It’s 4 am, I’m watching Downton Abbey for the first time, and can’t keep my mind on it.
I’ve looked (yet again) at photos of breasts in various stages of de- and re-construction. I speak to people who know I’m having this surgery and watch their eyes drift to my chest. It’s OK, I’d do the same.
I’ve taken pictures of myself as I stand now, looked at various surgeons’ “outcomes,” hoped for something between myself as I am and something otherwise tolerable, yet know I have no control over any of it.
In the end, the point of this exercise is a lifesaving one. Just as I remind new parents the point of labor is not a “birth experience,” but rather the not-always-simple act of participating in renewed and extended life. Plenty of folks don’t get to enjoy that, whether they’re having a baby or facing illness.
I’m hoping I do. And I’m distressed to be so very caught up in fear of pain and disfigurement. In fact, I’m surprised at it. Worry about pain and its management, mostly. I wouldn’t have thought it, though I’ve always known myself for, maybe not a coward, but a wuss. Good medical term, that.
My lovely father was an artist without compare. (I can say that–he’s my dad–but it was ever true.) Much of his career and teaching was spent putting the female form on canvas. Later, he experimented with bronze. One of those is shown here and demonstrates his attitude of realism toward the female form.
I was fortunate to be influenced by this man who appreciated women in all their variety. Other than ignoring the piercings in a pregnant model’s nipples, I never saw him “improve” on any woman he painted.
I have a copy of that painting. Its original drew a fair sum in a fundraiser for my midwifery school. A copy hangs in my office at Pearl Place, where I was worried my then-employer’s mother would object, given her career as a missionary. But she never batted an eye, owing no doubt to the simple verity of the woman and the artist who painted her.
I have every hope the surgeons who work on me tomorrow have no less respect for female normalcy than did my dad. I’ve uploaded a couple of photos here. One of my dad’s work; a bronze that sits proudly on my mantlepiece. Dad’s wife was kind enough to make a gift of it to me after his death.
The other piece is by an old friend of his, whose nudes from the 70s feature breasts a lot like those contemporary women choose for augmentation. I’m not too worried I’ll end up with those, but it will be truly frightening if my so-small readership can’t tell which is whose.
Don’t worry, there won’t be a test.