It’s the fad title; The Year Of Living …. whatever, fill in the blank with your choice of taking a year of one’s life to live Simply, or Biblically etc. etc. etc. Having breasts amputated is rarely a first choice for dedicating a year. When homegrown breasts are gone, there’s three options: either they’re gone for good, or substituted with prosthetics or reconstructed surgically. My treatment over,  my choice among those three:The choice is easy for me

This is me now, flat as my Canadian prairie roots from neck to navel. Without new breasts to replace the ones I donated to the Breast Cancer Tumor Bank research: For whom would I add weight to my chest: not for me, and as Decker said, “Yeah, I miss your breasts, but I’d miss you more.” He got serious points for that answer.

Thinking of reconstruction gives me phantom nipple pain

More surgery, anesthetic, pain, post-anesthetic vomiting, pain, extra scars, pain, new risks of infection, pain, rounds of different doctors, pain, more time off work, pain. Did I mention not liking pain? With my risk of recurrence so high, there’s no reason (save vanity) to add implants as obstacles to finding any future problems.

Even though our wonderful universal health insurance would pay for reconstructive surgery or prosthetic boobies, I’d pay personally in oh-so-many other ways.

My image of the prosthetics option

Every morning sling on a bra filled with plastic forms in the shape of the breasts of my choice, complete with a little mound pretending to be a nipple. I didn’t even wear a bra until I was about 55. High on the list of benefits from a double mastectomy is NEVER to be fitted for, buy or wear a bra again.

Or, how about this labour saving device – stick on boobs? Wake up, shower, dry off, pull on panties, reach for today’s size/shape of breasts from the top shelf, slap them on your chest, button up a blouse and be good to go. What fun that’ll be on a hot day! Two blobs of gel stuck over the scars, sweat running between them where my cleavage used to be. Those babies don’t breathe! Then there’s the itch and redness from the sticking mechanism, the allergic reaction to the latex-y material, or the possibility one of them loses its adhesive and slides down to my waistband.

What is the problem that needs solving?

For what purpose would I torture my working otherwise healthy body into supporting Barbie-wannabes? I never understood breast obsession when I had two nice ones of my very own. Having manufactured and purchased versions doesn’t captivate me. If no one leers at my body that’s built like a 12-year-old boy’s, well, terrific. I’m grateful for a reliable, living body, scars, no nipples, and all.

As a Conflict Manager, I’m accustomed to brain-storming options and creating novel resolutions. Sometimes the issue presented as needing solutions just isn’t a problem. I’m embracing the change.