I planned to write today about my bi-lateral mastectomy because today is the anniversary of the surgery. But I don’t much feel like having a lot of deep thoughts about what happened to me four years ago and how it was only the beginning of a long painful shit show of surgeries. A shit show which only stopped when I put an end to the notion of ever having reconstructed flesh balls where my breast used to be and went natural.
Except I’m not natural. I look like a meth head took an ice cream scoop to my body and that’s because cancer sucks and cancer treatment sucks harder and shit gets done to your body and sometimes your insides have to be scooped out and you are left to deal with it.
I was going to write about Western culture and its obsession with breasts and what that means for someone who no longer has them. And what it is like to go clothes shopping. And what it is like to have people stare at you, gawk at you, in public. And maybe I was even going to write about sex. I don’t know.
I have a lot saved up, inside of me, on this topic. A million words about surgery and recovery and more surgery and more recovery. And tit jokes. And women who complain to me about their bodies and how I feel about that. And about the very short list I keep in my head with the names of women who are allowed to talk about their breast issues around me. Believe me, that list is incredibly short.
And I was going to write about Valentine’s Day and what a crock it is and how to fight the power, along with fighting the power of cultural norms about bodies and sex and love and who gets to be attractive and sexy and who doesn’t and all of that.
I don’t want to think about any of that today and I don’t want to write about it so I’m not going to.
I didn’t like Valentine’s Day before all of this. Now filled with 100% more bad feeling on this day.