That Takes Ovaries! (8 page)

During the meeting of the “good ol’ boys,” the air in the room became heated, faces red, collars tight, and the language, well,
let’s just say,
colorful.
All eyes turned to me. I pretended not to notice.

Once the meeting concluded, my boss pulled me aside and said, “I’m sorry the language got out of hand in there.” I told him his apology was accepted, but that next time he’d better watch his f
^***
ing mouth.

During my college days, I was one of the founding officers of our local chapter of NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. I believed, among other things, that the police should concentrate more on arresting rapists than on chasing basement joint-smokers, and that medical patients ought to have access to this remedy for a variety of ills ranging from cancer and AIDS to severe menstrual cramps (like I had).

We enjoyed a lot of support on campus, but the conservative local population tended to react differently. One day two friends and I were downtown putting up posters and handing out flyers for a NORML benefit concert we were holding at the VFW (those Veterans of Foreign Wars are so hip!). We were doing nothing illegal. Before long, two cops came and plunked themselves down right next to us, not saying anything, just making their presence clearly known. My friends became visibly upset.

“Are they trying to censor us?” said one, nervously picking up and putting down our pile of flyers.

“Can they force us to move on?” another asked, walking around and around in little circles.

“I don’t know,” I said. More than anything, I felt curious—and ready to be challenged. Instead of waiting to find out their intentions, I took some of our literature, went up to the men in blue, introduced myself, and handed each a flyer.

My friends were astonished; the cops accepted the flyers and in the ensuing conversation turned out to be quite reasonable and agreeable. (“Would you like to come to our benefit concert tonight?” I asked. “Thank you; I’ll think about it,” one said.)

We talked for a while, then
they
moved on, and we all continued with a pleasant afternoon.

Not all gutsy acts come straight from the gut. Some make pit stops, even linger for a while in our heads. There we study the consequences, weigh the options, and make choices—not on the fly, but after deep thought. This chapter is about premeditated personal decisions. Decisions about
THE BIG THINGS:
health, family, career, where and how to spend a life.

In these stories, women reassess their paths in the world and subsequently map out alternate routes. They make choices and commitments that lead to radical transformations. Sometimes acting without role models or support, sometimes taking the risk of going against conventional wisdom, the women here think for themselves and let their internal strength guide them.

Listening to their inner, kickboxing Buddha, whose savvy wisdom they know to be true, makes the women in this chapter stronger, especially when, donning gloves and entering the ring, they know the match could be lonely or difficult. Trusting themselves when times are tough shows firmness of character, determination—feistiness!

So while these more pensive deeds may at first appear slower and softer than others in this book, let’s be real–they are among some of the bravest a woman can carry out in her lifetime.

My first surgery was a piece of cake, and necessary to remove a lump that I knew to my core would not be cancerous. In fact, the lump itself wasn’t. If it hadn’t been for those other “funny-looking cells” they shipped off to Yale, all would have been well.

Every woman who hears “breast cancer” in her doctor’s office is courageous. Keeping fears in check and making decisions under the cloud of “chance of recurrence” is difficult. So is keeping life as normal as possible while seeing a variety of specialists, doing mind- and body-altering drug therapy, enduring daily radiation appointments, and undergoing radical surgery. Even with support, one is very much alone; no two diagnoses, attitudes, and situations are the same. In the end, the individual herself makes the decisions. Brave women do it every day.

Yale found that the “funny-looking cells” were indeed early cancer. So just before Christmas, I had a second surgery to remove this material, which was then sent to my hospital’s Tumor Board for review. I tried not to let any of it impact my holiday spirit, but it did. Exhausted and frightened, I cried through office parties, family dinners, and Rudolph reruns. My surgeon tried to reassure me.

“My gut feeling, Lynda, is there won’t be more surgery.”

That’s good,
I thought,
because there’s
no way
I’ll be able to deal with a mastectomy.

Then I got the call.

The cancerous material was well dispersed throughout my left breast. The Tumor Board said the best bet was to remove
the whole thing. I was in shock. The good news was that no additional treatment would be necessary. No mind-numbing, vomit-inducing therapy, no daily radiation appointments. The bad news was that after doing my homework (two second opinions), it looked like, yes, a mastectomy was in my future.

Once I had accepted the inevitable, I felt strongly that I didn’t want to have only one breast. To me, it was out of balance, and more shameful.

