Bosom Buddy for Breast Awareness!

There are somewhere in the neighborhood of 175 million women and girls in the United States.

Assuming the standard factory-issued equipment, that gives America roughly 350 million breasts.

Bosoms, if you're a lady.

Give or take.

And for a country with that many of them, we spend an astonishing amount of time thinking about them.

We push them up. Strap them down. Make them bigger. Make them smaller. Photograph them. Censor them. Sell things with them.

Then we turn everything pink.

Pink ribbons.

Save the tatas.

Save second base.

We are, by every available measure, extremely aware that breasts exist.

And yet, for a culture this obsessed with them, we are remarkably uncomfortable talking about what actually happens to them.

The painful things.

The weird things.

The scary things.

The things that happen when a breast stops being decorative and becomes a medical project.

I know this because my right bosom has recently become a full-time job.

Once I started talking about it, women started telling me their stories.

Biopsies. Callbacks. Calcifications. Lumps. Surgeries. Scars.

So many women.

And every time, I thought:

Where the hell have all of you been?

Apparently, millions of us have been quietly carrying around these stories while discussing our breasts primarily in terms of underwire and whether a particular bra gives us weird side-boob.

Maybe we should talk about this more.

So.

I'll start.

Previously, on My Bosoms...

I had my first mammogram in 2023.

I wrote about it because what should have been a fairly ordinary medical appointment somehow became a story about four fully clothed medical professionals examining a hickey on my breast while I stood there naked from the waist up, trying to explain myself.

At one point, I offered to explain how hickeys work.

They declined.

Two days later, I received my results and announced that my breasts were officially "lovely and perfect."

I also wrote that I loved my breasts more than I loved cheese, which, if you know me, was essentially a blood oath.

Unfortunately, the mammogram itself hurt more than I expected.

And the whole experience had been embarrassing enough that when it was time to go back the following year, I did what millions of otherwise reasonably intelligent adults do when presented with an unpleasant medical responsibility.

I didn't.

Excellent choice.

Eventually, I went back.

Ironically, the second mammogram barely hurt at all.

So I had apparently spent time avoiding preventive healthcare because one mammography technician had once turned the compression dial to Panini.

This time, though, they found things.

Three things, actually.

A lump and two separate areas of calcifications in my right breast.

The lump turned out to be nothing.

Hooray for the lump.

The calcifications were more complicated.

After additional imaging and more flattening, photographing, and repositioning of my increasingly uncooperative bosom, I was scheduled for a stereotactic biopsy.

Which is a very impressive medical term for:

We are going to trap your breast between Plexiglas plates and bring in machinery.

Enter Bosom Buddy

The doctor performing my biopsy was a younger, very serious-looking man. White. Preppy. Professional.

Before the procedure, he took a purple surgical marker and drew a circle on my right breast so nobody would accidentally biopsy the wrong one.

Useful.

I personally had been keeping track, but teamwork is important.

The circle wasn't quite complete. It had a little upward swoop on one side that looked vaguely like hair.

When I got into the procedure room with the two female nurses, I looked down and said something to the effect of:

"This feels unfinished. It really should be a face."

They agreed.

One of the nurses added eyes.

A nose.

A mouth.

Arms.

Legs.

And so Bosom Buddy was born.

He seemed happy.

He had no idea what was coming.

Neither, really, did I.

Because then they put my breast between the Plexiglas plates and started trying to position it so they could reach both suspicious areas.

Squish.

Picture.

Move.

Squish.

Picture.

Move.

For something like twenty minutes.

And this is where my particular medical weirdness becomes relevant.

Local anesthetics and I do not have a good relationship. Tiny amounts of lidocaine have made me feel as though fiery ants were crawling through my body. Anesthesia in general has historically been a choose-your-own-adventure situation, and none of the available endings have been particularly charming.

So there wasn't much pharmaceutical assistance during all that positioning.

Mostly I sat there watching.

And because of the angle, I could see Bosom Buddy being crushed between the plates.

