About this Blog

I've always liked the word, "bosom". There's something about it. Cozy, comfy, round, homey, central, friendly. I use the word a lot. Ask my kids. I used to walk into their rooms in the morning with an affectionate kiss and endearments such as "morning, my little chicken bosom!" Tuck them in at night, "sleep well little pickle bosoms!"

On the other hand, I do not like the word "blog". It comes from the word "weblog." I suppose it is a logical reduction, but it sounds like a dry heave to me. I shouldn't probably dwell on dry heaving right now.

Bosoms. I've spent so many hours of my life thinking about them, comparing them to other ones, scrutinizing how they look in different bras, under different shirts. Feeling proud of them when I was a teenager, a little ashamed of them when I was in college, in awe of them when I was nursing my babies, and afraid of them much of the time. They were on the large size for a short, narrow person. But as individual entities not too impressive.

The best thing about my boobs were that they were all mine. No one could borrow them, forget to return them, try them on, steal them. A select few were allowed to touch them, but only under very tightly controlled circumstances. I had complete control over them. Until recently.

Of late, they have been acting up. Creating drama among radiologists, surgeons, oncologists and family members. Throwing out little rebellious flares of warning that greater havoc was coming. Little mischievous outbursts that required closer examination, microscopic analysis and behavioral modification.

So I tightened up the controls. The first thing was to reduce their size by losing weight. If I had to pacify unruly body parts, better that they be diminished.  I also reduced fat intake, alcohol intake, caffeine intake; upped the intake of omega-3 fatty acids, vitamins, yoga sessions, beta-carotene... The bosoms were not to be cowed...They burst into cancerous flames! Okay, that may be a bit melodramatic. I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer.  That was the straw that really broke the camel's (?), cow's (?) back.

So...you probably guessed it by now...based on my use of the past tense...I chopped them off. Well, I didn't do it...though I felt like doing it. I hired someone to do it. (I tend not to be a do-it-your-selfer kind of person. I hire people to clean my house, mow my lawn, pull my weeds, paint my house, chop off my boobs. I'm pretty lazy. Maybe that's why this happened to me.)

So, back to the point. I started this blog to write about life without bosoms. Some of my readers (which at this point and maybe at all future points, number approximately 0 - or ,1 if you count me...the jury's still out on how much time I may devote to reading this stuff) may know that there are thousands of blogs out there written by cancer patients. Maybe it is therapeutic, so I'm giving it a try.

Please do not hesitate to send me your comments and to let me know that I ought to find another form of therapy.