Originally Published in Wrinkles
Ten days to go till my partial tit amputation (breast reduction surgery). Am I having second thoughts? Will I regret it? Will it change me in ways I cannot foresee? How much internalized ageism or general body disparagement is influencing this? Who knows?
When I cup my breasts in my hands now, easing some of the stretch the skin looks and feels like bumpy chicken skin sacks that are holding less content than before. Not that there isn’t content. Mashed into the bra it’s a little more than double D. My bras look like major engineering devices and feel about as comfortable as that sounds. They are an expense I would like to do without. The straps must be wider or they dig, and with my FM and OA. I have neck and shoulder pain. I can’t dance, jog or even sleep on my side comfortably. My idea of a massage table has not only the cut out for your face but openings to insert the boobs. I sure hope I’ll lose a couple of pounds and will be able to wear different clothes. I do like warm weather, but always hate the sweat and rash under my breast. These irritants might be helped if I get rid of the over the shoulder boulder holder.
Then there’s a prophylaxis per having already having two estrogen type cancers with maternal grandmother croaking from it. Breast reduction is covered by medical plan. Less breast tissue is less to try and see through. Now when I get a mammogram, they flattened out like pancakes -ouch! But how do they get anything to squish when the tits are little?
When I was a little girl, women with ample bosom seems so comforting to hold onto. I remember being a little late to develop and praying that I would get me some. They turned out to be one of my best features back in the day. I paraded around confidently around nude beaches, or in a lovers company. I even ripped off my top and danced on a table in a rowdy bar once reveling in their liberation.
I was not breast-fed and growing up saw women doing it only a couple of times. But I was going to be different. I birthed and nurtured naturally. I started to go to La Leche meetings before my first was born. I breast-fed everywhere modestly but defiantly if necessary. I stayed surrounded by mom’s and little ones eight years, seven as a LL leader, not an extremist. I suckled three for a total of six years. Then I was done. I didn’t even want breast manipulated by the husband. All that was left after the orgasmic pleasures of youth, sexuality, and motherhood was miserably sore breast each months from hormone fluctuations and the depressing ever increasing effects of gravity.
Is it Artemis or the Amazons that cut off a breast so to better pull back their bow string? Maybe somewhere in mythical archetype I too want a leaner cleaner me as I go forth into the future, hunting down the rest of my life, stripped of the façade of typical sexuality or at least the superfluous parts of it. The real stuff is safe inside. I certainly am not looking forward to pain or possible negative outcomes of whittling down my jiggling jugs. I’m sorry to leave the company of my well endowed sisterhood. I especially don’t want them to think I think theirs aren’t perfect on them. Hell I’d even volunteer to help a gal hold theirs up so she could get a little break sometime. Long live boobies and in whatever shape or form.
Post Script: This was written in 2008 and 16 years later I have always been glad I did it.
