The Breasted of Us

Now that I’d been diagnosed and on treatment for breast cancer, I am forced to look at them differently.

Being born with just, what I think, the right size of breast in proportion to my body, and leaning to the small size in cups, breasts have never come to my mind as a priority. They are not how I define myself as a woman.

I am not envious of those sisters blessed with largely endowed ones. I have no problem with keeping my body clean compared to a friend who is well-endowed and complains about having to lift her breasts every time to clean them underneath. Not to mention the pain during the pre-menstrual syndrome. So, I would say I’m blessed with what’s been given to me.

We, the small-size cup sisters, often joke about our breasts. Sunny side ups. Even to say that my breasts don’t know each other, as they have never met.

Another perk of having small breasts is that whatever I wear, no matter how low the neckline is or how tight the blouse is, it doesn’t look vulgar. I still see breasts as the most feminine part of my body. The tender skin. The perkiness. Having not had breastfeeding in my entire life, my breasts are in good form. Even now with a 5 CM tumor in it.

Since the neoadjuvant treatment prioritized on chemotherapy as the first leg of this marathon, it gives me time to think about breast reconstruction surgery. Although, in all honesty, the question came only after I completed the chemo. The first 5 months I was busy prepping my body and mentality to be fit for what chemo had to offer. The good and the bad. Now that it’s now over, new anxiety creeps in, along with that big question.

“I’m scared,” I told a dear friend the other day. She had just had a clearance from breast cancer last year.

“What are you scared of?” I paused. Yes, what am I scared of? How is the surgery going to be? How will my body react to it? How long is the recovery? I realized I wasn’t scared. I understand fully there are things that are beyond my control. It’s the waves of anxiety that ripped back harder than anything else.

What am I with only one breast? How would it affect how I see myself? Would it give me a new way of looking into womanhood?

Would reconstruction surgery be an option?

“Look, my decision not to opt for reconstructive surgery is purely practical,” said another friend, a survivor of 5 years. “I just don’t want to add it to my breast health’s to-do list. To check on the implant regularly and make sure there’s no ‘sideways’.”

So, for her and another friend who is a warrior of a bilateral mastectomy, removable silicone gel is the safest and practical answer. Even if funny stories like,” I went swimming yesterday. Suddenly the silicon had a mind of its own and swam away!”

It’s easy to say that we need to accept ourselves as is. That we don’t judge women by their looks. Or, always motivate yourself to be in high spirits! You are not defined by your breast. It is overcoming the thought of you are going to get a mastectomy done, and still feel whole as a woman. That’s hard.

As a woman who had already figured out most of her life, would my identity shatter just because I lost something? Or is it actually the time to redefine myself even when earlier this part of the body didn’t take part in shaping my identity? Except from a biology point of view.

Growing up in a culture that sees breasts as both sexual and functional, and mine had not fulfilled the task of the functional one, I can surely say mine has not contributed to shaping up society directly. However, their existence has helped in shaping up my confidence and thus boosting my contribution.

Perhaps this is a different kind of womanhood — one that is less about what we carry, but what we are willing to question. I don’t have the answer. But I’m no longer waiting for it to arrive after the surgery.

For when life is a constant invisible negotiation, maybe it’s not about redefining myself all at once. Maybe it’s about learning how to stay with who I am, even as parts of me change.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.