A Letter to my Left Breast

Dear left breast,

Thank you. Thank you for holding the cancer inside of you. Thank you for taking one for the team. You saved my life, left breast. You worked your ass off to keep those cancer cells contained, and you did it, and you let me know there was all kinds of pandemonium happening as soon as you could, so we could get this life show on the road without too much traffic.

I love you, left breast. You’re one of the good ones. You’ve been there, leading the way, for so long now. I’m sorry we will part ways. You’ve been so good at matching yourself to my right breast, even though you’ve got two spine curves and some uneven hips to balance out, and I know that made the whole matchy-matchy boob prospect a challenge. But it was a challenge you faced and achieved. There are not too many left breasts in the world who can perfectly match right breasts on the same body at the same point in life, and I’ve prided myself on you, one half of my matchy-matchy boob set, for two decades, now. Sure, it’s purely aesthetic triumph, but triumph none the less.

I guess I don’t have to tell you about triumph, though. You know, because for the last decade or so- or how long was it, really?- you’ve been playing goalie of my body, making sure the cancer-team didn’t kick any of those cancer cells into my lymph nodes or blood stream. You’ll probably never know the awesomeness that your goalie-ship was, because now you’re going another step further, and you’re going away forever. That effing sucks. I know it’s the worst when you hear people tell me that it will be almost the same without you since there will be a silicone implant in your place, or that I’ll still be the same person without you. Of course I won’t be the same person without you, and nor will I be a better person. I’ll be a different person. I know it won’t be the same, or even anything close to the same. After all, a silicone implant can’t grow cells, can’t play goalie, can’t feel anything, can’t go matchy-matchy with the right side, can’t loll to the side, can’t be the total rockstar that you are. Even if that silicone implant stays forever- right now, it’s a stop-gap measure so that I’m not uneven until we make some more decisions and live a little more life- it’s an it. It’ll never be the same as you.

When you go to the other side, dear left breast, you should look for the other breasts that were slashed from our friends bodies, and you guys can galavant together. They’re gonna be waiting in the area for breasts who died too soon, breasts who spent their lifetime playing cancer goalie, just like you. I think the area for breasts who died too soon has lots of sunshine, lots of beach, and lots of salty water to float in. You will love it. And you so deserve it.

You have made me a girl, left breast. You held so many things I hoped for inside of you, tiny little futures and buds of possibility. You are so unique. Even the plastic surgeon said so, when she noted how impossible it would be to match an implant that looked just like you, or even build a breast like you. You’re too unique, too special, too one-in-a-million to be replicated, rebuilt, replaced. You’ll only be remembered.

Signing off for now, left breast.


The rest of your body

6 thoughts on “A Letter to my Left Breast

  1. Awesome post, Chelsey. My two are waiting over on the other side, for your one. They can hold her when that’s what she needs. And she will never be alone. The love endures. The love remains.

    • Mary, I think they should play beach volleyball. Yours and mine and Kara’s and Katie’s and Tiffany’s and Catherine’s and Anita’s and Lara’s. No teams, just a beach ball in the air. I also think I would spontaneously combust into a million tiny fragments if it were not for you. The love holds things together even if it’s wonky and cracked.

  2. Reblogged this on Tripping over horses and commented:
    This is a beautiful tribute, and so true. I mourn my breasts as friends, but it didn’t occur to me to be grateful inside that process. Now I am corrected and will add gratitude. Sorry breasts, it should have been there the whole time.
    Until we meet again dear friends,

  3. Pingback: I thought it was The Onion | One in Six Thousand

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