His once-cheerful little face stretched sideways.

Then vertically.

His mouth contorted.

His head changed shapes.

At various points he appeared to be experiencing states of matter not yet recognized by science.

The nurses and I thought this was hysterical.

The doctor did not.

We actually wondered aloud how long it would take him to acknowledge that the breast he was currently biopsying had a smiling stick figure drawn on it.

He never did.

He remained completely focused.

Professional.

Stoic.

Eventually, after everything was finished, I asked him.

"Did you notice the face?"

"Yes," he said. "I didn't want to draw attention to it. I thought it might be inappropriate."

Sir.

There are arms and legs on my bosom.

We left Appropriate about three exits ago.

Unfortunately, while Bosom Buddy was providing excellent entertainment, the actual procedure was not going nearly as well.

They could not reach the second area.

They tried.

And tried.

And squished.

And repositioned.

And eventually gave up.

They would biopsy the area they could reach.

Then someone brought over the biopsy device.

I had been offered something to cover my eyes.

Absolutely not.

If I was going to feel this, I wanted to see what was coming toward me.

This seemed like a perfectly reasonable position until they wheeled over what appeared to be an industrial power tool with a substantial needle attached to it.

The doctor apparently noticed my expression.

"I know it looks big," he assured me, "but not all of it goes inside you."

There was a moment of silence.

Then I said:

"We've now entered the porn portion of the day."

The nurses laughed.

The doctor did not.

I don't think I was his favorite patient.

They needed four tissue samples.

They got two.

From one area.

The other suspicious area was never sampled at all.

But eventually, I was released back into society with a bandage, significant bruising, and one traumatized little purple man drawn across my breast.

Then the results came back.

Good News!*

Not cancer.

The pathology showed atypical ductal hyperplasia, or ADH.

ADH means there are abnormal cells in the breast ducts. Not cancer. Also not exactly a gold star.

Still:

Not cancer.

That was what I heard.

That was what everyone heard.

I shared the news.

People celebrated.

I celebrated.

There was much unclenching.

Then I saw my OB/GYN.

And she reminded me that there were a few minor details attached to our wonderful news.

They had needed four samples.

They got two.

Those two came from only one of the two suspicious areas.

And those two samples contained enough abnormal tissue that the entire area still needed to be removed.

The second area?

Still a complete mystery.

So technically, yes.

Good news.

It just came with footnotes.

Not cancer!

*In the two pieces we managed to obtain.

*From one of the two areas we were investigating.

*Please continue worrying.

Eventually, I met with a breast surgeon.

The first area definitely needed to come out.

Then she explained that, regarding the second area, we had a choice.

We could continue watching it.

Or, since she was already going to be operating, she could remove that one too.

I believe my response was essentially:

"That sounds like the stupidest question ever."

Take it out.

We're already in there.

This is not a kitchen remodel where we discover questionable wiring behind the cabinets and decide we'll deal with it next spring.

If we're opening the wall, fix the wiring.

My surgeon was also very straightforward with me.

The biopsy is reassuring, but it cannot tell us what is happening in all the tissue they couldn't sample. Once everything is removed and examined, the final pathology may show something more.

Possibly cancer.

Possibly not.

We don't know yet.

Which is a remarkably strange place to live.

Not cancer.

Maybe cancer.

Probably fine.

Maybe not.

Carry on with your Tuesday.

Meanwhile, I Am Apparently Fine

This is the part I've had trouble explaining, even to people very close to me.

I am terrified.

I don't mean vaguely nervous.

I am terrified.

I'm scared about what they're going to find.

I'm scared about what my breast will look like afterward.

But strangely, I may be most frightened about the anesthesia.

Anesthesia and I have history.

When I had my wisdom teeth removed at eighteen, I woke up during the procedure.

The last time I had surgery, in 2006, something they gave me felt like fire being shot through my veins.

Local anesthetics can make my entire body feel as though it has been invaded by burning ants.

So my approach to anesthesia for the past twenty years has basically been:

No, thank you. I would prefer consciousness.

