A Survivor Bares All
A cancer survivor bares all …giving comfort and hope to another.
BY VIRGINIA SILVERMAN

Anyone who saw us sitting in the bar could have thought we were a lesbian date gone bad. While Emily cried, I held her hand and pushed her hair away from her face.

All I could do was try to listen to her and not remember my own fear.

Emily (that’s what I’ll call her here to protect her privacy) had been diagnosed with breast cancer again, just the week before. Despite two previous lumpectomies and radiation, the cancer had returned.

This time, however, lumpectomy was not an option. Emily had to decide whether to amputate both of her breasts, all but eliminating the possibility of recurrence, or keep the so-far-unaffected left breast and hope.

“I don’t want to die, but I don’t want the scars,” she told me. “I love my breasts just as they are. I’ve always been told they’re my best feature. How will I ever be comfortable being undressed in front of anyone again?”

Emily—45, childless, not yet married (and with no prospects for either)—saw her diagnosis as a life sentence for loneliness. Without her breasts, she was sure that no one would want her.

All I could do was try to listen to her and not remember my own fear, the fear I’d faced four years earlier when I had to make the same decision. During a routine mammogram, my doctor found microscopic calcifications in my right breast; a biopsy revealed carcinoma. I gave up both my breasts. I knew there was a 40 percent chance of recurrence. But I had a three-year-old daughter, so I wanted to ensure a cure. And, I have to admit, symmetry was also important to me.

After a double mastectomy, I became the proud owner of two silicone implants, 350 cc each, which increased my cup size to 36C. (Hey, I was determined to see some sort of upside in cancer. )

“My implants feel natural; silicone is totally safe and has a much more natural shape,” I told Emily. “They even bounce when I jog!”

She laughed a little. And then I came up with an idea. “Do you want to see them?” I asked. “I could show you what the scars look like after four years. Hell, you can even touch them if you want to. I won’t feel it.” (I’d lost nerve function in the front of my breasts after reconstructive surgery, though not everyone does.)

My strange offer seemed to distract her from her sadness. We started giggling like two schoolgirls.

Then Emily said “Check, please!” And we both laughed as we left our sweating cocktails on the table. We moved toward the ladies room and ducked into the handicapped stall. I unbuttoned my blouse without the least hesitation. I had never deliberately shown my breasts to another woman before, but this seemed perfectly natural now, given our relationship as sister survivors.

Emily stared. She seemed eager to catch a glimpse of what she would look like on the other side of the surgery. I found it strangely exhilarating.

“The scars are almost gone,” I pointed out. “You can only see them if you look very closely.”

Emily leaned in, trying to find the evidence. “Wow, they look fantastic,” she said. Almost with envy. Almost with admiration. I was proud. “Go ahead. You can touch them if you want to.”

Emily reached out with one finger and pressed the side of my left implant. “They feel so natural. I can’t believe it.”

“That’s what good silicone will do for you,” I answered knowingly as I watched her panic begin to subside. I could tell she could picture herself with her version of my breasts. I could tell she could see herself beyond the surgery.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked as I rebuttoned my blouse.

She paused a moment. Then she said, “Yeah, I think I can do this. I want to live. And I don’t want to have to go through this again.”

“How about we finish our drinks and talk about your new cup size?” I put my arm around her small shoulders and led her back into the crowded room. “Some days I wish I had gone for D’s.”

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