Almost there...

The presents are wrapped, the laundry’s done, the bills are paid.

And Thursday is it.

I don’t have to go through with this, I think.  Maybe I’ll call Dr. Grange. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” I’ll say.  “I’ve decided to take my chances.”

She’d understand.

The trouble is I had to go and start this damn blog.  I’ve been milking sympathy from everybody I know for months.  Some things, like secret elopements and double mastectomies, you just don’t back out of.

My stomach is turning over like a baby in utero when it rolls over.  But I’m forcing myself to be calm.  I’m not losing arms or legs or kidneys or any thing useful.  I’m getting rid of a couple of pockets of fat.  Is that so awful? 

People talk about “losing your femininity” with the loss of your breasts.  But my boobs barely put in an appearance until I became pregnant.  Even then, I never used them to breastfeed.  The truth is, my boobs are nothing to write home about.

But Terri and Deb said something that saddened me.  They have no sensation in their chests.  It’s like your jaw, Terri said, when the dentist squirts novacaine in it.  You touch your mouth and feel the strangeness of your own skin, but it’s as if you’re touching another person.

I’ve realized, in the last few months, what I really like to use my boobs for is hugging.  It has been a joy to hold my husband, my sons, baby animals and heartbroken students close to me.  When I hug people I love, I suppose my breasts feel like an extension of myself.

But it’s a silly thing to whine about.  What would Mom have given to have 40 more years with her family?  Breasts or no breasts, I still have long arms, and I’ll use them to hug every member of my family all at the same time if I want to.

I’m putting the fear in a little compartment off by itself today.  Instead, I will think of my husband John and how he will fold his six foot, seven inch body into a tiny little hospital recliner to nurse me through the night.  I will think about Kenny and Tommy coming home for Christmas and all the Christmases to come with my grandchildren.  I will think about the 60 members of my family squeezing into my brother Joe and his beautiful wife Stef’s house, and how the little ones will belt out “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer!” with all their might, and how someone besides me will open up the Bible and read the tender story from the Book of Luke this Christmas Eve.  And I’ll think about next Christmas when breast cancer is so far behind my sisters and me, that no matter how hard we look, we can’t see it anymore.

That’s the secret to all of this.  You just have to think about the people you love.

So I will not be afraid.  My sisters, Terri and Deb, and my mother Patti have given Mary and me a great gift.  It is because of their breast cancers that we are allowed to have this operation. 

And having the chance to grow old is a pretty good Christmas gift.

I’m almost there.