In the warm dark of the early
Florida morning, I slip out from under the sheets and lower myself onto the
little stool, and then onto the floor from my 4-foot-high bed. When I next see
this bed, I might not be able to climb up into it. The futon nestled underneath
where my long, black rottweiler, Savannah, is still sleeping might have to
become my bed when I return.
This is one of those dark days when the worst thing in my life is about to happen, when living alone is best, when there’s nothing to say, and no one to say it. Even my thoughts are speechless, hanging back in the shadows wringing their hands, unable to comfort me. With the dog warm and curled up on her futon and the parrots’ heads still tucked beneath their wings, the house is quiet. At least nothing bad will happen to them. Friends they already know will be coming in to feed them all for the next day or two.
A little twister stretches from my stomach up into my throat and stays there, whirling, causing my breathing to be shallow. Asthma. My enemy is back. I’ll have to tell the anesthesiologist. I take my shower and get dressed anyway. Why am I afraid? Of waking, looking like a freak and being in pain! I wonder how bad the pain will be. I wonder how I will really feel when I wake up hours from now without breasts.
At dozens of plastic surgery sites on the Internet I’d scrutinized the pictures of naked women without breasts, and the follow-up pictures of them in phases of reconstruction. How painful is it going to be?” I’d asked the doctor. “Not as painful if you don’t get reconstruction,” he’d said. That settled it. He wanted me to consult with a plastic surgeon anyway. I’d refused. The breastless women in the pictures didn’t look too bad. I could live that way. But could I? What if I wanted a boyfriend again someday? What if the surgeon cuts them off and the lab doesn’t find anything wrong with them? It would all be for nothing, except my peace of mind.
It wouldn’t be too late to cancel this operation, up to the minute they put me to sleep. I could make the phone call right now. After all, this is only a prophylactic mastectomy. They don’t know what’s in there. They can’t see behind all the water cysts anymore. A biopsy isn’t possible, because they don’t know where to cut. They just think something is wrong. I just know my mother lost both breasts to cancer, and her mother lost one. And the surgeon was stern, intense, quiet, not winning any awards for making everything all right.
“For women in your situation, I'd. . . .” he began. . .” Cut them off,” I said, finishing his sentence. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, for a lot of reasons. And if I don’t go through with this, how do I go on living every day waiting for cancer? I can’t afford cancer. I’m bipolar, living on Social Security disability, barely getting by. My house is going into disrepair. I’ve had to take in two college student roommates to meet expenses. My Cobra insurance from the company that fired me runs out in one month, and I won’t be eligible for Medicare for eight more months. I have to do this now, while my insurance is still in place. I’m not waiting for cancer.
Nothing to eat or drink since last night, but I’m not hungry. Nothing to do but walk outside into the warm Florida darkness as my neighbor’s car turns silently into the driveway. It’s September 7, 2002, not yet 6 a.m., and Heika is on time. I’m really glad she asked two days ago if I had someone to take me to the hospital. I had a lot of offers, but hadn’t said yes to any of them. Dying people often choose the special ones who will witness their death, and I chose her, nearly a stranger to spend these last few minutes with me. I knew she would be appropriately gentle and quiet, respectful of that distance between us, a reflection of my relationship to myself in these moments.
On the way, I tell her I’m feeling afraid. She honors that, without trying to make me different. In a fast 10 minutes, we turn into the parking lot of the new, modern hospital with bright lights shining through tall lobby windows lighting up the darkness like an airport. Heika asks me if I want her to come in and stay with me while I’m waiting for surgery, but I tell her no. There isn’t room for me in my own space this morning, and two would be a crowd. She isn’t insisting or demanding, and I’m grateful. I thank her for the ride, get out and start walking towards the bright lights shining through the tall windows of the hospital lobby.
“Are you sure?” Heika calls after me. “I’m sure,” I tell her. I’ve felt alone like this thousands of times in my life. Self reliance has always been a big part of my life’s journey, and usually I’m at least on speaking terms with myself. But not now. There’s no comfort here from any place inside me. I’m about to allow something unspeakable to happen to me.
In the large, brightly-lit pre-op room, I’m in a hospital nightgown with an IV in my arm. My clothes are in a plastic bag beside the bed. A half-dozen other people lie on carriers awaiting surgery, each area surrounded by a curtain. I’m on the end next to the door. On the other side of my carrier, behind the curtain, a little 10-year-old boy is getting ready for his tonsillectomy. He starts to cry, then to scream. His parents try to calm him. He is so scared, and suddenly I’m shaking inside and so scared. The nurse explains everything to him and he calms down, but I don’t. I wish I were a child. I feel like screaming and sobbing, but here in this place, I can’t lose it. That would scare the little boy all over again. And besides, I asked for this. I made the decision. If I want to change my mind, all I have to do is make the announcement, put on my clothes, and walk out of the hospital. I have no right to be shaking inside like this.
