Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Roger, That, or How I Stopped Worrying About Being Breastless

Late September 2014, when I had my breasts removed all I could see was this big ugly scar across my chest.

As women we are valued for our breasts.  Big ones. Small ones.  Regardless of a man's personal preference, women are often considered sexual beings first, and as friends, wives and daughters second. If we have something on top, we are taught to take a certain pride in that.  And if we are more on the flat side, we are given the message that we are somehow lacking in overall desirability.

Because of the residual puritanical overtones regarding breasts, they are considered sexual and not merely functional. There is an uproar when mothers attempt to breastfeed in public.  Men can go shirtless in public and women cannot.  A woman's breasts identify her as a human female in a way that no other part of  a woman's anatomy does.  If I were a man, I'd be able to go about shirtless in the summer and no one would think twice about it.  A neighbor does just that. All summer long he mows his lawn and does other things with his tremendous beer belly hanging out.  If I were to have done that pre double mastectomy, I am guessing neighbors would have yelled at me and perhaps would have called the police.  Post double mastectomy I am guessing I'd receive similar complaints.

Men think nothing about ogling breasts, but no one would want to see my chest, even in its current, nonsexual state.

There have been  times when I have looked at myself in the mirror, and have thought about what a freak show I have become.  I am reminded daily that I look different from other women. Every time I look at Kid O and Kid Q, I am reminded.  Every time I see a woman showing off cleavage I am reminded. Every time I see any woman I am reminded.   Even some women like a flat chested friend of ours who used to say to me, "I sure wish I had some of that," has more there than me.  Hell, even most men do.

One of my husband's cousins turned to me at a funeral luncheon and said, "I thought you were flat like me, " upon hearing another cousin come up to me and congratulate me on beating the cancer rap.  Highly ironic coming from a recently retired desk sergeant.  True, we only saw each other at wakes and funerals, but you'd think she would have noticed the massive breasts that were in front of her on those occasions.   I doubt a man would have forgotten.

I recall many times when I could see that a man was staring at my breasts. Bespectacled men really ought to be more aware of that because the images reflect in their lenses.  Being ogled like that is certainly one thing I don't miss.

Months ago my husband told me that, without my breasts and with my big belly hanging out, that I looked a bit like Roger, the alien who resides with the Smith family in American Dad!

One might think that remark would be grounds for divorce, but, instead, I thought about it for a moment and responded, "Roger, that."

That doesn't mean I haven't grieved the loss of my breasts.  It simply means I have finally come to a place of acceptance.  Do I still feel self conscious about my body image?  Yes.  Many women do.  It's ingrained in our culture.

Although I still have moments of anger and grief, overall I feel less and less like a freak show and more like myself.

So, Roger that.

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