So, I found an old friend through the wonders of Facebook recently. She couldn’t quite believe it was me. She asked “wow, girl! What happened? You look amazing!”
I replied back with a simple smirk on my face that she obviously couldn’t see and said “I lived.”
I’m currently watching a show where a stripper is diagnosed with breast cancer. She has the BRCA gene. In this film, the doctor is removing both breasts; a preventative bilateral mastectomy, in an attempt to prevent the canSer from reoccurring. This isn’t about the BRCA gene or the canSer itself. It is about the girl’s struggle with losing her identity.
I have the BRCA gene. I will most likely opt for the same surgery. But here’s the thing…see, I really don’t think people in general truly understand just how much something as simple and commonplace as what our bodies look like define us as an individual, as a woman, a mother, sister, professional, etc. Even for me, it was (and still sometimes is) a struggle to not be defined by my body parts or my hair.
My things don’t define me as a woman. Even without breasts, make up, hair, a career, whatever…I am still me.
I don’t sit around feeling sorry for myself or looking for pity because of things that are out of my control. But for those things that are in my control, you can bet your pretty chemo scarves that they are gettin’ rocked out. Pretty is what changes, not the woman. Sometimes, it just takes a shitty hand to teach someone that even with that shitty hand, the gambler can still win.
Besides, just because you don’t have boobs anymore, doesn’t mean you can’t jam out with your clam out.
You lived, baby.
So GO LIVE for cryin’ out loud.
Hugs and Sunny Surf,
Jessica and Gertrude
