A Tale Of Two Breasts
I have a lump
I run my thumb over the spot in my left breast where the small lump has developed. My husband found it during foreplay; talk about a mood killer. We stare into each other’s eyes. I don’t need to hear his voice to know what thoughts run through his head; they are the same as mine, summed up in two words — Breast Cancer. Tears roll down my cheeks as I think of what it could mean. I think of my gran, who survived breast cancer, but I am not strong like her. Right now, I feel more fragile than ever. I want to be brave, but I see the painful memories reflected in my husband’s eyes. He lost his mom to breast cancer a few years ago. Would he lose me too? The fear of suffering what she went through is too much for me, and I break down. My husband takes me in his arms — I feel his silent tears fall on me. “I hate my breast,” I say, through sobs, though it’s not true.
I love my breasts.
As a prepubescent girl, the most exciting aspect of becoming a woman to me was developing breasts. Perhaps it was due to the fact my all-time favorite Disney princess wore two purple seashells on her chest. I discovered — after trying, and failing, to place two plain shells on my young, underdeveloped bosom — that the strapless, clamshell brassiere was better suited to a mermaid, or at least a woman with real, honest-to-god breasts; thus began my anticipation.
However, during junior high when my girlfriends were getting their twin peaks and buying first bras, I was still flat chested. I felt socially awkward, as though denied access to a secret club. All the way through high school, I remained a girl among women. Instead of stuffing my bra, as I knew some of my friends with smaller (yet existent) breasts did, I wore baggy shirts, chopped off my hair and resigned myself to being ‘one of the guys,’ in order to feel less like an outcast. I considered breast enhancement surgery, but with my scoliosis progressing, the doctor advised against it. Finally, senior year of high school, my breasts began to develop, and I was happy. Within a year, I was fully developed — a modest 32A cup.
I find my inner strength.
After the initial shock and fear subsides, my brain goes into fight mode. I dry my eyes and immediately hit the internet in search of a specialist. While researching, I call my aunt. My mother passed away nearly a year ago, and my aunt has filled the role as strong female and mother figure. She encourages me by informing me there are many reasons for lumps: the one that makes the most sense to me is a cyst, which can develop from caffeine consumption* — I am an avid coffee consumer. As soon as I find a suitable specialist, I set the appointment. A few days later, I am with my aunt in the waiting room — the same one my mother-in-law and I sat in during one of her many appointments. I remember how brave she was; I am determined to be as well.
*Editor’s note: Opinions differ on caffeine’s role in cyst formation; prevailing theories suggest caffeine consumption can trigger hormone fluctuations, which in turn can lead to cysts, but there is no consensus. If you’re curious, I would recommend checking out what the Mayo Clinic and American Cancer Society have to say about cysts and caffeine. -Kevin M. Cook
“What is woman?” — Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
The first time I remember noticing my mother’s breast, I was five. My mom just got out of the shower and was drying off. I sat on the bathroom floor in just my panties, hair still damp from the bath she gave me before her. I watched her with curiosity as I noticed the two large bulges flapping from her chest while she dried her hair.
“What are those, mommy?” I asked, pointing at her chest.
“My boobs,” she replied. “You’ll have them someday,” she said, smiling at the look of surprise on my young face.
“Why?” I asked as I looked down at my young flat chest.
“It means you’re a woman, and not a little girl anymore. All women have breasts,” my mother said.
I look around the waiting room at the other patients. One woman catches my eye — a thin, elder lady with short cropped hair and a flat chest; She smiles, and I return the smile, though I feel like bursting into tears.
I recall my mother’s words, and I think:
No, Mom, not all women have breasts.
My appointment is difficult, because they are unable to do the mammogram. Instead, they perform an ultrasound, which confirms I have a cyst. However, as my aunt suggested, the doctor says it is likely due to my excessive caffeine intake, and advises I cut back to a half-cup of coffee in the morning and stick to caffeine-free tea throughout the day.
I come home and tell my husband the good news. We both sob with relief and exhaustion. Neither of us has slept well since we discovered the lump, but after life-affirming lovemaking (he gives my breast extra attention) we fall asleep, his hand cupping my small, but healthy, breast.
