So to distract myself from the one woman pity party that I am having about my hair, I am going to go back to basics and talk about the boobs. Those boobs that are causing me the most angst at the moment, but those boobs that have also done amazing things.
Lets go back to the 17 year old me, pre legally getting lashed, pre steady boyfriend material, pre knowing what actual life was about. I will never forget the moment (and it is bizarre what your mind holds onto isn’t it?) when I walked into the local ready for a karaoke night, dressed in the finest dress I had acquired (halter neck no less) thinking I was an absolute legend; to be took down by a girl some five years older than me stating loudly for all to hear ‘it’s like cherries on an ironing board’. Looking back on that moment, knowing that I remember it so vividly now, I cringe at the younger me dying inside. If only foresight was a legitimate thing. That young me did do a little bit of bluster and brag, then caved in a corner for the rest of the night and certainly didn’t attempt any karaoke (not a bad situation for anyones ears to be fair!).
Progressing through the formative years of ‘growing up’, I realised that the unnatural hormones of the pill presented its own merits – the boob area grew! Enough never to warrant a cherry reference, but not enough that I needed a bra to reign them in. And I spent a good ten years in the blissful ignorance of underwires, padding, support, cross wires or even a bra at all. I may have had no confidence about other aspects of my being but my boobage wasn’t one of them. Was very comfortable with them!
Knocking on to the 30 marker (oooh – still upsets me), I noticed there was a lopsided situation. Just slightly. But after much discussion with the girl friends, we decided that it was a real thing (like your feet!), and that if it wasn’t significant then we’d all be ok.
But then the kicker, pregnancy. I was a later arrival to the club than most of the friends I had, and by that time, fifteen years of taking the pill had enhanced the boobage area somewhat more. As soon as I was pregnant, they grew, and kept growing. Until I’d reached a size that your standard shops don’t accommodate (do not get me started on that conversation as you will be there for quite some time!). But with growth came a more significant lopsided issue! And then breast feeding. There are no more words to say on that, but anyone who knows, knows. Pert uprights become spaniels ears. Its no more glamorous than that!
There I was, finished breastfeeding my cub; nine months of hard bloody work (and we went through some significant ups and downs with this, it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t a beautiful journey in parts, that’s for sure), but staring at this skin, that at some point in time I had used for wily ways and then more productive ways, I was thinking, geez – they’re not attractive!
I spent a lot of time reconciling myself with my new body. My ‘new’ boobs and ‘new’ body post baby were a revelation to me and the man cub. An acceptance of this state was undertaken as familyhood just took over and naked antics are limited with a wee cub!! There ain’t much time for that crack amongst teething, separation anxiety, mid night creeping Jesus appearances at the side of the bed, etc, etc!
Then as the years progressed since breastfeeding and now, I have had significant conversations with the man cub about surgery. I have spent a small mortgage on bras that fit the big boob (the little floats!), I had bought a swimsuit with more scaffolding than my house would need for the roof, I get cross every time I go into M&S and their sizing stops at a F, I get mad when shops seem to think that the larger boob size you are the larger back size you are (NO), and I had shouted a lot about ‘getting these sorted’. If I had won the lottery at any point I would have absolutely gone under the knife to get them aligned.
Fast forward to my current situation, after two surgeries to remove cancer and an offer to reconstruct and I’m not even sure I can do that. It now seems more vain than it was (believe me this is purely personal), and I don’t know if I can now voluntarily go under the knife to ‘sort them out’. I know that six months ago, I would have fell under a surgeons knife and ‘sorted’ them out within a heartbeat. But having faced risks of surgery as they are (and NHS folk are so clever but there are always risks) I don’t know whether risking more surgery for ‘cosmetic’ purposes while my baby cub still needs me, after all I have gone through already, is worth it. To be honest, I don’t need to confirm my thoughts on this until at least March when chemo is done and genetics results could define a very different journey if mastectomy is a real recommendation. But by god my head is battered already!!!
But I have this battle! And I will own the outcome!