Waiting for a Mammogram

I was 12 years old when I got my first bra.

My mom came into my room to give me the garment that would transport me into womanhood.

A rite of passage.

A gangly teenager, I watched my cotton t-shirts fill out.

Wondering how big the new mounds would get,

noticing how differently boys and men looked at me

now that my chest wasn’t flat like a child’s.

In college, I wore sports bras and wished my bust was smaller,

as I ran circles on the track field.

I didn’t want the bounce or the attention they gave me.

Excuse me, sir, my face is up here.

When I started dating,

I was told I was beautiful,

and my tits were noted as perfect.

I used that power but hated it at the same time.

Aren’t they just fatty tissue?

Don’t you care about my mind too?

On my wedding day,

my cleavage looked breathtaking in white silk.

I loved the way my new husband traced my curves with his eyes.

Happily, I was no longer just my own.

Years later, we brought small bundles home from the hospital.

Babies that sucked nutrients out of me.

Swollen and life-giving,

my breasts were no longer just for pleasure.

They were sustaining new life.

Now, mid-30s with three kids,

my ta-tas are no longer as perky as they once were,

but I am proud for what they have accomplished.

And grateful they still hold up in a bikini.

But, everything changed last month,

when sister and Mother were diagnosed.

Words like “Lobular carcinoma”, “high risk”, and “double mastectomy”.

plague me as I wait for my mammogram.

and gaze into the mirror at my once innocent breasts.

I no longer see what I once saw:

graceful curves, feminine power, and life-giving comfort.

Now all I can do is wonder,

what horrors lay hidden beneath fatty tissue.

Piles of tumors, that will be sliced off,

to try and save my very life.