Double 0s

There SHOULD be breasts here, I think again, as I touch my upper chest, now flat as a board. But no, breast cancer came in like a mercenary and had no mercy, taking what was once my best feature.

As I undress to ready for my shower, I think of the perfect melons that I used to have. Double Ds and amazingly perky, when they very well could have been so saggy, like my grandmother's, who could damn near hook hers under her belt. No, mine were svelte and round, sitting on my chest like two perfect sentries, surveying all whom they may conquer. And boy, did they conquer! Many men fell under my spell - old, young, black, white; hell, even the gays couldn't help but admire them.

And now they are gone! I feel the wetness on my cheeks and realize that I am once again crying over my loss. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" I yell; I refuse to cry! So instead I pound pound pound my hand against the bathroom wall until it's numb, perhaps broken, but I don't care, because now I am broken. Now, I no longer have my badges of womanhood. Now, I can no longer get out of parking tickets or get free drinks at my favorite bar. Now, I can no longer wear those cute halter tops, basking in the attention my twins used to award me with.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I can get reconstructive surgery, but they won't be MINE, dammit! I spent YEARS building them up! I even did that funny exercise with my friends when I was young, the one Judy Blume taught us about in 'Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret'. We'd sit in a circle in one of our bedrooms, chanting our mantra - "We must, we must, we must increase our busts!" - while bringing our bent arms forwards and back over and over again. I don't know for sure, of course, if that did the trick, but my mams sure were marvelous!

And now they are gone! I look at where a mirror used to be, before I smashed it and all the others, the better to never again see my lacking chest... Dammit, that felt good, smashing them all to smithereens. I wish I could do the same to that fuckin' cancer!

But I cannot. All I can do is think about how much I've lost. About how Brad left, with some lame excuse ending in "It's not you, it's me". Bullshit. It was all me. And what I could no longer provide him... God, he used to love my boobs, stroking them with just the right touch, softly rubbing on my nipples, feeling them hardening and-

No! I will NOT think about that! Fuck Brad and the horse he rode in on!..or his "horse" that I used to ride every other morning... No! Get a grip, Rachel, I tell myself. We do NOT want to think about that douche-bag anymore!

The water is running, but I can't bring myself to get in. I can't touch the scars that mark where my womanhood was torn away from me. I just can't... I just can't. So instead, I just sit on the bathroom floor and cry and cry and cry.

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Neither myself nor anyone in my family (that I know of) have had to deal with this atrocious disease, but I imagine this' exactly how I'd react, if not worse, should that ever come my way.

With that being said, I also want this to work as my stand in solidarity for those who have suffered.