“To be honest, I don’t know what to do.” Right now, I swear my stomach is actually quivering.
The lines around his eyes deepen and he frowns. He obviously isn’t happy with my answer. “Okay, Samantha, this is very important. I know you’re young and a twenty-four year old usually doesn’t have to make these types of decisions. But given your family history, particularly your mother, aunt, and grandmother, I would strongly suggest you give this a little more urgency. You’ve tested positive for the breast cancer gene, and not just any gene, but the most aggressive one. Your last breast ultrasound was normal, which is great, but now I urge you to decide on the other issue. Prophylactic mastectomy and reconstruction is a very viable option, and even though it’s extremely traumatic, with the removal of the breast tissue it would cut your chances of getting breast cancer down immensely.” He starts scribbling something down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “I would love for you to talk to these people. One is a plastic surgeon who could discuss your reconstruction and what your breasts would look like afterward, and the other is a not an individual but rather a group of young women who have gone through what you are experiencing right now. They could answer a whole host of questions you may have. The big thing we want to do here, Samantha, is to prevent cancer from happening.”
“I understand. Thank you for giving me these.” I hold up the paper. Maybe they’ll help. I don’t know. “My mom and sister have been on my back. I know it’s time.” I’m smart enough to know that this can affect me. My mom fought it. My aunt did too. My grandmother tried and lost her battle. Laney opted for the surgery. What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I just say “Let’s do this thing”? My heart, gut, and instincts all tell me to go for it, yet they’re my breasts, my boobs, and I still grieve for the part of me that will be missing after the surgery. Is that so wrong of me?
I leave with all kinds of thoughts of the three B’s swirling in my head. My business, my boobs, and Ben. As I walk back into work, my phone rings and it’s Laney.
“Hey, sis. Mom wanted me to call to let you know she has a date for family dinner. Can your boyfriend make it two weeks from now?”
“I’ll ask. Give me the date so I can put it in my calendar.” It’s a Wednesday night.
“You okay?”
“Mmm. I’m not sure. I went to the doctor today. Tell me something, do you like your boobs?”
She laughs. “You mean my new boobs?”
“Yeah. New and improved boobs.”
“I really do. I can’t tell the difference at all, except for the scars under the nipples and the lack of sensation, but that’s insignificant. The only thing that bothers me is that I won’t be able to breastfeed when I have kids. But it beats dying, you know?”
“Yeah. It does.”
“You still trying to decide?”
“I just …” I hesitate for a second.
“Tell me you’re not serious. You carry that fucking gene, Sam. You don’t have a choice.”
“I know.” In a small voice, I add, “What will Ben say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he loves my boobs.”
“If he cares anything at all about you, he’ll support you in this. And he’ll love your new boobs. Just talk to him,” she urges.
I bite my lip, thinking about her words long after the conversation has ended. Work consumes me again and after I get home, I’m changing my clothes when my phone buzzes with a text.
Ben: Can you come over?
Me: You ok?
Ben: Yeah. Just miss you. Got home early for a change.
Me: Sure. On my way.
Traffic isn’t too bad, and he’s waiting at the door when I get there. He pulls me inside and kisses me like it’s the last day for the earth to exist.
“Miss me, huh?”
Steel gray eyes meet mine and I’m unsure what I see. “You have no idea. I left with a series of requests for meetings and more meetings. But I needed a fucking break. I need you.”
Bunching up my tank top he pushes it out of the way while his mouth takes over mine, making me senseless for him. He cups my breasts with his hands, using his thumbs to flick my nipples through the fabric of my bra. Soon, he pushes it up and over my breasts so I’m exposed for him.
His reverent hands make it impossible to think. Only his next words spike straight to my gut.
“You have the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen or sucked. God, I love these.” And my stomach spirals straight to the floor, crashing at my feet.
How can I be so fucking lucky? “Most women have to buy what you have. And I hate fake tits. Why ruin what is naturally created? You can’t recreate how they feel. Don’t get me wrong, they look great, but they don’t feel the same at all.”
Something about her silence tells me to stop. “What’s wrong?”
She pales and glances away. I tuck a finger under her chin to get her to look at me.
“What’s going on?” I try again.