Breasts

Hey Sister,

If you need a fat transplant, I'll be your donor.

I expect that you will continue to come to terms, then fall apart, then come to terms again.  I'm on the outside, watching and wishing I could do more, but I expect it will be a long time after the surgery and follow up that you actually come to terms with having a different body, with victory over cancer.

It is good to respect and trust your healer.

I haven't spoken much with B#4 about his bladder cancer. I'm as guilty as the rest of the fam.  And I remember when a friend's husband died, I was afraid to talk about it.  I regret my cowardice now, and I was shocked by it then, but maybe we fear it is contagious, or we fear we will remind the person of the scary thing...

Because you have been in my thoughts most of the time, it triggers thoughts and memories.  I was thinking about breasts, about my breasts.  Mine used to be perfect.  Gravity has changed that, but there was a time when I really liked mine.

Then I thought deeper. I wondered if I only liked them because the boys noticed.  And I had a few flashes of memory.  Mine sprouted early, and so I got a little extra attention.  In truth, I didn't get attention, my body did.  I remember a classmate pushing his arms into my breasts in science class.  He never looked at my face. I could have been anyone/anything. I caught his eye and said, "They're real."  and moved away.  He was a little embarrassed and left me alone after that.  I remember my boss, the owner of the restaurant I worked in during high school...we had to wear white uniforms with aprons.  Mine had a zipper down the front.  I was coming through the back room, taking plates to the dining room.  Both hands were full.  As I walked past my boss, he reached over and pulled my zipper down.

I was afraid to tell anyone.  I also suspect I didn't think I was worth protecting. It would never have ever entered my mind that it was possible to live in a culture of respectful men who would never have considered touching my clothes.

More memories came, and suddenly I hated my breasts. I understood Mom's fears and knew why Grandma was so insistent that I wear a bra.  I felt fear and hatred for any part of me that would attract male attention, and attract male violence.  I thought about breasts as a reason or a focus for male attacks.

And I recalled a Friend who was raped for years by an uncle or stepfather, I don't remember clearly, but it was by a man who should have been protecting her.  She was 4 years old when it began.  She didn't have breasts.  I guess having a vagina is the key, the commodity, it's what we owe any male who asks or demands.

I read some statistics from NPR or PBS yesterday.  These figures were gathered for the period between 2001 and 2012.  In that time 3,073 Americans were killed by terrorists; 2,002 US troops were killed in Afghanistan; 4,486 UN troops were killed in Iraq AND...11,766American women were killed by their husbands or boyfriends...there is no safe place.

And so I have been lost in this hidden war against women. It is so pervasive, yet so invisible.

Our niece is leaving an abusive relationship, and I was skulking on Facebook, reading posts and thinking about it.  As I read his, and thinking about what he has done, I could only ask,  "What universe is he living in?"  He does not perceive his violence.

Bad day...I'm lost in this.

I'm also back to wishing I lived next door, so I could hover and be awkwardly supportive.

I love you,

Clare