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{my breasts in four parts} tae gordon Twelve. I spent all of 1993 waiting for my breasts to grow. I knew that I was on the verge of becoming a woman and thought that at any minute, they’d pop right out of my chest and suddenly be there. Two glorious mounds of flesh that would just show up while I was in Spanish class with Mrs. Monterouso or practicing the viola in my basement or walking to the deli with my brother. I didn’t know when it would happen, but knowing that it eventually would consumed me and so I often pretended to need to pee just for an excuse to run to the closest bathroom, lift my shirt and check on my breasts. Nope, still flat, I’d mutter disappointed and return to the dinner table. I charted the changes on my chest with the fervor and diligence of a scientist monitoring an endangered species. I documented the pigments of my nipples and kept notes on the skin surrounding them. Always tight and boringly flat. When I wasn’t obsessively groping my unborn boobies, I was studying the leaflet that I stole from my sister’s box of tampons. I memorized the diagrams and took notes. I knew the steps as well as an alcoholic in a rehabilitation program. Peel off wrapper. Clasp bottom section. Hold string and insert. I was ready and waiting for the blood to fall. Eighteen. It was 1998 when I realized that in fact, my breasts would probably fail to surpass the unimpressive A cup that they turned out to become. When I drilled my various boyfriends about their first impression upon seeing my breasts, they answered always the same, always flatly: More than a handful is too much. For awhile I believed they were telling the truth and thought about dating a midget or a woman or a baby, anyone with dainty, small hands that might actually feel satisfied when getting to second base with me. I wore a shirt over my bikinis and decapitated my favorite teddy bear then greedily tore balls of cotton from his neck and stuck them into my unnecessary bra each day. I’d throw the wadded clumps of fabric out when they got too sweaty and began to smell. My teddy bear’s emaciated body and look of horror lost when compared to the look of myself, breasts full and shapely, in the mirror. Twenty-Four. In March of 2006, I was almost a D cup and for the first time in my life, I could dress in the morning with my eyes open. I loved my breasts. I ran my hands over them first thing when I awoke, to make certain that in fact, they were still there. I was wild with lust for my own body and would take one of my giant breasts and peer at it with the grace and love that one might have for a baby. Unfortunately, I also now had a baby. And it was often hungry and wanted to feed off of the aforementioned beautiful breast and her bald round head would block my view. I tried to position the baby during feedings, moving her mouth as far off my breast as strategically possible, but she would start to cry and then my husband would wake up and he’d yell at me: Stop staring at your goddamn titty and feed our child! Even if only full of milk, my breasts were beautiful. I wore tight shirts, halter tops and bikinis, even in inappropriate places, like church or the grocery store. When my daughter began to wean and greedily want things like “solid food”, I declined her desire like a mother forbidding a tattoo. “Who wants something as mundane and boring as cereal?” I asked and waved my breast in her four year old face. Not so much later, they were gone. I ached and pained as I watched my once plump and victorious breasts retract to nothing, before my very own, tearful, eyes. Twenty-Eight. In March of 2009, I told the surgeon that I wanted breasts proportionate to my 5’1” frame. “D’s would be reasonable, don’t you think?” I said and he frowned. So we agreed on full C cups and set the date. I no longer gave much thought to who I was in the days awaiting the surgery. This is the old me, I thought. The insufficient and lackluster version of who I am about to become. And I was right. The moment I awoke in the recovery room, I felt changed. I stared at my breasts and while I couldn’t yet see them, bounded by medical tape and wraps, I still knew that underneath it all, they were perfect. And I reasoned that finally, so was I. For the next week, I wore my breasts like an engagement ring and commissioned every stranger and friend to look at them. It was like that saying, wearing your heart on your sleeve, only it wasn’t my heart, but my worth, and not on my sleeve, but under my shirt and I dared people to stare, stare hard and evaluate who I was and why I was worth a second look. I went to bars and said things like, “My eyes are up here”, and pretended to be offended when men noticed my very expensive and fabricated breasts tightly clung to clandestine tank tops. It was beautiful. And then I fell into a coma and awoke a full week later with both breasts stolen from my very skin. “Don’t speak!” The nurse urged. “You are intubated and cannot talk.” She continued. “Here”, she said. “You can point to letters and we will know what you want to say.” She handed me an alphabet board and very slowly, my fingers, not used to the sensation of being alive, pointed to the letters, one after another and again until the very first thought I had out of my coma was clear to her and the rest of the doctors surrounding me: Do I still have my breasts? I spelled. And she laughed, saying “Honey you’re lucky you still have your life.” |
