My A Cup Runneth Over

Well, it's official. My boobs are coming off. I went for my preop appointments today, signed my life away (perhaps literally), and had blood drawn by a ghetto phlebotomist. I was more afraid of her crazy long fingernails than the needle. So barring any problems with my bloodwork, I will be boobless by the time the sun sets on January 22nd. I can't believe this is happening to me. I feel that way. As if this is something that is happening to me. And that is sort of true. People try to tell me to that I should feel empowered. I've never felt more out of control. How is it empowering to have to choose between cancer and losing a part of your body that is so important? This is not a fair choice to have to make. I'm angry and resentful. I can't help it. Never again will I feel my husband's rough hands moving gently over my breasts or a baby's hungry mouth on my nipple. I won't know again the tingles that rush over them when my milk comes in. I will be scarred, a Frankenstein, mutilated shell of a woman. There is nothing else but for me to be sad. I never really appreciated what I have. I always complained about how small my breasts were. So now I have the chance to get a "boob job" but it really doesn't matter to me. They will be plastic, useless, numbed breasts. I don't even know what else I can say - only that I'm brutally sad and feel crushed under the weight of all of this. Sort of how my breasts feel while I'm getting a mammogram. Well, that is one sensation I'll be happy to relinquish.