A Different Kind of Loss

“I am a wall, and my breasts are twin towers,” Song of Songs, Chapter 8, Verse 10

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Summer is in full bloom, and suddenly I find myself obsessed with breasts. Everywhere I go, in the street, on the subway, on the bus, I see them popping out of shirts, blouses, and tank tops. Some are black, some are white, some are fulsome, and some are tiny. I try to avert my gaze or look just long enough not to be labeled a “pervert.” I find myself desiring them, wishing I could hold them.

I am a deeply religious man, and I try to abide by the biblical admonition, “do not stray after the desires of your heart and your eyes,” (Numbers, Chapter 15, Verse 39), but lately I have found the challenge overwhelming. It is hard to avert one’s gaze when these beautiful breasts are staring at you.

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It wasn’t always this way. I was a late bloomer and growing up had no real sex education. In fact, after my first nocturnal emission at age 14, I ran into my parents’ bedroom to tell them to take me to the hospital; I thought I was going to die. While I remember boys talking about the first girl to get a bra in 6th grade, her name ironically was Barbara. I recall my 9th grade classmates admiring our English teacher who often went bra-less, but I was clueless. Breasts didn’t really resonate with me. I was steeped in my religious traditional world, in an all male high school, and focused on my studies.

In my religious tradition, we don’t have physical contact with members of the opposite sex until marriage. Once I got married I learned to truly appreciate my wife’s breasts. I loved caressing, fondling, and nibbling them during foreplay. I loved how they slowly became aroused during an intensive playful session. I loved lying between them after sex, seeing how they cushioned my head. They were big, round, and beautiful, and I cherished them.

All of that changed one fateful day after my daughter was born, when a clogged milk duct didn’t seem to go away. We learned a new diagnosis, advanced breast cancer. With no family history of the disease, we were thrown into the shock of those words, CANCER. After an exhaustive round of chemotherapy and time for healing, the appointed day arrived. In a matter of a few hours, those two beautiful breasts were gone, dissected, and sent to the pathology lab for testing. It happened so quickly during such a tumultuous time, I didn’t have time to grieve. I was just glad the source of all this evil was gone.

A few months later, my wife went to a specialized boutique and bought two nice gel inserts that fit snugly into her bra. A year later she bought a bigger pair, which she felt better reflected her body. If you looked at her, you wouldn’t know they were inserts because they fill her chest so beautifully. However, I know they’re not real, because at night, those faux breasts go into their boxes, and a flat chest and scar tissue are left as reminders of the beauty that was lost. There is nothing to caress, to nibble, to play with, and there is no place to rest my head.

I thank God every day that my wife is alive. I thank God that there are new medicines, some just approved within the last year, that are keeping her alive. I am thankful that the goal is to make this a “chronic” condition, managed by medication. But with all that, I still mourn those beautiful twin towers that have been taken away. Those twin towers are truly irreplaceable, and they are never coming back.

—Photo edenpictures/Flickr