Breasts. To Have or Not to Have.....

2000

I wrote this 3 years ago - and out of deference to my then-in-high-school child, did not put it on-line.
It's time.

    I hate my big breasts. It's OK to say that. What do they do for me?
    Nothing.
    Except that I can't see my feet. And I lean forward over the computer. Hunched.
    And I can't close my blouses. Or my jackets. Forget sweaters.
    I haven't figured out how to get my backpack on because the strap across the chest no longer closes and the BSA hike is coming up soon.
    So I will ponder their removal. Or at least their drastic reduction.
    In my 20s, I used to be a small 34A. It was fine. Of course, I was living on one meal a day while I was putting my first husband through law school. I couldn't afford to eat. I weighed 122 pounds. I stand 5'5". I was thin. I was offered modeling jobs. I looked like I had escaped from a concentration camp. They now call this anorexia.
    Notice the past tense when I say thin.
    I remember that I had always worn 34B bras in high school - my mother's hand-me-downs - and one day, a year or two after I got married for the first time, I actually got up the nerve to be fitted. I was still very shy. (No, really, I was.) I was so proud. I remember coming home and boasting of my success in finally not looking wrinkled under my dresses to my then husband. The one I was putting through law school by skipping meals.
    A lot of us in my generation put our husbands through graduate school. It was the thing to do in the 60's. You got married early (before he was ready to support you) to "protect" your loved one from the draft. And you gave up your ideas of identity and worked to pay tuition. A lot of these clowns went to their graduations and then departed the helpmate that put them through school. One guy went to his medical school graduation and never went back home to the wife and six kids. The courts call us throw-away wives.
    Mine was an abusive jerk.
    Following my adventure in the bra department at Sears, one of his favorite tirades forever after was that I was only an A-cup. He felt cheated. I wasn't even a B-girl.
    I didn't even know what that was. Hollywood hadn't registered since I couldn't afford to see many movies.
    Strike one bozo.
    Once I had a child (second husband), things were different. I gained weight (to 166 lb.) while pregnant. I choose to breast feed my premature infant. My breasts swelled up like two footballs. The baby didn't need supplementary feedings. He needed a diet. My bra at rest looked like ones my aunt had worn. Double-D.
    This husband (another idiot) walked by the bathroom where I was in the tub with the infant and commented "Geez. I didn't think they came that big except in Playboy."
    Thoughtful comment to make to a new mother.
    After breast feeding was over for that child, I dieted back to 122 pounds and got a divorce.
    I was back into a 34 but now it was a B cup. Or I would spill out of an A.
    Nobody understood then that women manufacture fat cells while pregnant and the chest is one of their destinations. They made a lot of noise about people growing fat cells while they are young. Don't have fat babies. Etc. They neglected to warn us women that pregnancy is another time of growth.
    Well, I looked good. I didn't need push-up bras to have a little cleavage. Sweaters had a new meaning. I had to add scarves. Long ones.
    Then, I had a second baby. (Different father.) OOPS. This baby was full term. And a big milk drinker. I went in to delivery weighing 195 lb. and came out almost as large. I breastfed him too. For six months.
    (Did you know that if you eat spinach your baby's stool will be green? That if you diet while breastfeeding the child will want to nurse more often? That a can of beer a week helps milk production? Do they feed beer to cows? That eating Yogurt and drinking lots of tea helps? I throw that in.)
    It took eight years of effort and 8 months on doctor-supervised Medifast to get down to 132lb after the second child. I was, by then, in my late 40's. I didn't stay at 132 - my body decided that 145lb. was better. And I had two operations to repair damage done by the pregnancy - ripped abdominal wall - hernia from top to bottom.
    I never got below a 36C. Now there's a look. Can we say minimizer? I whole new concept in disguise dressing.
    It's when the company president introduces you to people while staring at your chest. Blouses gap. Even vests don't help. I learned to be careful, to live with it. Tried not to be upset when a friend said I was zaftig.
    I definitely had picked up a little padding. Well, I was approaching 50. I had a "chest".
    Instead of sulking, I made sexy evening gowns and chased Fabio around for a few years.
    Actually, my breasts began to turn into pillows. At least my sons said so.
    And, I hit menopause.
    Did you know that taking Estrogen makes your body think you are pregnant? That you get to grow more fat cells when talking Estrogen? That's why we see women gain weight at that time. One of the reasons it's so hard to loose that weight. After all, it has constructed all that additional storage space.
    I went up fast. I have no thyroid so I always gain a lot during pregnancy. Imagine a pregnancy that lasts and lasts.
    Thanks Doc.
    I have bras in sizes 36C-38C-40C-42C-44D and all of them less than two years old. I have bra extenders. I have reached my limit. My last child is now [at this writing] 15, 6' tall and over 200lb.. Big boy. Loves to comment about them.
    Or "help! I'm being smothered!" (When I lean over to kiss him goodnight.)
    Or his favorite, "Boing, Boing, Boing!" (Sound effects he makes after faking a hit.) (Accompanied by reactions to being pursued by bouncing footballs.)
    Thoughtful child.
    As I said, I can't see my feet. I think I will have breast-reduction surgery. And I will send the excess to my first husband.
    After all, he was so upset I didn't have enough. He can have it.
Epilog     The first three doctors (male) all found other things to correct first. So the breasts remained. The last doctor, male, was arguing with me about their final size.
    So I went to a woman doctor. The one my internist said his wife used.
    Four doctors telling you that you need to do this and that no one ever regrets it was enough for me.
    So was the ogling I got in the leather outfit at Halloween. Men just can't control themselves!
    She knew exactly what to do. Knew exactly what I meant. I said I wanted to need a Miracle bra.

Epilog
The removed tissue will go to breast research - they need to test a tool being developed for less invasive biopsy probing for breast cancer testing. So I said take it, it's yours!
They said thank you.