Boob Gone Rogue

Where do I begin this story?    Since this is about my boobs, we should probably start when they did.

I really didn’t think about my breasts until I was about 12.  When I noticed other girls starting to develop breasts, and I had nothing yet.  I would wonder what mine would look like, what they would feel like.  What would it feel like to have someone else touch them.  I knew what intercourse was by that time, and wondered about that as well, but that is not what this story is about.  I knew quite a bit about my body and the coming changes that would happen and about exploring those changes and my sexuality because I read, a lot.  I was, and still am, a voracious reader.   I read a gamut of genres and at that age was very interested in reproduction and the birth process. Even at that young age, and not voicing any of this to ANYONE in my little circle of life, thought that women had been giving birth for thousands of years, it really seemed weird to me that we now did it in a hospitals sterile and cold confines, ripped away from all our loved ones and those, who we find our most support in those times, that I imagined birth would be like.  But I digress, that is another story for another day.

I wondered if my breasts, when they did decide to start growing, would end up as huge as my mothers.  Hers were beyond gozangas, they were watermelons!  And not the tiny little watermelons we see now in the grocery stores that have been cultivated to be small and seedless, easy to manage with one hand, and not feel rushed to eat before it goes bad.  I’m talking watermelons of the 60’s and 70’s – those huge things that required two hands to pick up and carry.  The kind where your parents, in preparation for a party weekend, cut a small hole in the side and tipped a giant bottle of vodka into it days before the party would start.  The kinds that were cut up for the watermelon eating contest; big wedges of bright red, fading to pink before the rind started, dotted with hundreds of glistening black seeds that would be swallowed or spat, and even both, by the contestants.  Yeah, that big.    I wasn’t sure I wanted breasts that big.

Then it happened, those soft little nipple buds started to perk.  They were so tender and any hard pressure to them hurt.  I was slightly embarrassed at their appearance.  I was happy to see them, but didn’t want to share them with the world.  I wanted them covered, compressed so their shape was not visible to the world through my clothing.  I wanted it to be my secret.

My best friend and I were learning to sew on her mother’s sewing machine, and she had given us some left over yardage and scraps of very rough muslin.  It had been sized with something that made one side extra rough.  We took those scraps and decided to make our first brassieres with them, shaping triangles and straps based on our measurements.  Somehow mine ended up being sewn with that rough side in, instead of out.  When I was at home and putting in on for the first time, it scratched and itched horribly!  I tried adding a layer of toilet paper between my skin and that rough, itchy fabric to relieve the utterly uncomfortable feeling it was creating.  My mother caught me doing this and announced to the family I was trying to stuff my new bra.  I tried to explain that was not what I was doing, and the feel of the fabric against my skin, but she wasn’t listening, she had already decided I was stuffing and they all had a great laugh at me.  I never wore my homemade bra again.

I was still silently distressed about my budding breasts, and how they showed through my clothing.  I finally convinced my mom to take me out to get a “training” bra.  I came home feeling so much more protected.  I wasn’t ready to share my changing body, my changing breasts to be, with the world.  Now, even though I knew my family knew they were there, and all my classmates, with this training bra on I could face the world and keep my “secret” until I was ready for them to be seen under my clothes.

That confidence lasted until I walked in the front door.  Four brothers, only girl….  Needless to say there was much snapping of the straps happening that day, and for a few more days to come before I was left alone.  Oh, and the comments on my “over the shoulder boulder holder” flew like rain in the wind.  I weathered that little storm of growing up in a house full of boys with no scars about the my image of my breasts amazingly enough.

Finally, they were something more than just sore, painful nipple buds, with mammary tissue behind those buds.  They grew to a cute, perky little size, not even close to my mother’s gargantuan mounds.  I was happy, they were happy, I really didn’t think about them anymore, except at the times boys did things to try to see them without my clothes.  One boy ended up with a black eye.  I never told my family about those few times.  But these were my boobs.  I would decide someday if I wanted to share them.

Then, there was the first boy I let look at them naked.  They were still those teenage, young perky boobs.  Gentle swells on my chest, with barely pink, tiny areola around my nipples.  We dated, we talked, we kissed, we eventually started to explore.  Then the day came when he asked if I would bare my breasts, I was afraid he would make fun of them, but shyly showed him anyway.  He looked at them in awe.  Kissed the top of each little swell, then, he went back to kissing me.  I felt so special.  I had something he adored and worshiped, they were part of me.  He worshiped me.  All was good with these boobs.  I was discovering my sexuality and where my boobs fit in to that picture.  It was a heady time, it was empowering.  I might have a secret weapon in this world where I was quickly realizing, girls were treated MUCH differently than boys.

