Et Tu, Breasts?

My relationship with you was tumultuous from the beginning.

In middle school you terrified me. I awkwardly wore layers of shirts to conceal that you dared to exist. And yet, barely.

When we walked through the doors of high school you had already become sexualized. You fit my slight frame but the became an easy target of teasing and jeering as teenagers deflected their own insecurities. High school never really ended for us. You were a joke throughout my entire adult life. The short years I would have you anyway.

When my first baby came and my body brought forth life, I finally understood you. You connected me to the baby I grew. Once again, I resented my changing body.

I always do.

You were familiar when my second and third babies arrived. You nourished my infants and they blossomed. You calmed their cries and provided comfort reserved for life’s greatest role. You filled their bellies and filled me with purpose.

I learned to love you. Until I didn’t.

You waited until the eleventh hour, cloaked the malignant cells, unrepentant and ravenous. Wielding the knife, you allowed me one last maternal bliss before you aimed for my back and crushed my soul. My screams of agony will forever haunt us.

My body pushed forth life and you tried to end mine. A Shakespearean betrayal.

And now, we find ourselves a disgruntled old couple on the precipice of divorce, resentfully residing in the same home.

Together, we experienced ecstasy and the canyons of the underworld. You made my heart swell with joy and shatter into a hundred million pieces.

The curtain is closing on our time together. Goodbye to you, my breasts.

Photo credit: Jules White Photography - this picture was taken of me on my thirty eighth birthday, eight days after I learned I had breast cancer and the day of my metastatic work up (where they look for more cancer.) I was 10 weeks postpartum with my third baby. I blacked out the pieces my mom would be angry if I posted. She’ll still probably not be cool with this, but oh well.