Unfortunately, breast surgery is one of those situations where consciousness really isn't the fun alternative.

So this time I have to do it.

And everybody assures me this is supposed to be a relatively straightforward outpatient surgery.

My brain hears:

Yes, assuming your body doesn't decide to become an extracurricular activity.

I'm afraid I'll react badly.

I'm afraid I'll wake up.

I'm afraid I won't wake up properly.

I'm afraid something that's supposed to take a few hours will turn into something much bigger.

And somehow, despite all of that, I am just...

Fine.

Walking around.

Working.

Shopping.

Making jokes.

Planning dinner.

Buying surgical bras.

I feel almost as though I am watching myself do all of this from somewhere outside my body.

There's a woman walking around acting completely normal.

She looks remarkably calm.

Meanwhile, somewhere inside her head, another woman is screaming continuously.

Apparently they're both me.

I don't really know what that is.

Maybe it's denial.

Maybe it's coping.

Maybe this is simply how I deal with things I cannot control.

There is nothing I can do right now to change the pathology.

There is nothing I can do about the anesthesia except tell the doctors everything I know and let them do their jobs.

So I make jokes.

Because apparently my emergency response system is sarcasm.

And Apparently I Have to Wash My Hair TWICE

Then came the preoperative instructions.

There are a lot of them.

Shower the night before surgery.

Fine.

Wash your hair.

Fine.

Use special soap.

Fine.

Then wake up the next morning and do it all again.

Including washing your hair.

Excuse me?

Sir. I have curly hair.

I wash my hair approximately once a week.

This is not neglect.

This is diplomacy.

Curly hair exists within a delicate ecosystem of moisture, product, hope, and negotiations with atmospheric humidity.

You cannot simply wash it twice in twelve hours and expect there to be no consequences.

And I can't put product in it afterward.

So apparently I am supposed to arrive for surgery with freshly washed, completely product-free curls doing whatever God and static electricity intended.

No deodorant.

No lotion.

No make-up.

No food.

No drinks.

No shaving.

Nothing.

Meanwhile, I've also had to stop hormone replacement therapy during all of this.

My body has responded to that decision very calmly by setting itself on fire several times a day and apparently dissolving my joints.

Joint pain was one of the main reasons I started HRT in the first place.

Now I can barely bend the middle finger on my right hand.

Which feels appropriate.

Even my body is giving this entire situation the finger.

So I will arrive at the hospital hungry, thirsty, deodorant-free, hormonally unstable, unable to bend properly, and sporting hair that hasn't looked this confused since approximately 1987.

And then you're going to cut into my favorite bosom.

Good luck to you.

Yes, I Care What It Looks Like

This is another thing I think women hesitate to say.

I am worried about what my breast is going to look like.

There.

I said it.

Obviously, I want the suspicious tissue removed.

Obviously, if there's cancer in there, I want that removed too.

I would rather have an ugly bosom and be alive than a spectacular rack at my funeral.

I feel fairly confident nobody needs me to clarify that.

But we're allowed to care about both things.

I like my breasts.

Again, there is written documentation.

And naturally, this is happening to the good one.

My left breast has had some structural difficulties over the years.

She's doing her best.

We don't need to embarrass her publicly.

But the right one?

Pristine.

Dependable.

Really carrying the department.

And now my surgeon has warned me that because the two suspicious areas are separate and one is difficult to reach, I'll probably have a substantial scar.

Fortunately, the areas are underneath the breast.

If one must acquire a large scar across one's bosom, underneath seems like fairly respectable real estate.

I'm more curious about what happens to the geography afterward.

They're removing tissue from two different places.

What if Righty ends up smaller?

What if she ends up perkier?

What if the surgery accidentally gives her a little lift while Lefty continues hanging out exactly where gravity put her?

Am I going to leave the hospital with one thirty-year-old breast and one that has lived through several recessions?

Will I lean to one side?

Will I start walking in circles like someone wearing one orthopedic shoe?