Not much more thought went towards my breasts after that.  They were there, boys worshiped them, and the ones who didn’t, well they were not worth my time.  Can’t worship the boobies that were part of me, then you didn’t “worship” me, and I deserved more.

Then I discovered lace, and different bra styles, and UNDER WIRE.  Oh my!  The “girls” looked really good in lace and a cut that mimicked a halter style with smaller cups, rather than a full coverage cup and straps that lifted from the center of gravity, so to speak, with only that elastic band around my rib cage for support.  A pretty bra that showcased the girls was like a secret weapon under my clothes.  I felt powerful knowing what I looked like without the outer wear on, and no one knew but me.  Life was good.

Then I was pregnant.  The Breast Fairy paid a visit and my cute perky little mounds grew.  They felt different, heavier, they had an actual purpose.  New bras were purchased to house these changing mounds.  I now had grapefruits.  Nursing bras came next.  I tried several styles before I settled on one type by Olga, it had snaps at the center of the bra, not those funky clips on the straps, that I found I struggled with in the dressing room at Sears.  I loved how my now, heavy beasts settled into the soft cups of those bras.  The easy snap access at the center of the bra, so I could sweep the cup away to the side to expose the nipple for the tiny mouth that would soon be searching it out.  Life was good.

Then my first son was born, and my breasts fulfilled their true purpose in life.  I felt like a goddess, not only could I bring forth life, but I could nourish this life and make him grow with a source from my own body.  I loved my breasts at that point.  They worked perfectly.  My little boy grew and grew.

Then came the second son, and my breasts betrayed me.  The Breast Fairy was not to be found this pregnancy.  When my milk came in about three days after he was born, my boobs became these giant hard melons.  It was a Sunday morning and I wasn’t sure I had ANY clothes that would fit over them.  (Maternity wear was out of the question at that point, I refused to put another overly large piece of clothing on now that I could get into my bloated weight clothes.)  They provided the nourishment for my sweet little newborn for 6 weeks.  Then they started to go dry.  They quickly deflated back to their previous size, a little bigger than they had been prior to my first son.  I felt so betrayed by them, but put them back into my bra and went on with life and finding new ways to nourish this new little love in my life.  Life was good.

Two years later, a darling girl was brought forth, and this time the boobs worked as they should.  For six  months she received life-sustaining sustenance produced by my breasts.  I am still not sure if it was her, or my boobs, that started changing first, she started wanting more solid foods and a bottle.  My milk supply slowly dwindled as she turned to other sources for nourishment.  It was good.  My breasts and done their job and now they would just be boobs.  I didn’t really think about them again for a while.  I was a busy mom, three kids, a job, and then a single mom.  Life happened.  And I didn’t think much of my boobs.  There were there, they looked pretty darn good for having had three kids.  They had changed from their pre-children size and shape.  They were now more teardrop shape and heavier overall.  Larger than before my first child, but not too big, well-shaped.   They were now more than just little swelling mounds, but mature women’s breasts. Life was good.

Then I discovered Renaissance Fair.  Dress up!  I love playing dress up.  And the boobs!  Oh, the things you could do with boobs in those clothes.  They could be a prim and proper merchants boobs, small bulges tucked under a crisp white under gown, or a pretty, pretty princess with her vast tracks of land on display to snag the attentions of men of the court; or a hard-working maid with her stout bodice, holding her beauties snugly to keep them out-of-the-way.  A lady, with sheer sheeting hiding those bound beauties, and then a brazen, bare, giant mounded, boobs up to your chin, wench.  But I only thought of my breasts when I was playing dress up at fair.  Life was still good, and they were there, an accessory to my costume of choice when going out to play.

It wasn’t until I met my second husband that I really started noticing my breasts in more than a functional or accessory way.  Kids were heading into their teens, and my new love worshiped all of me.  I found new erogenous zones, my body was changing, maturing into midlife, and he made me feel sensuous, sexy, and very aware of my boobs, and the role they now played in my sex life.  I started wearing lace and satin underwear again.  My secret power was back.  Life continued, I found myself in a career, not just a job.  And the boobs, they were good.  Life was good

A few short years later I was diagnosed with Thyroid Cancer.  It was ok though, it was slow and easy to treat.  It took forever from the first sign that there was something wrong before final diagnosis.  Three long months. First my primary care physician doing a routine check up on my recent bout with allergies, feeling around my neck for any swollen lymph glands, asked me how long my thyroid had been that big.  That led to an ultrasound, which led to a fine needle biopsy.

