I count down the days. Eleven. I will be driving my wife to the hospital to have them remove her breasts, yes breasts. Both need to go. She has chosen to go flat, not get implants. I understand and agree, having talked about and explored the option of prostheses.
I feel like I’m somehow part of a devious, horrible plan. Like driving an innocent to a torture chamber. I know that’s a hyperbole. Over dramatic, probably even a sacrilege. I should be thinking of it as something that will save her life. I try to hold that thought. But, I know how difficult this will be for her. She’s been surprised at her reaction to the loss, how she’ll view her body after, how she’ll look in clothes without them, and how it will be for me.
And the loss of her breasts is of consequence to me. They have excited me; they comforted me. They are a part of the woman I love.
It will be an adjustment for both of us; another bump in the road we travel together.
(To read what’s behind writers, or at least this one, scroll down to: “When Do Writers Write: Amended.”)