I'm Going To Talk About My Boobs...

After all, they are such a large part (figuratively speaking, of course) of who I am. Superficial as this sounds, it's true. My boobs, small as they may be, are my crowning glory. Frankly, I like them. A lot. And would not ever want to see them go. In my breasts lies my woman-ness, my femininity, my softness and sensuality. My breasts are almost more important to me than my hands or my eyes.

It is with this in mind that I think of my aunt--very much like a mother to me--who was diagnosed with breast cancer last week. In fact, one out of every eight women is diagnosed with breast cancer.

I know a lot more than eight women.

The woman I work for was diagnosed with breast cancer last June, and two weeks later she underwent a double mastectomy. All year she has been going to chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Another close friend of the family has ovarian cancer and must decide if she will die in 4-6 months, or undergo treatments and die within 2-3 years.

Watching her continue to be a loving being, full of life and love, is absolutely heroic. How do we come to terms with our own mortality without becoming bitter, angry, and resentful? We all know that we are supposed to die one day, but we feel robbed if that day comes before we think it should.

When I had a panic attack last Friday, after hearing the news (or lack of news, rather, when I asked my aunt the results of her biopsy and she "didn't want to talk about it"), I realized that I have not yet come to terms with the idea of my own mortality, or even the mortality of those who I love.

Because I am an eternal optimist, I don't give much thought to death, or to losing people whom I love. But maybe, just maybe, it would be better for me to hold a place inside that realizes that life is precious, beautiful, and sacred, and is never to be taken for granted. It sounds like the practical, sound advice you hear all the time, but it's so different when you are actually faced with the very real idea of someone's death. Life is not a guaranteed right, it is a gift. Anyone who I love could be gone tomorrow. I should prepare myself so that I won't feel so cheated if that day comes, in my judgement, too soon.

I have no idea how to deal with this. My aunt has caught the cancer in the very earliest stage, and chances of success are high. Odds are good that she will be a breast cancer survivor. But cancer is scary and mean. And we are all left to do some serious reckoning about the meaning of life and death. And about the meaning of our breasts, and how much of them we would be willing to cut off if we had breast cancer. And how much we would miss them.