Boob Girl

My chest and I have had an uneasy relationship. When I was a kid, my mom got us (my siblings and me, not my breasts and me) a book. Actually, she got us a series of books, by Peter Mayle, that embarrassed the heck out of us and made for interesting dinner conversation: Why Are We Getting a Divorce?, Where Did I Come From?, What's Happening to Me? A guide to puberty.

I was six.

I think it started with my parents' separation and divorce and just spiraled out of control. The books sparked the conversations that my single mom didn't want to have but needed and didn't know how to broach. We learned from the books and if we had questions, we asked. Or didn't ask. I had just learned to read and the (incredibly graphic) illustrations and pictures somewhat scared me. All I knew was that I didn't want that to happen to me. Any of it.

Unfortunately, a couple of years later, it all crashed down on me and by the age of eight, I started wearing a bra. Because I needed one. I fought for a while, embarrassed by the bra straps under my leotard at dance class, the discomfort, the fact that I was the only one in my class wearing one, but eventually I gave into reality. I needed a bra.

In fourth grade, I burst into tears when Tommy Butler put his hand on my back and felt the band, and I couldn't stop crying when Mr. Knapp with his handlebar mustache asked what was wrong. I didn't know how to say that I was embarrassed by my body and blooming-more-than-budding breasts at age nine. I hadn't learned the word "mortified" yet.

The breasts came from my dad's side of his family, from his sisters and mother. (My dad himself is appropriately flat-chested.) My A-cupped mom didn't know what to do with them or us (my sister and me), so she bought baggy clothing. The bigger the sweater, the better. She didn't want men to stare; apparently, she didn't care if people thought we were fat.

She couldn't stop them, though. The men who stared. The ones who leered and talked to my chest. The dirty old men who asked me out when I was barely 16. The boy from my high school who asked if I'd let him "suck on [my] titties." The drummer from band who offered me a ride home and stuck his hand down my shirt. I wanted to curl up in one of those very large sweaters and die.

Meanwhile, my breasts continued to grow. C cup in junior high. D cup in high school. Somewhere in the multiples of D after that and even when I lost loads of weight, they stayed. Mocking me. Forcing me to buy bigger dresses and to eschew the thought of running. Ever.

An exboyfriend and I fought over his friend's nickname for me: Boob Girl. The ex couldn't understand why I wasn't amused. I didn't understand why he needed to mention it. Over and over again. I counted at least seven references in the course of three days. It was part of myself that I couldn't change, like his freckles or height. Nobody called him the freckle-faced boy.

I had trouble looking professional with my ever-popping button down shirts and uncomfortable suit jackets. I often faced the choice of "fat" or "whore" with ill-fitting clothes. Eventually, though, I learned to appreciate my curves and dressed to minimize, to maximize, to flatter. Sometimes, I even put them on display. Low cut shirts and dresses. Décolletage. Cleavage. Straight female friends couldn't stop staring, wanting to touch them. Men came up to a bartending ex and asked, "Did you see that?" They didn't know we were dating. A friend's husband wondered aloud about the physics behind them.

I never showed more than a small portion of my chest but a small percentage of a lot could still be a lot.

"If you've got them, flaunt them," a 60-year-old woman told me in a bar one night while a friend shook her head and muttered about decorum.

They didn't arise very often, the comments, the questions, because I didn't do it very often. Flaunt them. What most people didn't know was that they generally came out when I was worried about the fate of my breasts. My dad's family didn't just give me rather large breasts but quite possibly the genetic markers for cancer. (Though, it is on both side of the family.)

At the age of 30, I found my first lump.

My first mammogram and ultrasound, my first biopsy, my first meeting with an oncologist and surgeon would be followed by my second and third. I am only 33. At this point in my life, I have clinical breast exams every six months with annual mammograms and will do this for the rest of my life. I have heard the words "double mastectomy" mentioned in all seriousness by a surgeon.

I think about my life without them, without breasts at all. I think about chemotherapy and radiation. I think about losing my hair – I want a temporary Mohawk before that final cut. I think about taking care of myself during treatment because I am all alone and I wonder which, if any, of my friends would take off work to help. Would I or could I even ask? Could I come home from chemo by way of Metro? By cab? Could I still work with treatment, if only from home? Would I get reconstructive surgery? Would my body still feel like mine?

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, dedicated to increasing awareness of the importance of early breast cancer detection. According to the American Cancer Society, it is the most common cancer among women in the United States and the second leading cause of cancer death in women.

About 182,460 women in the United States will be found to have invasive breast cancer in 2008. About 40,480 women will die from the disease this year. Right now there are about two and a half million breast cancer survivors in the United States.

The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is about 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer is about 1 in 35. Breast cancer death rates are going down. This is probably the result of finding the cancer earlier and improved treatment.

Early detection saves lives.

* Perform monthly breast-self exams
* Get regular mammograms starting at age 40
* Get annual clinical breast exams
* Obtain a risk assessment from a physician

Your breasts will thank you. Boob Girl thanks you.


Inspired by Toddler Planet, the story of a survivor.

Tag: Health