The anesthesiologists are making their rounds. I ask the nurse if she could get them over to start me on a sedative right away. “Are you about to lose it, honey?” she asks. I wonder if she knows what’s going to happen to me. “We’ll get you on something.”
Two anesthesiologists stand at the foot of my carrier. “Can you put me to sleep now?” I ask them. Instead, they ask me questions.
“I’m 58. No, no one is here with me. No, I don’t have any allergies, but I have asthma, and right now I’m having trouble breathing.” One doctor goes off to find me an inhaler. The other keeps reading the questions on his clipboard list. “I last ate at nine last night—nine hours ago. No nothing on my stomach since then. No, not even water. Let’s see. In the last 24 hours—you really want to know everything I’ve taken in the past two weeks? You might want to sit down. This is going to take awhile. I take daily dosages of Wellbutrin, the antidepressant; Xanax for my social anxiety disorder; synthroid – yes, I have thyroid disease from taking lithium; Gabitril for bipolar disorder. I took Vioxx for arthritis pain and Zyrtec for allergies. No. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t smoke. I have asthma, arthritis, and abdominal pain from my hysterectomy 9 months ago. Are you giving me something now? Through my IV? Will I feel better soon? Good.”
When I open my eyes again, my surgeon has joined the anesthesiologists. My doctor speaks a few words quietly to me, without smiling, but I’m starting to feel more relaxed and chatty.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell them. “I don’t want the surgery (pause) but I don’t have a ride home and I’m too groggy to walk, and I can’t live anymore in the fear of getting cancer, and I never wanted breasts anyway. So . . . you can have ‘em. What are you going to do with them? The lab. Oh yeh, and they’ll end up in the wastebasket. No. They have to be recycled! It’ll take a little imagination, but I’ve got some good ideas.
You could: Roll ‘em in flour, fry ‘em, and serve ‘em for dinner as chicken.
Pickle them in a jar and donate them to a 10th grade science class.
Send them to a taxidermist for stuffing and framing, and hang them in a public ladies’ bathroom with a sign under them that says, "You're next!"
Sew strings on them and attach them to the inside of a car trunk so they're hanging outside the closed trunk—you know--like some woman is in the trunk with the lid closed down on her breasts?”
The doctors are all watching me, half-smiling, chiding, shaking their heads. They don’t know what to say.
That surgeon has no sense of humor, no compassion, no nothing, I think to myself. He has to be that way. He’s the butcher. I’m going to the slaughterhouse and he’s the butcher. Or maybe he intuitively knows that anything he’d say would be the wrong thing. Maybe he knows something about me—that this is serious and totally not funny.
I remember my mother talking about her doctor—how sweet and warm and sincere he was; how he told her that her breasts were beautiful. That meant a lot to her. I’m not my mother. This doctor is perfect for me. I don’t want to be told anything like that. He says he’ll see me on the surgery table in a few minutes and walks away with the anesthesiologists.
We’re in the final minutes. I have to say something to myself. I decide it’s time for a silent speech that I haven’t prepared for, but I begin anyway.
This is one of those dark days when the worst thing in my life is about to happen, when living alone is best, when there’s nothing to say, and no one to say it. Even my thoughts are speechless, hanging back in the shadows wringing their hands, unable to comfort me. With the dog warm and curled up on her futon and the parrots’ heads still tucked beneath their wings, the house is quiet. At least nothing bad will happen to them. Friends they already know will be coming in to feed them all for the next day or two.
A little twister stretches from my stomach up into my throat and stays there, whirling, causing my breathing to be shallow. Asthma. My enemy is back. I’ll have to tell the anesthesiologist. I take my shower and get dressed anyway. Why am I afraid? Of waking, looking like a freak and being in pain! I wonder how bad the pain will be. I wonder how I will really feel when I wake up hours from now without breasts.
At dozens of plastic surgery sites on the Internet I’d scrutinized the pictures of naked women without breasts, and the follow-up pictures of them in phases of reconstruction. How painful is it going to be?” I’d asked the doctor. “Not as painful if you don’t get reconstruction,” he’d said. That settled it. He wanted me to consult with a plastic surgeon anyway. I’d refused. The breastless women in the pictures didn’t look too bad. I could live that way. But could I? What if I wanted a boyfriend again someday? What if the surgeon cuts them off and the lab doesn’t find anything wrong with them? It would all be for nothing, except my peace of mind.
It wouldn’t be too late to cancel this operation, up to the minute they put me to sleep. I could make the phone call right now. After all, this is only a prophylactic mastectomy. They don’t know what’s in there. They can’t see behind all the water cysts anymore. A biopsy isn’t possible, because they don’t know where to cut. They just think something is wrong. I just know my mother lost both breasts to cancer, and her mother lost one. And the surgeon was stern, intense, quiet, not winning any awards for making everything all right.