Fun story there – one, my blood pressure tends to be on the low side of normal.  Two, I have horrible veins, they hide, and collapse at the first sign of a needle.  And three, my BP will drop very easily (see number one – low BP).  My parasympathetic nervous system being the system that controls this is usually triggered by sound, something that sounds like it should hurt.   It doesn’t have to hurt, just sound like it should, and, needles.  I get a phlebotomist that is tentative in any way on a blood draw or starting an IV – that vein they think they found is GONE, collapsed in a HOT second.  And then, the parasympathetic nervous system sets in.  It starts with the color draining from my face, then I start to feel that cold clamminess on my neck, which then radiates down through my body.  I’ve learned how to control this through meditation and measured breathing techniques, but if it comes on quickly there is no stopping the process.  At that point, I need to get my head down and my feet up, or I will throw up, then pass out.  So there I was, to get this fine needle aspiration done on my thyroid so they can see what is making it so big.  I was not aware I would be given Demerol intravenously so I would sleep or be really woozy though the process.

I am on a gurney, in a cold room, nervous, and explaining to this nurse all of the above.  You find a vein, go for it, do not hesitate, you must be fast.  She ties the tourniquet, slaps my hand and arm all over the place, trying to get a vein to “pop”.  She finds one on the back of my hand, she’s going to go for it.  She has everything set up, I am looking away, no visual stimuli to trick my stupid  parasympathetic nervous system, and she hesitates.  Vein collapses, she cannot proceed.  She stops, pulls out the catheter, and says she’s going to get her supervisor.  And leaves…  in the mean time, there goes my parasympathetic nervous system, and I feel it coming on, I feel the blood drain from my face, I feel the cold sweats starting, the queasiness comes on strong.  I am on a raised, narrow gurney with the rails up.  I do this somersault type move to go from lying down with a semi-reclined torso, to inch worming my way down the gurney so I can hang my head off the end and let my feet be higher than my heart.  I hang there off the end of that gurney, hand dripping blood all over the floor, with my husband squatting below me, an emesis basin in hand that he found in case I did puke.

In comes the nurse supervisor with the nurse who fled, and she’s a little ticked that I have been left alone in this position.  I explain that I put myself in this position after the other nurse left…  The supervisor gets a new catheter and is able to get the IV set up started so I can be administered the Demerol before the procedure.  Three injections of Demerol later I am wheeled into the room for the ultrasound guided fine needle aspiration.   On goes the cold gel all over my neck, doctor says yes right there, in goes the first needle.  Ouch, that hurt.  “You’re still awake?” I am asked by one of the bodies around my gurney.  Yes, I am.  Hit her with more.  I talked through the whole procedure.  When they are finished, they slap band-aids on the puncture wounds and take me to recovery.  (They didn’t wipe off the gel…)  They take my BP several times over the course of an hour or two, and are worried that it is so low.  Then the nurse that administered the Demerol comes in and says to my husband that I have the constitution of a horse.  Evidently they gave me enough Demerol to knock a horse on its ass, and there I talked through this whole procedure.  They finally let me go even though they still thought my BP was too low, with the admonition; leave the band-aids on for at least 24 hours.

I managed to wait 3 hours before my neck itched so badly from all that gel dried to it I couldn’t take it any longer.  I went into our bathroom and pulled off the first band-aid.  I looked like I had been attached by baby vampires.  Little holes bruising all over the front of my neck.

That led to the diagnoses, which led to scheduled surgery and referral to a radiation oncologist.

Surgery went well, and once my Thyroid Stimulating hormone levels were sky-high, since I didn’t have a thyroid to stimulate anymore, it was on to the Radioactive Isotope to kill off anything that may have remained.

I met the radiation oncologist, he was a serious man.  He didn’t get my jokes about gaining super human powers since I would have to ingest a radioactive pill.  The Atomic Energy Commission regulates all Nuclear Medicine and had just ruled the year before that patients being dosed with I-238 no longer had to be hospitalized in isolation for the three days they are “radioactive”, starting the year I was receiving this therapy.  I was instructed that I could stay home after I ingested the pill, but my family would have to leave the house for three days.  Any pets would also have to stay away.  I needed to purchase clothes I was willing to throw away when I was done, along with a toothbrush.

Ummm, my kids were in school, how could I disrupt their lives like that.  Could I go to a hotel?  Sure, why not.  I called the insurance company, spoke with my nurse advocate for my case and explained the situation to her.  Would the insurance cover my hotel costs and food?  She went to bat for me and came back and told me yes, they would cover 80% up to $400 per day hotel costs as well as 80% of a $180 per day food allowance.  I was set.  This was going to best cancer treatment ever.  I could kick back in a hotel room ordering room service and the insurance company was going to pay 80%!

