Eulogy for a Breast

So, in general I feel fantastic. I am three months post surgery and at about 98% capacity. My abs don't quite have the strength they used to, and I still have a few stamina issues, but I am pretty much back to my normal life.

In fact, I got two new jobs. I teach choral music at my reds' school on Fridays, and I teach Spanish at CORE Butte High School on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Working three days a week is fantastic. I love having home-time to keep the house in order, prep my classes, run errands, and even explore my creativity. And I love my jobs. They are fun, fun, fun.

The school year is in full swing for all of us, and things are GOOD.

But today something sad happened. I had to dump out my purse to look for my keys in the rush of this morning, and later I was putting it all back together when I came across a folded and stapled stack of papers that have evidently been in there since my surgery. The title is "Results: SURGICAL PROCEDURE." I had never read it until today.

At first I loved it. Page 1 notes the "clinical history of grade 3 invasive ductal carcinoma and high grade ductal carcinoma in situ of the right breast," and then lists the diagnosis of the lymph nodes and other tissue dissected during surgery. It reads something like this (only this is a briefer version):

                        Sentinel lymph node #1 - negative for carcinoma
                        Sentinel lymph node #2 - negative for carcinoma
                        Breast, left - benign tissue
                        Breast, right - no residual invasive or in situ carcinoma

Wonderful, right?

Page 2 has detailed descriptions of each specimen collected. Color, size, distinguishing markings, weight, the label of the container, the solution it is stored in, the time it was received, the time it was examined, and so forth. Pretty boring stuff.

"GROSS DESCRIPTION: Six specimens are received labeled with the patient's name and medical record number.

The first specimen labeled 'sentinel node #1, touch prep, 1239' is received fresh from the OR and consists of one fragment of tan-red soft tissue measuring 1.5 x 1.0 x 0.3 cm. The specimen is bisected to reveal a 0.6 cm tan white lymph node. The specimen is submitted for touch prep and the remainder of the specimen is submitted entirely in cassette A1."

The second specimen labeled blah is received fresh from blah and consists of blah blah.

The third specimen, blah blah blah.

Then I turn the page, continue reading, and a slow sob forms at the base of my sternum and works its way up until it erupts out of me. I am so incredibly sad.

"The fourth specimen labeled 'left breast' is received in formalin and consists of an 825 g mastectomy specimen measuring 22 x 21 x 7 cm. The specimen is received on July 3, 2013 at 1622 and placed in formalin at 1330. The specimen is sliced at 1900. No palpable masses identified. The specimen has a fragment of tan-white skin without lesions measuring 11.5 x 2.5 cm. The nipple is located eccentrically and is everted, measuring 1.3 xx 1.2 x 1.0 cm. The specimen is serially sectioned into 21 macro sections. The specimen is radiographed, and no calcifications or masses are identified."

The next paragraph likewise describes the disembodied right breast, including similar information about the centered and protruding nipple. And while phrases like "No palpable masses identified" and "without lesions" do stick out as positive, in general I just have this horrible aching void, this MISSING feeling that no one ever could have prepared me for. It began to read like an obituary for these loved beings that are no longer in my life.

Those are my breasts they're talking about. They've reduced them to 'mastectomy specimens,' but nonetheless they are my breasts. The breasts that made me a woman when I was still a child. The breasts that shocked all the boys at the 7th grade swim party. The breasts that played an essential role in the intimate connection between me and my husband, the breasts that filled and fed and nourished three sweet, happy, drunken sailor, fat and helpless babies. The breasts that formed at least some portion of my self-identity, that dominated my profile, that had to be accommodated at every turn.
Before I could finish reading the entire report I found myself hugging the pages. Holding them to my heart. Cradling them like the photo of a lost loved one, and truly weeping.

And just like one would remember the last encounter with a lost loved one, I remember standing naked in front of the tri-fold full length mirror of my hotel bathroom the night before surgery and saying goodbye. I looked at my breasts for a long time. I squashed and squeezed them, caressed them, cradled them . . . and cried. I knew I would miss them, but I didn't know it wouldn't hit me until three months later.

Of course I have been living with my new frankenbreasts for three months now and am fairly used to them. They are smaller and therefore less in the way and more comfortable. They have their benefits, for sure. But they have zero sensation, and although they're roughly shaped like breasts, and look fine under my clothes, they are definitely not womanly or attractive. They are heavily scarred, numb, nipple-less mounds in the place where my real breasts--the beings eulogized in the report--used to be.

Don't misunderstand. I would much rather be well and have frankenboobs than be dying with breasts rich in history and sensuality. I truly am grateful. But today I grieved a loss, and I thought it worth recording here.