These are legitimate questions.

They are not, however, covered in any of the surgical literature I've been given.

Prime Day Has Changed

All of this also happened to coincide with Amazon Prime Day.

In years past, this meant buying something unnecessary because it was thirty percent off and therefore, somehow, fiscally responsible.

This year?

Mastectomy pillow.

Seatbelt pillow.

Post-surgical bras.

Ice packs.

Every listing featured a woman smiling like she had just booked a spa weekend.

It was the worst Prime Day haul of my life.

During one of my pre-op phone calls, a woman ran through the instructions and told me:

"Don't shave the area."

"I don't really shave my breasts very often," I said, "but thank you."

She meant my armpit.

Apparently.

Also, before surgery, they need to place localization markers so the surgeon can find exactly where these areas are.

Remember the second spot that nobody could reach during the biopsy?

Yeah.

That one.

Because it is difficult to access, I have to travel to a different hospital and see a specialist to have that part done.

The woman scheduling it explained all of this and then asked:

"Is that okay?"

I never know how we're supposed to answer questions like this.

No.

Not particularly.

I dislike driving there.

I dislike medical procedures.

I dislike specialists putting things inside my bosom.

But when the competing option is to leave suspicious tissue in there because the commute is annoying, I suppose I'll make the drive.

Thanks so much.

Maybe We Should Talk About This

The more I've gone through this, the stranger one thing has seemed to me.

Women don't talk about this stuff enough.

Not really.

We don't talk honestly about childbirth.

We don't talk enough about menopause.

We don't talk about what happens to our bodies as we age.

We don't talk about painful sex, hot flashes, scars, leaking, sagging, biopsies, terrifying phone calls, or the bizarre medical experiences that somehow become funny three hours after you've finished crying about them.

Or maybe we talk about them quietly.

One-on-one.

After someone else admits it first.

That's certainly what happened to me.

The second I started saying what was happening, other women started saying:

"That happened to me."

"My sister had that."

"I had a biopsy."

"They found calcifications in mine."

"I had surgery, too."

And I kept wondering why I hadn't known.

Maybe we're embarrassed.

Maybe we're private.

Maybe we're all trying to maintain the illusion that everybody else's body is behaving normally.

Maybe there simply isn't a graceful way to introduce, "So anyway, they drew a stick figure on my breast and then fired a biopsy needle through his abdomen" into casual conversation.

But I think we should try.

Because we've certainly spent enough time talking about breasts when they're pretty.

We've built entire industries around how they look.

We've made them symbols of beauty, sex, femininity, motherhood, youth, aging, and cancer.

We've sold cars with them.

We've sold beer with them.

We've slapped pink ribbons on everything we can find.

Maybe, after all of that, we can also talk about what it's actually like to own a pair.

Sometimes they're lovely and perfect.

Sometimes they get smashed into Plexiglas.

Sometimes they acquire a tiny purple roommate.

Sometimes they scare the hell out of you.

And yes, I'm making jokes about all of this.

I'm making a lot of jokes.

That doesn't mean I'm not scared.

The truth is that beneath all of this joking, I am probably more frightened than I have allowed almost anyone to see.

I don't know what they're going to find.

I don't know how my body is going to react to surgery.

I don't know what I'll look like afterward.

I don't know whether this procedure ends this story or simply tells me what the next chapter is going to be.

And apparently I don't know how to sit quietly with any of that.

So instead, Bosom Buddy got arms.

The biopsy became pornography.

My surgical plan became an ice cream excavation.

And somewhere in the middle of being terrified, I kept laughing.

Maybe that's inappropriate.

Fortunately, we've already established that I have a fairly high tolerance for inappropriate.

And for now, that's about all I can do.

Laugh.

Show up.

Let them scoop out whatever needs scooping.

And after that, maybe I’ll get Bosom Buddy permanently tattooed on Righty.

A tiny purple reminder that sometimes, when something scares the hell out of you, the only reasonable thing to do is draw a face on it.