Day arrives to be dosed, and we go to the Radiation Oncologists office for dosing.   I am led to a room that is very – clinical.  There is a hospital bed, a metal chair, other medical stuff scattered throughout the room, and in the opposite corner a large metal cabinet.  I am led to the bed and told to take a seat.  In walks the doctor with a lead apron on.  He greets me, says all the pleasantries, and walks towards that metal cabinet.  He grabs these four-foot tongs off the wall.  He opens this 8 foot by 4 foot metal cabinet and inside is an opening about 18 inches by 18 inches.  In that niche is a small metal bottle.  He reaches in with the tongs and grabs the bottle.  With another pair of tongs he then twists the lid off the bottle and then approaches me holding the tongs with the bottle straight out in front of him.  He tells me to hold out my hand, and he then tips that practically solid bottle and out comes a pill about the size of an extra-large vitamin, oblong, blue, and now in my hand.  This is not inspiring a whole lot of confidence that this is going to good for me.  Down the hatch it went, I was then admonished to drink lots of water to help flush the radioactivity from my system.

After that I was driven to the hotel by my husband.  He came up with me to my new room for the next three days, set up a VCR for me so I could watch movies, and kissed me a quick goodbye.  Within a few hours I was violently ill.  I could not keep anything down.  I had diarrhea, I hurt all over and I was hot.  I had the flu?!?!  Did I throw up that stupid pill?  I called the Oncologist.  I was told that half of one percent of people are highly susceptible to radiation sickness, they get sick from the isotope.  So, yeah me…  They told me to stay hydrated and drink LOTS and LOTS of water.  Easy for them to say.  I couldn’t keep it down if I wanted too.  When the three days were up I was so happy to see my husband.  I was miserable.  After a week, I was back to the radiation oncologist.

I asked him about the radiation sickness.  He said if I had to do this treatment again he would recommend I be hospitalized so they could provide me IV fluids.  Then I said, “so you’re telling me that even though I know how to hunt and fish, start a fire, cook over that fire, build a shelter, grow my own fruits and veggies, if we’re hit by a nuclear bomb” and he cut me off and said “you will die in about two weeks from radiation poisoning.”  Well, thank you for that.  And I didn’t even get super human powers.  There is something very wrong with that situation!  He finally laughed.  He finally got my dry humor.

That was 19 years ago.  I am still alive and kicking and my boobs, right here with me.  It worked.  No more thyroid cancer.

Back to my boobs.  They have grown larger over the years, along with the rest of me.  No longer barely a B cup, I am now an E cup.   I still enjoy a physical relationship with my husband, and as the years have gone by, my boobs have become more sensitive.  I have grown attached to them.  I really like them.  I touch them all the time.  I check them for changes, dimples, lumps.  Life continues, life happens.  Kids grow up, move out, creating their own lives.  Then one made us grandparents.  Grandson is now the light of our life.

Husband had an opportunity to help his best friend in Boise, ID flip a house.  We decided this would be good for him to go do.  Right before he left for 4-5 weeks he promised the grandson a trip to Disneyland.

This was the beginning of August 2017.

Now I am at that age where I’m having my own personal summers and not using feminine hygiene products regularly.  I’m not touching my boobs as regularly either.  I still touch them, but not as much as I used too.  Life.  After my husband has left for Idaho, I am on my own in the house and doing things he would normally do.  I notice my breasts getting tender.  Hmm, wonder if I’m gearing up to have a menstrual cycle.  Week or two goes by and nothing.  It’s been months since my last one.  I now have to record when I have them as they are getting further and further apart and I cannot remember without the note.  Then, that last week before Labor Day, I notice my left breast is no longer tender, but my right one is still tender in one spot.  Then it was either Thursday or Friday before Labor Day that I had lifted something up and it shifted against my right breast, and hey, that kind of hurt.  When I was done I kind of rubbed the area that hurt.  The bottom part of my right breast, where it attaches to my chest wall.  I’m rubbing that tender area and is that my rib?  My rib should not stick up that much.  I check the left side, no I can feel my rib under there, but not like the right side.  I feel it some more, is that a lump?

Later that night I continue to explore that spot, am I imagining this.  I don’t have a lump that big in my breast.  I just had a clean mammogram at the end of January, that was just seven months ago.  I explore this lump for the rest of the three-day weekend.  I know I have a follow-up appointment with my Primary Care physician on Tuesday morning.  Maybe this is a cyst or a fatty tumor.  Those happen in breasts all the time, right?

There has been no history of cancer of any kind in my blood line going back as far as we remember that I am aware of.  I am the first person in my direct blood line of my family to have had cancer.  People who have married in on both sides of my family, their descendants have reported cancers, but not in my direct blood line.