Naked Vulnerability

I finally said the words out loud. I'm scared. I was talking with my daughter a day or so ago, and I said it. There's something about the "C" word that spawns this ugly fear. I've known several people who have died and several who are survivors. But the fact that there are non-survivors sponsors the fear. The statistics, though improving over the last 25 years, spawns the fear.

Being brutally honest here, the idea of looking down and seeing a vacant spot where my breasts were doesn't sit well with me. The idea of putting on a cute nightie and having the bodice hang loose and unfilled sounds grotesque. How can I be attractive to my darling husband with a scarred, or two scarred remnants of breasts? How can he possibly be attracted to this misconfigured person? Oh my head knows he loves me, and my heart loves him deeply to the core. But I'm struggling with reconciling the knowledge how how men work and how my husband has cherished me and my body all these years. I don't understand. My sorrow is deep.

But then my darling husband, hoping to cheer me up, said he could only handle a half rack anyway. (He had just watched an Outback Steakhouse commercial touting their ribs). Silly James.

I'm feeling better now.

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