Why I Love My Boobs

“Let me be clear,” he said without pause, “I love your tits, I LOVE your tits, but if you had breast cancer, the ONLY thing I’d care about, the ONLY thing, would be you getting well.” He is the man my grandmother described: Smart, Fun, Big Heart.

I am 44 now, the age my grandmother was when I was born, and I have finally learned that I can celebrate my tits without mourning their potential loss. Having arrived at this place, at once magical and true, I think back to the day my grandfather and I drove to the doctor to find out how far the cancer had spread, if it had at all. We drove by Mary’s girlhood home on the way, and we drove by mine on the way home, after learning the good news. We were observing what matters that day, what it means to be whole. I still felt then like a girl, like a child not yet fully inhabiting the world, but here I am now, grown up, a woman — the one my grandmother taught me to be. Fierce. Appreciative. Aging. Alive.