Don't Mess with My Breasts

Sometimes it takes getting cancer, to discover that your breasts don't belong to you. That they never did. That they're politically and sexually-charged lightening rods, dominated by public discourse. That every single human-being, on earth, has an opinion on their purpose, their appearance and their relevance. But I'm done.

Today, I'm reclaiming my breasts.

I'm a feminist, but my breasts do not belong to my sisters in the resistance.
I've nursed my baby, but my breasts do not belong to the pro-breastfeeding movement.
I've been leered at, but my breasts do not belong to the misogynist male gaze.
I belong with my husband, but by breasts aren't his to own.

Yesterday, I decided that I want to have breast reconstruction, after my mastectomy. It's a long, brutal surgery, with an arduous and painful recovery. It's a hard choice, but, again, the right choice for me.

I'm not doing it for my sisters, my son, my partner, or the man on the street.

I'm doing it because I love my breasts. Because I like their shape and feeling and meaning. And at the end of it all, I'll get fabulous, forward-facing breasts, that no longer stare at my toes.

So, today, I've officially reclaimed my breasts. 

My Breasts, My Choice

On January 21, 2017, I joined an ocean of women across America, on the march of our lives. The atmosphere was electric, as we drummed, danced and chanted our truths. We went hoarse, shouting, "Our Bodies, Our Choice!" and I have to believe that the universe actually heard us roar. 

Today, my body called upon me to make a choice. And I made a radical, life-changing one. The right one for me.

At our long and intense meeting with my surgeon, this morning, we discussed all of my medical options. With my non-invasive cancer detected so early, I would be the perfect candidate for a lumpectomy, followed by radiation, and, possibly, long-term use of the anti-cancer drug, Tamoxifen. I'd continue to need aggressive-screening, and there would be the risk of either a recurrence, or a new cancer forming in one, or both, of my breasts. 

I closed my eyes and put my hand on my heart, and for the very first time, it spoke to me with an unambiguous, inarguable, clarity.

"What I want," I heard myself state, "is a bilateral mastectomy, without reconstruction. I want to be free from fear, and anxiety, and medication, and mammograms, and biopsies, and radiation. My amazing breasts have done what they were meant to do, and I'm truly ready to let them go."

My doctor listened. Ranabir listened. I listened. To me, speaking my truth. Without fear. And for very the first time since my abnormal mammogram, my pulse slowed down, and I experienced the deepest sense of peace.

I'm having my surgery on September 12th. It'll be the beginning, of the rest of my life.

But first, I'm taking my beautiful, hard-working, loyal breasts, on one, last, fabulous, beach-holiday to Mexico!

O Godot, Where Art Thou?

Waiting is excruciating. I've spent 16 years obsessing over the cancer, 12 days dreading my biopsy and 48 hours anticipating its results. It's almost a relief to finally get it, so I can get on with getting it out and over with.

I ask my therapist if having a god would have eased this endless uncertainty? Not necessarily an omnipresent, all-knowing one, but, you know, just someone who could keep vigil while I took a nap, or a shower, or a coffee break.

I tell her about my brief experiment with prayer. When my mother was sick, I walked an entire mountain trek, silently chanting her name. Five days later she was gone, never to return.

"What were the chances," she asks, "of Deepa, in India, falling in love with Ranabir, from Houston, who lives by the best cancer hospital in the world, where they discover your tumor, before it barely even exists?!"

"I see what you mean." I reply "Someone's watching over me."

Maybe I don't have to call god, god, for god, to be god.

So thank you, person watching over me. I guess you were around the whole time I was napping and showering and caffeinating.

The Sum of All Fears

I've had 16 years to prepare for this moment in my life. From the day my mom got breast cancer at 50, the awareness of my elevated risk has become an inseparable part of my being. I've denied and avoided it, raged and cried, resented and negotiated. But it's a given. A constant. Embedded in the DNA that informs every cell in my body.

Yesterday, I was diagnosed with DCIS, or ductal carcinoma in situ - a very, very early stage, non-invasive cancer of the breast - usually treated with a lumpectomy, followed by radiation.

Since January, I've been screened as a high-risk patient at MD Anderson, one of the best cancer hospitals in the world, and, coincidentally, a short walk from our home. I'll be having both my surgery and treatment there.

As many of you know, I recently fully recovered from a pretty brutal depression and am in great shape mentally. I feel strong and optimistic and filled with gratitude - to have the earliest possible diagnosis and access to talented doctors and excellent care.

I'm surrounded by my beautiful boys, amazing friends, and compassionate doctors and therapists, all of whom have cared for me as if I were one of their own. I'm counting on all of you for long-distance love and support.

One request - I've learnt how to effectively advocate for myself in the medical system and am 100% confident in the choices I'm making. I would prefer not to receive advice on alternative therapies, dietary changes, or questions about whether I'm making the right choices, although I'm sure they all come from a space of concern and love.

I intend to do some writing through this journey. I've always found it therapeutic. There's something vaguely liberating about confronting the sum of all your fears, looking it in the eye, and saying, "Hey! You've got nothing on me!"