My Beloved Enemies

Warning:  Chemopause and pain meds may not mix well.  Potentially politically and personally offensive post ahead.  Read at your own discretion.

Recently, a BC friend posted a link to an article about the standard/typical “Save the Ta-Ta’s” campaigns we’re all so familiar with.  I mean, c’mon – breasts are in our face everywhere, begging to be saved – boobies, ta-ta’s, chi-chi’s, you name ‘em, they are asking for help.  I commented on my friend’s post that while I don’t particularly like these campaigns I think they offer an opportunity, through a humorous intention, to perhaps educate and illuminate the masses about breast cancer.

On that note, an important point is made:  All of this is not about saving boobies –it’s about saving lives.  And I struggle internally with the fact that we can talk openly about saving boobies, but we admonish women for breast feeding in public because it’s disgusting or inappropriate.  Breasts are for fun, and nothing more.  To wit:  Boobstagram (http://boobstagram.fr) is using pictures of breasts in bras (apparently very nice, round, young breasts visually appealing and unfettered by scars or divots from surgery, both still beautifully intact) to raise awareness about breasts.  Er, I mean, breast cancer.  Their tagline is, “Showing your breasts on the internet is good, showing them to your doctor is better.”  Osocio has a great commentary on Boobstagram (http://osocio.org/message/boobstagram_cleavages_against_cancer/)  Here’s another blog that talks about Boobstagram, but from the viewpoint of a testicular cancer survivor (http://www.amptoons.com/blog/2012/04/25/save-the-body-parts/)

I own and proudly wear a “I heart Boobies” bracelet because my son gave it to me, and because he loves me, and he’s showing me his support.  I also wear it because I have yet to find a bracelet that says, “Save your life, get a mammogram” or “Become breast friends with your girls” or “Give your breasts a good hug – and a good feel – today.”  Because those are the messages we really need to get across.

This battle I fight every day is not about saving my breasts, but about saving my life.  I say I would happily give up my breast(s) if it meant living.  And on the highest level, that’s true.  But what’s also true is that my breasts are my beloved enemies.  I love them so very, very much.  They nursed my children when they were young; they have given me so much pleasure over the years.  My husband loves my breasts more every day.  They make my shirts look great, and bathing suits even better.  At 48, I still love the way my breasts look; I’m not ashamed of them, even now with multiple scars and bumps.  I would give them up, but I would feel as though an important part of me was missing, too.  I don’t believe my breasts make me a woman, or even feminine, or sexy or important or vital or of value and worth.  But they have been an integral part of many aspects of my life, and they are important to me.

My grief at losing them – even to save my own life – would be painfully real.

So I continue to support ta-ta’s and chi-chi’s and boobies, if for no other reason than it gives me an opening to talk about my story (and I tend to use the dreaded word “breast” when I talk about my cancer – my mother always said I should use appropriate terminology.  That’s why I love to say the word “vagina” so much, too).  It gives me a chance to talk about the reality of breast cancer, how we can detect it, how we can’t depend on mammograms and sonograms but mostly on our own hands – or those of our lovers, or doctors – to find those little lumps that change our lives.  We need to depend on our eyes, too, to notice skin dimpling or nipple discharge or change in size or shape, or change in color or texture. 

I couldn’t care less about saving my boobies - mostly.  I do wish we had better catch-phrases for talking about breast cancer/life saving, though. 

And Boobstagram can kiss my beautifully perfect imperfect breasts - and my ass.