Dropping things, nervous, hands shaking, stomach knotted. Do my breasts hold small insidious killer cells or are they just “lumpy”? I may not have always been happy with their size—too small I’ve sometimes complained. But they swelled with pride and milk when they nourished my babes—giving them life, rosy cheeks and strong bodies.
They don’t bounce obnoxiously when I run for miles and miles. They still stand alert, at attention, when a brisk cold wind blows or a kiss is planted along my neck. I treasure them, with their little stretch marks that tell stories, like lines on a palm. They will never sag to my waist like two tennis balls in tube socks as one friend once described hers—the same woman who found killer cells. She’s okay now, with two perky breasts sculpted under a surgeon’s knife. I’d prefer to keep these breasts, imperfect though they may be, the surface sensitive to touch, nipples with neurons intact. In this waiting room, I’m praying for lumpy breasts.