What I will miss

I am trying to imagine whether I'll mourn losing my breasts. I've been so focused on the cancer, I hadn't given it much thought.

So I've decided before losing my second one, I should at least think about it.

My first memory of breasts, weren't of my own.
I was in fifth grade. Our class was released for recess, and my classmates and I went herding down the hill toward the playground. Back then, all kids loved recess. There was this girl in our class who, let's just say was "over developed" for a fifth-grader. As she raced toward the swings, something went terribly wrong. The zipper on her dress split apart; her bra came unsnapped; and one of her breasts came bouncing out. She was flushed with embarrassment.

I felt bad for her. But I laughed anyway because I was ten.

I won't miss her breasts.

My next memory was in grad school.
It was summer and our class converged on Galveston to study shore erosion. I shared a room with two other classmates and was the one who answered the door. Professor B. and I had almost concluded our conversation when, just before shutting the door, one of my girls spilled out. I gasped! He turned beet red, backed away, and never mentioned it again.

I won't miss that.

But what I will miss is feeding my children. For nearly three years (total, not each), I fed Christopher, Cameron and Noah. Cameron was an especially good eater: the only baby I've known to gain weight, instead of losing it, before leaving the hospital. Breastfeeding was more than a way of bonding with my babies. For me, it was the way my breast fulfilled their intended purpose.

Now that both breasts will soon be gone, I suppose that's okay too. They have completed their mission.
I know they will never look the same again.
And I'm sure that one day, I'll try to remember what they used-to look like.

But I also know that one day I won't wince or see anything particularly unsightly about my breasts. I will still feel like a woman.
And one day, I will count my blessings.

There's no way I would miss that.