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Mom’s bra has a fake breast in it, so people can’t tell. Her swimsuit does, too. When you squeeze the fake breast, it feels a bit wobbly. Like Jell-O. She could go to the hospital to add a new breast to her body, but she doesn’t want to. ”Enough surgery,” she says, and that’s that.
On Mom’s side without a breast she has a long scar. I tell her she’s like one of those archers from the Greek myths– those ladies who cut off one of their breasts so they could shoot their bows and arrows better. I read about them. Mom replied, “Honey, that’s an ancient rumor. I’m sure the Amazons could aim just fine with both breasts.” But she laughs. She can joke about it now that she doesn’t have cancer anymore.
There’s a breast on our living room wall. It’s made of plaster. Mom won’t ever take it down because it’s her breast. She made the sculpture of it before she lost the real one. She had to have it removed because of cancer.