“I’ll feel embarrassed,” I said to my husband, “answering the door or running out for a video with only one breast. I’d always want to hide it.”

Besides, my mother had raised me to be a nudie. One of my greatest joys was going to parent-child swimming classes at the YMCA and taking a shower afterward with my two-year-old. Stripped of our suits, together we’d play and scrub openly in the shower. I’d been doing it for years with my kids. With only one breast, I feared I’d feel too self-conscious and would give that up.

No, one breast just didn’t feel right.
If I have to remove one,
I decided,
then I’ll remove both.

That’s what my gut said, but was that the right decision? Was I being misled by my own instincts? I began talking to women who had had mastectomies. I was searching for someone who’d “cut them
both
off,” hadn’t gotten reconstructive surgery, and hadn’t looked back. I wanted to find a no-breasted woman who was happy: someone in whose footsteps I could follow (easier to follow than lead!). But I couldn’t find her. The closest I got was hearing about a book that profiled post-mastectomy women. I was told it included one woman who spoke of how free she felt without breasts, how the surgery had given her back that preadolescent “tomboy” time in her life. I couldn’t find the book, but it helped knowing this woman was out there somewhere in the world.

Apparently, she was unusual. Most women I talked with were excited about reconstruction. They wanted to convince me how
real it looked and felt. I was glad they’d been able to come through a difficult experience feeling whole and positive about the decisions they’d made. However, my inner voice continued to say no—reconstruction did
not
appeal to me. Go through yet another surgery either for implants or to have a piece of my abdominal muscle cut out and stitched to my chest? For what?
Breasts? Who cares?
That’s how I felt.

I talked to everyone in my life. They all agreed to support me in whatever I did, but I still felt alone in making my choice. A few weeks before my surgery, I had dinner with my four closest women friends. We started joking about the
advantages
of having no breasts. Our Top Ten list helped me face my surgery with courage and, just as important, humor.

My surgeon was surprised by my choice for a double mastectomy. However, since he knew I could always opt for reconstruction later, he didn’t try to talk me out of it. I felt in my heart I would be fine without breasts. Even though I could find no role model I could talk to, no one who had gone before me, I did it anyway.

The surgery went well; I healed quickly. And you know what? I haven’t looked back. I feel free! No more bras! In some ways, I even feel sexier than I did before. At home I still walk around naked before my husband and children without shame, and I don’t hide myself in a changing booth at the Y. No, it hasn’t been easy. I have had to work on rebuilding my body image. I joined a gym and started lifting weights again. Though I sometimes contemplate donning a prosthesis C-cup for a special occasion, so far I am living flat-chested with absolutely no regrets about my decision.

When I talk to women now facing a mastectomy, I know the chances are slim they will follow in my footsteps. I talk about how free I feel, and they listen politely. Then they tell me they will reconstruct. I keep telling my story, however, hoping that someday, when another woman makes the choice I did, she will know she isn’t alone.

• 10. Quick way to lose a few pounds.
  

• 9. If bad things happen in threes, this counts for two.
  

• 8. Wardrobe overhaul required.
  

• 7. One less excuse for not running a marathon.
  

• 6. Guaranteed to knock six strokes off your golf game.
  

• 5. No more mammograms.
  

• 4. Makes cross-dressing a whole lot easier.
  

• 3. Every morning you get to decide if you want to be an A, B, C, D—or no cup at all!
  

• 2. “Hey, baby, want to see my mastectomy scars?” makes a great pickup line.
  

• 1. You will never be mistaken for a waitress at Hooters.
  

I was born twenty-six years ago to my mother, my closest stranger. Sonya was only eighteen, a rambling teenager in the projects of Baltimore. She conceived me with one of the popular
neighborhood Black studs. But Sonya had a lot of traffic coming her way, so it’s anybody’s guess who daddy is. With my creation came years of poverty, regret, and upheaval. We lived a nomadic existence, never laying our heads anywhere for long.

My unstable childhood walked hand in hand with an unstable education. During bouts of depression over a lost love, Sonya would be far too miserable to see me off to school. I stayed at home and consoled her with my homemade macaroni valentines, sprinkled with glitter and love. To my disappointment, I’d later find them in the trash. I was too young to understand; my love wasn’t enough. My love was too small. It was only five years old.