I know. Everyone fucking hates cancer. Shut up.
I think I do a pretty god damned good job of not playing Woe Is Me as far as getting cancer is concerned. Overall, I'm pretty content with my decision to have a bilateral mastectomy, especially considering I had undiagnosed bilateral Paget's Disease that only came to light after my tissue had been sent to Pathology. The surgery saved my life. And I'm super stoked about having my life saved, please don't get me wrong here.
I am just so angry that I even needed it saved in the first place. I'm 30, not 60. This should not have happened.
Plugging away on the elliptical machine tonight, I can't help but look at all the women working out around me. Some thin and taut, the type I envy and kind of want to stab; some heavy and soft, the type that make me think "Whew, at least I don't need to lose as much weight as she does..."; but almost all of them with soft and squishy breasticles.
One girl in particular nearly put me over the edge into a sobbing mess of tears, as I did crunches on a fitness ball. She was a heavier-set girl, about 24 years old, probably weighs as much as me but 4 inches shorter, very pretty face and great hair, doing hamstring stretches on a yoga mat across from me. She was packing 38DD's (at least) that were all smushed into a tight sports bra, which put her cleavage somewhere near her chin as she sat with legs outstretched and reaching for her toes. Her bosom looked so soft and jiggly, I wanted to nuzzle it and motorboat her just to feel the waves. By contrast, I didn't even wear a bra, sports or otherwise, to the gym tonight due to my healing tattoo, and it made absolutely no difference. I ran for 10 minutes at 6 mph on the treadmill and only noticed I wasn't wearing a bra because the sweat that's usually caught by a sports bra was dripping down my abs. They do not look soft or squishy or nuzzle-worthy. To me, they look hard and plastic, like upside-down tupperware bowls with overly-circular nipples. They are pretty much immobile and only exist to fill out my shirts and make me feel "normal". But I'm not normal. All y'all who don't have to (or get to) see me with my shirt off probably tend to forget that.
Which brings me to my 2nd point of why this sucks. Dating. I hate the trepidation that comes with someone new seeing them for the first time. I absolutely hate it.
Yes. I know. Men are simple, simple creatures, and I got well-laid when I was an A-cup without nipples. (Or hair & eyebrows, for that matter.) Like my mom told me last year, most men probably wouldn't care if I just put a couple of round rocks in my bra, as long as there's something to grab. Also, ass men LOVE me, so thank god for ass men. BUT it's all besides the point because this is about how I feel. And I feel like a science experiment every time I'm with someone new. I fear he's secretly turned-off by my scars. I'm self-conscious in ways I've never experienced, which pulls me out of a moment I REALLY enjoy being IN.
I'm dating someone new, and I really like him, but he hasn't seen me naked yet. The more I get to know him and the more I like him, the more I'm freaking out over showing him my Designer Impostors. Dude, dating sucked even when I had the World's Most Magnificent and Perky 38DD's. I hate having yet another level of SUCK added to dating, you know? "Oh, by the way, I had cancer so that's why my tits are all effed up" really isn't my favorite conversation to have. *sigh* Thank god he's an ass man... I guess I'll just focus on that...
Whatever. It is what it is, right? It happened. Cancer, mastectomy, reconstruction, all of it. It happened. I'm not getting my soft 'n' squishies back. There's absolutely nothing I can do about it but suck it up, be grateful that I'm alive and that my plastic surgeon did as good a job as he did, and continue to trust that men will always be happy to enjoy whatever kind of tits you put in front of them.
I just realized that this was not a terribly coherent note; really more of a stream-of-consciousness as I work through this anger and sadness. Minor setback, we'll call it. Fuck cancer. Ugh.
