something growing in them that shouldn't be there. A cyst. I hope a cyst. Possibly... probably... a tumor. And when you go in for an emergency exam because you're worried and they start throwing the word cancer around like it's a volleyball it begins to work on you. No matter how much you tell yourself, it's not me, I don't DON'T have cancer, still the thought works its way in. A worm that eats your brain alive at night when you lie in bed alone.

Only 2% of women under 35 are diagnosed with breast cancer every year. That's great. I love that number. I want to see more statistics like that please. But still the nagging thought that works on me is that 2% means it does happen. What if...

No no no no no no.

If I tell everyone else not to be worried about it. If I brush it off. If I can laugh at the fact that I'll end up with lumpy boobs... if I can do that then it will all be ok. When the time comes to worry then I'll worry.

Still. These are mine. They are a symbol, across the planet, of feminine beauty. They are mine. But they are wrong now. I can feel and see they are wrong. Oddly, even with a bra and shirt on I feel less beautiful just knowing that underneath they are no longer perfect. If I took that shirt off, you'd know.

Pride. Is this a misplaced pride in something I never created. Is this suddenly caring about something only because there is potential for it to be taken away. The child who doesn't care about the toy until someone else comes along and wants it. Did I take them for granted all this time? Their essential perfection. The proportion of beautiful curves. The pale soft skin that makes them so different from every other part of my anatomy.

This is mine. And I'm young. I want them to stay like this forever. I look at my grandmother and wonder were hers once like this? Will mine be like that someday? I know the answer. Hush. Don't treat me like a child. I know the answer.

I know. I know. I know. That I will be ok. I am ok with whatever happens. I am certain it is nothing of major concern. The doctor will wave his magic wand and remove the thing and there will only be a small scar. No one will ever know. A decade will pass before this will be a real concern. But they schedule tests. They poke and prod. They say hmmm and point to something on the scan and the intern nods. They talk excitedly in the hall. They say unusual. They consult the scan with other doctors. I sit and see them from around the corner pointing to me, heads together, talking low. They say nothing.

I try not to cry while I tell him in a flippant tone about the whole thing. And then close my eyes and admit I am vulnerable and worried. "You can't mess up beauty," he says. Has he always seen the most valuable things in me? And how did I go for so much of my life not seeing them in me. In others? My heart is slippery and up in my throat, flopping like a dying fish. Trashing. Attempting to oxygenate this revolting body. I love him more for that moment than for possibly anything else. And there are plenty of reasons to love. My beating heart makes me happy. I believe him. I believe him. You can't mess up beauty.