“Do you love it?”
I’ve mentioned that I’ve hired someone to help organize our house. When Heather comes for an organizing session, she starts pulling crap out of a closet, holding up one piece at a time, asking, “Do you love it?”
It was hard at first. What does “love” mean, anyway? Can it be used in a future, unknown project? Is it unusually precious because I got it for an insanely good price? Was I wearing it during a notable event? Did I buy it somewhere exotic? Of course, almost every single piece has a back story, which Heather is excited to hear. Actually, no. That’s a lie. She’s interested in sorting, thinning, and organizing, not learning about the Egyptian neighbors in my first apartment in St. Paul where I lived with Jane Berg Pennington in 1990, the neighbors who gave me that little stone bust Heather is holding.
I’m learning to be more critical, and now Heather doesn’t even have to walk me though all the questions leading me in the direction of sending something out the door. I haven’t regretted losing anything. At all.
I got the results of the second biopsy today. Turns out the spot the MRI located is more cancer. With this news, I’m planning on having a double mastectomy. No reconstruction. My work with Heather has been really useful. I can imagine her asking, “Do you love them?” of my breasts. I’ve now had two weeks to think about various options and play out scenarios in my mind. I have to say, right now, at this point in my life? No, I don’t love them. I certainly did, at one time. They were fantastic and fun. We had many amazing adventures. But gravity will catch up to even the best bust. My boobalicious glory days are over. I’ve found myself having moments of delight at the thought of a flat chest, never needing to wear a bra again. I don’t love my breasts. Time for them to go.