“For women in your situation, I'd. . . .” he began. . .” Cut them off,” I said, finishing his sentence. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, for a lot of reasons. And if I don’t go through with this, how do I go on living every day waiting for cancer? I can’t afford cancer. I’m bipolar, living on Social Security disability, barely getting by. My house is going into disrepair. I’ve had to take in two college student roommates to meet expenses. My Cobra insurance from the company that fired me runs out in one month, and I won’t be eligible for Medicare for eight more months. I have to do this now, while my insurance is still in place. I’m not waiting for cancer.
Nothing to eat or drink since last night, but I’m not hungry. Nothing to do but walk outside into the warm Florida darkness as my neighbor’s car turns silently into the driveway. It’s September 7, 2002, not yet 6 a.m., and Heika is on time. I’m really glad she asked two days ago if I had someone to take me to the hospital. I had a lot of offers, but hadn’t said yes to any of them. Dying people often choose the special ones who will witness their death, and I chose her, nearly a stranger to spend these last few minutes with me. I knew she would be appropriately gentle and quiet, respectful of that distance between us, a reflection of my relationship to myself in these moments.
On the way, I tell her I’m feeling afraid. She honors that, without trying to make me different. In a fast 10 minutes, we turn into the parking lot of the new, modern hospital with bright lights shining through tall lobby windows lighting up the darkness like an airport. Heika asks me if I want her to come in and stay with me while I’m waiting for surgery, but I tell her no. There isn’t room for me in my own space this morning, and two would be a crowd. She isn’t insisting or demanding, and I’m grateful. I thank her for the ride, get out and start walking towards the bright lights shining through the tall windows of the hospital lobby.
“Are you sure?” Heika calls after me. “I’m sure,” I tell her. I’ve felt alone like this thousands of times in my life. Self reliance has always been a big part of my life’s journey, and usually I’m at least on speaking terms with myself. But not now. There’s no comfort here from any place inside me. I’m about to allow something unspeakable to happen to me.
In the large, brightly-lit pre-op room, I’m in a hospital nightgown with an IV in my arm. My clothes are in a plastic bag beside the bed. A half-dozen other people lie on carriers awaiting surgery, each area surrounded by a curtain. I’m on the end next to the door. On the other side of my carrier, behind the curtain, a little 10-year-old boy is getting ready for his tonsillectomy. He starts to cry, then to scream. His parents try to calm him. He is so scared, and suddenly I’m shaking inside and so scared. The nurse explains everything to him and he calms down, but I don’t. I wish I were a child. I feel like screaming and sobbing, but here in this place, I can’t lose it. That would scare the little boy all over again. And besides, I asked for this. I made the decision. If I want to change my mind, all I have to do is make the announcement, put on my clothes, and walk out of the hospital. I have no right to be shaking inside like this.
The anesthesiologists are making their rounds. I ask the nurse if she could get them over to start me on a sedative right away. “Are you about to lose it, honey?” she asks. I wonder if she knows what’s going to happen to me. “We’ll get you on something.”
Two anesthesiologists stand at the foot of my carrier. “Can you put me to sleep now?” I ask them. Instead, they ask me questions.
“I’m 58. No, no one is here with me. No, I don’t have any allergies, but I have asthma, and right now I’m having trouble breathing.” One doctor goes off to find me an inhaler. The other keeps reading the questions on his clipboard list. “I last ate at nine last night—nine hours ago. No nothing on my stomach since then. No, not even water. Let’s see. In the last 24 hours—you really want to know everything I’ve taken in the past two weeks? You might want to sit down. This is going to take awhile. I take daily dosages of Wellbutrin, the antidepressant; Xanax for my social anxiety disorder; synthroid – yes, I have thyroid disease from taking lithium; Gabitril for bipolar disorder. I took Vioxx for arthritis pain and Zyrtec for allergies. No. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t smoke. I have asthma, arthritis, and abdominal pain from my hysterectomy 9 months ago. Are you giving me something now? Through my IV? Will I feel better soon? Good.”
When I open my eyes again, my surgeon has joined the anesthesiologists. My doctor speaks a few words quietly to me, without smiling, but I’m starting to feel more relaxed and chatty.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell them. “I don’t want the surgery (pause) but I don’t have a ride home and I’m too groggy to walk, and I can’t live anymore in the fear of getting cancer, and I never wanted breasts anyway. So . . . you can have ‘em. What are you going to do with them? The lab. Oh yeh, and they’ll end up in the wastebasket. No. They have to be recycled! It’ll take a little imagination, but I’ve got some good ideas.
You could: Roll ‘em in flour, fry ‘em, and serve ‘em for dinner as chicken.
Pickle them in a jar and donate them to a 10th grade science class.
Send them to a taxidermist for stuffing and framing, and hang them in a public ladies’ bathroom with a sign under them that says, "You're next!"
