The Rising and Falling of My Boobs

By Laura Yeager

I first started stuffing my bra with cotton balls.  This was in third grade.  I was wearing a training bra--the kind with the elasticized cloth cup to accommodate breast growth.  I didn't overdo it; just a couple of cotton balls to make me look like I had something.

After I grew breasts, I stopped stuffing my bra.  In my teens, I had perfect breasts--white, smooth and firm.  34Cs.

I did go through a Victoria's Secret phase when I bought the bras that increase your breasts by two cup sizes.  This was in my 20s and 30s.

In my mid-40s, I did away with Victoria Secret bras and moved into nylon sports bras.  At this point, I wanted to diminish my cup size, not maximize it.  I was a DD due a 40 pound, middle-age weight gain.

At 48, something dreadful happened.  I got breast cancer.  To rid myself of it, I had a double mastectomy.  And guess what?  I had my plastic surgeon put in size B implants.

How things change....I wanted smaller breasts, not bigger ones. 

Things were fine and dandy for five years, and then, the cancer came back. 

I lost my remaining right breast tissue, and the surgeon removed the implant.

This is where I am now--lopsided.

I've been stuffing my right bra cup with a sock--a gym sock.  This cotton foot apparel became irritating--scratchy on my breast wound.

I have a prescription to get an official breast prosthesis, but I'm not ready for that yet.

To replace the annoying sock, I went to Wal-Mart and bought a polyester breast pad.  But this too is irritating.

Believe it or not, there are actually fake boobs at the thrift store.  Used fake boobs.  Ten bucks a set.  I thought of buying them for a second, but only for a second.

Now, I'm wearing a lightly padded bra and not putting anything in the right cup.  The cup often "deflates," sinks in on itself.  I know this looks strange, but I don't care.

I'm in the state of shock because of what I've been through.  Butchered.

When will I get that official prosthesis?

Maybe never.

Maybe I'll wear my new body with pride.  Why do I have to pretend there's something there when there's not?

I've come a long way.

I guess my breasts don't define me anymore.  They're just body parts, like feet.  Actually, they're artifacts of suffering.  Of survival.  They are proof that I did not succumb to the Big C.

They're fine the way they are--completely mismatched.

And I'm alive.

And that's all that matters.