Breasts: Soft Things That Matter

Theme song: You're My Best Friend

When first I began to write this post, I forgot that, today, I was scheduled to get my first-ever mammogram. I'm the kind of person who is able to conveniently forget things she doesn't want to remember, and mammograms are one of those things. While this may be a short term stress reducer, I admit that, overall, it's a dubious kind of practice. Better, I know the Buddhists will tell us, to just face what bothers you. But I digress.

The post was originally going to be about soft things that matter. Like, you know, skin, hair, peaches, baby bottoms, water heated to just right, green tea scented with lotus, the sound of silence, and cat fur. Then I remembered my breasts -- definitely soft things that matter to me and, at times, have mattered to my intimates.

I'd already heard the drill: breasts squished between plastic plates with the terrifying object of finding out whether your entire life is about to be disrupted by the mere possibility of a deadly disease. Who needs it?

In France, a more civilized country than our own, they put off mammograms until age 50, asserting that the fastest growing cancers occur in women aged 55 to 75, and citing the risk of radiation exposure and the high incidence of false positives that can lead to unnecessary invasive procedures (by which I mean breasts sliced into, scarring, and time spent in medical settings).

I've had my prescription since I turned 40, but I put it off until just now in an effort to avoid discomfort, out of a belief that to die of breast cancer is not my destiny (sue me if I'm wrong), and a desire to be as French as possible.

Let me tell you a little about my breasts.

I was an early developer. By the fourth grade, I had breasts. It was an awkward time. I crossed my arms a lot, partially in order to have socially acceptable contact with these budding intruders.

I thought my breasts looked weird. Too round, too firm, too high. Then I discovered how much boys liked them. After that, I thought they were my best feature. I enjoyed the attention as well as the not so rare use of terms like "beautiful," "perfect," and, on one memorable occasion, "magnificent," in application to any part of myself. Do you blame me?

During the whole six to seven year period of pregnancy, childbirth, and nursing, my breasts went through, as I'm sure yours did, a lot of changes. I saw them balloon to enormous proportions, lunged at by ravenous beasts (those would be, yes, the children), evolve into the soft little silk purses they are today, and even, on two occasions, cry.

That's right. After Chloe died, I was dismayed to learn that my milk would come in, anyway. My breasts became hard and angry rocks. I wore two tightly fitted nursing bras with pads to contain them, but they were uncontainable.

I did not dare look at my own body for several days but when, before the funeral, it was time to bathe, I undressed and, still not looking, felt the burden of a still-swollen belly, surgical wound, and milk streaming like tears down my front. I was a mess.

Later, when the child who lived nursed easily and well, my breasts became another source of pride -- and grief-stricken relief. Through all the pain of surgery, death, and childbirth, my beautiful breasts did not let me down.

The second time my breasts cried was when I moved out from the home I shared with my ex husband. I began, again, to lactate. Shock? Grief? More tears. I guess, scientifically, you'd explain it by saying that the trauma of the divorce triggered a hormonal response. Could be.

My breasts, for all their soft silk pursiness, came into their own after the divorce. Perhaps it was a woman's touch, but they became more deliciously sensitive than ever and really quite a joy to me not because they looked good, not because they could keep someone alive, but because I feel good when they are touched -- a not insignificant transition from object to subject, and something I'll recommend to anyone.

Nowadays, for all the pleasure, my beloved breasts are showing signs that I am getting old and will die. Gravity is not my breast friend and neither, really, are rights of passage like mammograms.

In case I have not made this perfectly clear, you are going to die. It's not a question of if, it's a question of how. Breast cancer is just one ticket to this ride.

You'll want to know, though, how was the experience. The answer? Not bad. Even kind of fun.

My insurance, some kind of confusing Obama Care, Healthy San Francisco hybrid, offers free mammograms in a special Avon-sponsored, San Francisco General Hospital breast cancer prevention truck. I, the only white woman in the bunch, and probably the youngest of them all, sat in the truck and watched part of The Fight Club with sisters who more or less spoke English and more or less looked worried.

Hard to believe, but we sat together and watched the part of the film in which Helena Bonham Carter calls Edgar Norton and tells him that her "tit is going to rot off." I haven't seen the whole film, but for some reason he does a home visit and offers (an amateur?) breast exam. Helena maybe makes a half-hearted attempt to put the moves on, but this definitely wasn't a sex scene. Or even sexy. Weird, huh? There was also a slightly forbidding poem taped to the wall saying we shouldn't feel distress if they compress "because they care."

One amusing woman shared with the group that she was getting her money's worth because, after all, she had the biggest "ones" in the group. Another woman walked out of the treatment room saying, "That hurt!" My experience was, though, that it didn't hurt much. I took a gander at the images afterwards and thought they looked crisp and, mercifully, pretty clear.

In a couple of weeks I'll find out, not if I have cancer, but if I have to do more finding out whether I have cancer. If that's a case believe me you, I'll be leaning on those who love me -- and hard.

Your Breast Stories

Have you had a mammogram? If not, share your breast stories with the group :)