Sew strings on them and attach them to the inside of a car trunk so they're hanging outside the closed trunk—you know--like some woman is in the trunk with the lid closed down on her breasts?”
The doctors are all watching me, half-smiling, chiding, shaking their heads. They don’t know what to say.
That surgeon has no sense of humor, no compassion, no nothing, I think to myself. He has to be that way. He’s the butcher. I’m going to the slaughterhouse and he’s the butcher. Or maybe he intuitively knows that anything he’d say would be the wrong thing. Maybe he knows something about me—that this is serious and totally not funny.
I remember my mother talking about her doctor—how sweet and warm and sincere he was; how he told her that her breasts were beautiful. That meant a lot to her. I’m not my mother. This doctor is perfect for me. I don’t want to be told anything like that. He says he’ll see me on the surgery table in a few minutes and walks away with the anesthesiologists.
We’re in the final minutes. I have to say something to myself. I decide it’s time for a silent speech that I haven’t prepared for, but I begin anyway.
So it’s just me and you for a few more minutes, soft baby pillows, not
so firm anymore, trying to hide under my arms. My breath carries you up and
down. My thoughts still try to hide as we lie here breathing together. I don’t
know how to say good-bye, because I’ve never been without you. I can’t say
good-bye, because I might have some terrible realization that would make me
decide to go home right now. I don’t know how waking up without you is going to
feel, but I do know what I’ll look like without you—not too bad.
My thoughts are so quiet. Maybe I know I’ll wake up and you’ll still be there. That can’t happen. I can’t live in this fear anymore. But I can say that I hated you and loved you. I hated you because you grew out of me like horns and stayed swollen and painful for most of our 42 years together. I was always afraid you’d get cancer and take my life.
You never gave me cleavage like other women had. Sometimes when looking at you in the mirror, I was sure you were God’s after-thought. “Whoops! I forgot to give her breasts!” And He slung you at me like mud patties and there you stuck, sporting insolent nipples, hard cylinders like cigarette filters, staring out in opposite directions. Bras couldn’t hide those nipples. Men often asked me if I was cold. For years I didn’t try to hide them, but by the time I reached my 50’s, I’d been so deeply wounded by men, I didn’t want anyone to see you, ever again, and so I always wore a bra, and a sweater, or shirts in layers. It’s been more than two years since anyone besides me has seen you.
Oh, I know, I didn’t have babies for you to nurse, but you gave my body a shape when I needed it to attract men, and you had the magic to transform sex into pleasure. You were the difference between “Ah-ah-AHHH!” and “Would you hurry up?”
After this day, no man can ever sneak a fondle again, or enjoy an intimate moment with my private parts in the midst of an innocent hug. I can mow the lawn without a shirt on, just like a man. And whatever grief and physical pain this act causes, I won’t ever share, because women have to be willing to let theirs go, too, if it comes down to avoiding cancer and saving their lives. Whether you are diseased, or not, I’m looking forward to peace of mind, knowing that I sacrificed a part of me for the good of the rest of me.
They’ve come to get us, to take you away from me forever. Good-bye, my friends and enemies. You served me well.
My thoughts are so quiet. Maybe I know I’ll wake up and you’ll still be there. That can’t happen. I can’t live in this fear anymore. But I can say that I hated you and loved you. I hated you because you grew out of me like horns and stayed swollen and painful for most of our 42 years together. I was always afraid you’d get cancer and take my life.
You never gave me cleavage like other women had. Sometimes when looking at you in the mirror, I was sure you were God’s after-thought. “Whoops! I forgot to give her breasts!” And He slung you at me like mud patties and there you stuck, sporting insolent nipples, hard cylinders like cigarette filters, staring out in opposite directions. Bras couldn’t hide those nipples. Men often asked me if I was cold. For years I didn’t try to hide them, but by the time I reached my 50’s, I’d been so deeply wounded by men, I didn’t want anyone to see you, ever again, and so I always wore a bra, and a sweater, or shirts in layers. It’s been more than two years since anyone besides me has seen you.
Oh, I know, I didn’t have babies for you to nurse, but you gave my body a shape when I needed it to attract men, and you had the magic to transform sex into pleasure. You were the difference between “Ah-ah-AHHH!” and “Would you hurry up?”
After this day, no man can ever sneak a fondle again, or enjoy an intimate moment with my private parts in the midst of an innocent hug. I can mow the lawn without a shirt on, just like a man. And whatever grief and physical pain this act causes, I won’t ever share, because women have to be willing to let theirs go, too, if it comes down to avoiding cancer and saving their lives. Whether you are diseased, or not, I’m looking forward to peace of mind, knowing that I sacrificed a part of me for the good of the rest of me.
They’ve come to get us, to take you away from me forever. Good-bye, my friends and enemies. You served me well.
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