At the last FORCE meeting, several of the women who'd had my surgery suggested that I have a sendoff for my breasts-- a ta-ta to Tatas party, if you will. They also said I should take some nudie pics to remember how my body looked before.
I took the pics. Let me tell you, there is nothing like viewing nude images of yourself to shake you up a bit. Viewing the photos, I was pleasantly surprised at how relatively fit I am-- legs all a-muscle, flat tummy, strong shoulders. It was a wake up call that my azz needs to calm the fuck down re: weight loss. I liked what I saw, kind of a lot. Body dysmorphia, anyone? (One of my weight "issues" is that I have never been able to see myself as fat, fit, or anything in between. It is one reason I take photos here.)
|Not me, obvs.|
But then there are these giant breasts. I have spent much of my childhood-- and lots of adulthood-- pretending they aren't there. Shoving them into ill- fitting bras (up until three years ago when I was properly fitted. I went from a 38DD to a 34F. Go get fitted, people). Binding them down for exercise. As an adolescent my large breasts nudged me out of nice-girl territory, at least to the moms of the guys I was dating. Large breasts make you a walking sexual object. In my case it happened long before I wholly understood what sex was.
I lived with the awareness that my grandmother had died of breast cancer, and figured that someday I would too. At 20, I learned I had fibrocystic breasts, and at 24, atypical hyperplasia. And then came my sister's cancer, and my dad's. My mom's. When I did a comprehensive family tree I discovered it on my paternal grandmother's side as well.
I know this is the right thing to do. I guess I never really thought that tomorrow would actually get here, though. I trust the doctors, I trust God.