Here's the trouble with ta-tas...
Or, if you prefer, tits.
Boobies.
Knockers.
Hooters.
Breasts.
They’re functional, decorative, and like just about any other aspect of women’s bodies, most of us aren’t happy with the ones we’ve got. They’re too small. Or they’re too big. They’re the wrong shape. Or they were fine until they hit that unfortunate point in the gravity + age equation. Whatever the aspect, we’ll find fault with ‘em.
Right up until we run into their universal flaw: their susceptibility to cancer.
My first experience with the death of a loved one came courtesy of breast cancer. I had just turned twelve when I learned my Nana had been diagnosed with cancer and would be having a double mastectomy. In other words, while I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my breasts, my Nana would be losing hers.
And while it was odd to see her without her breasts, she would ultimately lose far more. After battling valiantly, my Nana lost her life. She was only 60.
Today, there is good news about breast cancer. Early diagnosis and more effective treatments are saving lives. I have three friends who are currently celebrating more than a decade cancer-free, and others who have every reason to hope they will hit that milestone, too - and then keep going.
These improvements are the direct result of tireless fundraising, and every chance I have to help raise money to wipe out breast cancer, I am on it. Which is why I was thrilled when I was asked to contribute a story to Merry Chick Lit - Celebrate the Season With Six Sassy Shorts. This compilation features brand new holiday-themed short stories from a great group of chick lit authors: Carolyn Ridder Aspenson, Sarah Hitchcock, Francine LaSala, Nikki Mahood, Holly Martin - and little ol’ me! I am very happy to be in such talented company, and better still, ALL of the proceeds from sales of this Kindle exclusive e-book will go to New York- based breast cancer charity Rocking the Road for a Cure.
My Nana was everything a grandmother should be. She hosted countless sleepovers where we’d snuggle in her bed and watch The Love Boat or the Miss America Pageant (both forbidden at home, and in hindsight, my parents may have been in the right on that one). She’d tuck me in and send me off to sleep with “angel kisses” planted lightly all over my face - the absolute best way to drift into sweet dreams. She’d let me have Cookie Crisp or Lucky Charms for breakfast, and she’d feed me Spagettios for lunch. She felt a swim in the pool was an acceptable alternative to a bath. She could stop me from behaving badly with a single glance, and she could relieve the greatest of hurts with a hug.
Whatever you call them, breasts are great. Take care of ‘em. Feel your boobies. Get your annual mammogram. Stick around long enough to spoil your great-grandchildren with sugary treats, questionable television, and angel kisses.
After her surgery, my Nana showed me her scars where her breasts had once been. She told me they didn’t hurt. But I’ll tell you this.
It hurt like hell to lose her.
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