When I was 13, I had a crush on a guy named Jose. I met him in upstate New York while I lived with some family friends. Looking back, there was absolutely nothing amazing about him. But at the time, I thought he was pretty awesome. But Jose didn’t notice me. He liked a buxom red-head named Mary, who happened to be our managers daughter at the local McDonald’s.
Mary was everything I wasn’t. I wouldn’t say she was pretty but she had me beat. And she looked like a woman whereas I suffered from cherry-chest syndrome.
I was always a small girl. I never got curves until much later in life, never developed a pronounced chest like my sisters. I was just…a skinny girl. As a child, with my short haircuts, I was often mistaken for a boy. There wasn’t anything about me that screamed girl…let alone pretty girl.
I remember talking with Jose at the bottom of the hill that took us to our job. I blurted out that I had a crush on him, a big mistake in hindsight. I knew I was going to get rejected, there wasn’t anything that told me otherwise. I was a nerd, an unattractive girl who read too much and wrote poems for boys to give to their girlfriends.
What I got was something that has never left me. Jose looked past me, avoiding my eyes…as boys will do when they are about to slaughter your dignity. “I don’t really like girls that are flat chested.”
Yep. that’s it.
14 years have passed and I still remember that moment. Through the years, I’ve owned my small breast size. I’ve become comfortable with that birth defect. Yes, I just referred to being flat chested as a birth defect. Do I apply this to everyone? No. But when I’ve looked at my body over the years…when I think of the voluptuous figures of women in my family…yeah, I’m the odd ball out. I’m the defected one.
I got to a place where I was okay with this part of my body. And then I got Mastitis. And then it went untreated. And then I was misdiagnosed. And then I got a part of my breast cut off. And some more. And a tiny bit more. Hell, it wasn’t large quantities…I didn’t have much to begin with. I logged the days of surgery and nights of infected breast tissue on my Facebook much to the disgust of some of my friends, I’m sure.
Why am I talking about this? Well…for a couple of reasons. First, I advise any woman to seek help the minute something seems off and if a doctor sends you away with no testing or treatment – FIND ANOTHER DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY Secondly, I believe my breast is infected again.
It’s the holidays. I have work to do. I have someone that depends on me. I have a house to support. I don’t have time to be held up in a hospital again. Yes, I am making the stupid decision to wait until after the holidays to get this thing taken care of. I’m a moron…I know.
After something like 11 rounds of antibiotics and four procedures…I’m ready to have this thing cut off. Whats left of it. I always said I wanted bigger breasts. I just didn’t think I would consider getting them because I’d be in a place of losing one of them altogether.
Breasts matters. They mattered when I was 13. I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t matter at 27. I don’t know where my breast journey will take me. I just hope there are two, even, healthy breasts at the end of my tunnel.
Glad I could get that off my chest. I now return you to your regularly scheduled program…already in progress.