On Family History, Body Image, and Fate

I struggled with how to begin this blog post. I plan to excavate and expose some of my most vulnerable feelings and memories, ones I don’t revisit often. I turned 35 in January, and with that birthday began early annual screenings for breast cancer. I have a maternal family history of breast cancer. My aunt Eleanor (Ellie) and my mother were both diagnosed with breast cancer in their 50s; my mother survived and has been in remission more than ten years. My Auntie Ellie passed away on December 3, 2011. Her passing during my junior year of college was my closest and most visceral encounter with the ravages of stress, disease, and death; it colored every single grief that has come since. To boot, my mother was diagnosed just a few months after Auntie Ellie’s passing, starting her own multi-step treatment journey shortly after saying goodbye to her beloved sister. My mother calls it Ellie’s parting gift—early detection. I experienced her journey from afar; I was finishing college and preparing for law school, aware of this distinct threat to my sweet mother’s life but also feeling certain the outcome would be different. Thankfully, it has been.

But I suppose I need to rewind this story before it begins to make sense.

I started puberty early, with a growth spurt that began around 8 or 9 years old. I was developing breasts in the third grade, which was an alien experience for me and not one to which most of my classmates or any of my close friends could relate. Noticeable difference at that age can be an unfeeling magnifying glass; with acne, glasses, braces, and noticeable breasts, I was mocked for my changing body. I remember the heat of shame blooming on my cheeks after each taunt. My early development also ushered in a decade of being leered at and sexualized by grown men as I required larger and larger bra sizes as I grew. I prayed for the growth to stop; it never did. I endured persistent ogling when I was barely old enough to understand why I was uncomfortable, but I knew I needed to slouch my shoulders and try to disappear to survive. Despite being a theatrical child who enjoyed performing, I did not enjoy the unsolicited attention my body was garnering—people staring at something I merely was, as opposed to something I was doing.

Early development meant countless hours in “embarrassing” locations, like the intimates section of Macy’s or specialty bra boutiques where I was always the youngest customer. Learning the intricacies of underwire, minimizer, full coverage, unlined/unpadded, and more well before middle school. Never daring breathe in the direction of push-up, always prioritizing hiding, lessening, reducing. Navigating a love of sports and dance and the necessity of wearing sports bras, at times doubling up on bras for more “support” while simply trying to be a kid. Skirting overt vulgarity as much as possible. Understanding that any outfit meant a cruel negotiation—would it be appropriate on anyone else, but less so on me because of these new body parts I did not ask for?

As I got older, offhand comments (like being called aesthetically “fertile” by a family member) stuck pins in me. More and more I realized how much of the sartorial world was utterly cut off from me, because of the exhausting question, “What kind of bra can I wear with that?” Not to mention the nightmare that was bathing suit shopping: simultaneously trying to obscure my thigh stretch marks and finding bathing suit tops that would leave me comfortable and confident (I found one, once—a blessed, floral, frilly Betsey Johnson two-piece that I wore threadbare as my only option). Not to mention the sheer expense of it all: every bra was upwards of $60, $70, or $80, never cute or convenient, always a hassle, always an investment.

I spent my childhood, adolescence, and start of my young adulthood viewing my breasts as obstacles, always getting in the way of my literal activity and my potential self image. I spent years fantasizing about a more “proportional” silhouette, one not dominated by my bust, one that wasn’t artificially widened by unavoidable breast tissue. I still do, candidly. My breasts have been a constant weight on my brain, a source of acrid self-consciousness. During the few times in my life where I have lost weight, I celebrated the loss of breast weight first and foremost, delighted at the idea of buying a smaller bra, of wearing certain clothes more comfortably, of increased freedom and reduced expense. These moments represented brief reprieves, times (months, perhaps) where my breasts moved down a few spots on my roster of low-grade worries. I enjoyed some fleeting moments of not-quite-confidence, but a blissful carelessness when it came to my breasts. As I entered my late 20s and 30s, I became more matter-of-fact about my breasts; knowing my wedding wardrobe would have to be specially tailored to accommodate my breasts was just another part of my to do list, and less a source of consternation.

All that to say, there has never been a protracted period of time where my breasts did not cause me emotional discomfort and discontent.

Back to 35. My first-ever screening mammogram was a breeze; less painful and uncomfortable than I expected, it left me feeling courageous at getting it over and done with, and what little dread I felt was swiftly silenced. Then the radiologist asked to take another look; suspicious masses in one breast warranted a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. My courage faltered a touch. Nonetheless, the women on my maternal side have all had run-ins with breast lumps, so I stuffed down my worry. Then the radiologist calmly showed me an image on the ultrasound machine: an oddly-shaped mass in my right breast, potentially not concerning but “in order to sleep well at night, given your family history,” he recommended a needle biopsy to determine the nature of the mass. What remaining courage I had crumpled into nothing. My very first early screening requires three appointments? Something invasive? Local anesthesia and a long needle? Another weeklong waiting game full of anxiousness and helplessness, pondering the meaning of fate? Lucky for me, the biopsy found the mass to be benign.

Even through the haze of my relief, I felt something large shift its weight inside me. Had I sailed straight past potential contentment or acceptance of my breasts, right onto my breasts being threats, sources of danger, harbingers of my feeble mortality? Where was the happy medium between youth and middle age? Am I to be tossed from self-conscious breast hyper awareness to terrifying breast hyper awareness? It reminds me of people who say that as you age, you may spend so much time resenting your body in the moment but you will look back at photos and wish you had your former body back, reveling too late in the beauty you were too anxious to appreciate. I try to think of my Auntie Ellie’s courage, and my mother’s continuing courage as a survivor. I am still trying to find my way through these feelings, so that my body image isn’t just a spectrum running between adolescent shame and adult terror. I’ll be screening for breast cancer twice a year, ostensibly for the rest of my life. I don’t know the way yet, but I hope I find it soon.