I am wearing a V-neck shirt, and I started pulling the right side a bit. I do that sometimes.
When I did, my hand skimmed down a crater, rolling over a hard triangle with three dots. I did this multiple times without even thinking much of it. I do that sometimes.
Then, I ran my other hand down the left side. No crater. No hard triangle with three dots.
Back to the other side, I slowly trailed my fingers over the tennis ball sized divot. And then I thought about what a surgeon did to me four years ago. I do that sometimes.
But today, I moved my hand and glanced down at the scar, at the area that is missing a tennis ball sized lump of breast tissue even though I didn't need a lumpectomy, just a port, and I wondered what it'd feel like if I ever got rid of my port. What it'd feel like to run the tips of my fingers over that area without the hard triangle with three dots—but to still have the crater.
For a moment, I wondered if, when they eventually change this port, they could just put some of my fat from my stomach back up there. How much would that cost? I shook my head because I know it's just vanity. It doesn't matter. I do this sometimes.
Except, the difference today is every time I feel the divot, touch that hard triangle with three dots, and see that scar, a little bit of anger at the surgeon, regret that I didn't look into his history more (he's done stuff like this before), and frustration with the entire situation bubbles to the surface. A volcano that's never fully erupted, but is active. Is that even possible?
Anger and frustration that he's off living his life, doing what he does, and I'm running my fingers over a lasting reminder that he thought I was fat, decided to do me a favor, and remove tissue that wasn't his to take. He violated my body in the same way it'd once been violated before by someone else I trusted.
He took something without my consent.
And today, over four years later, I'm finally having this epiphany of how a man ruined my chest without any consequences. That he didn't just leave a physical reminder, but with each caress, I'm soothing an emotional one. That every time I run my fingers over this area, it's like I'm subconsciously mourning the loss of that breast tissue that was taken in exchange for a hard triangle with three dots that has helped sustain my life.
I do that sometimes. I just didn't realize until now why.
When I did, my hand skimmed down a crater, rolling over a hard triangle with three dots. I did this multiple times without even thinking much of it. I do that sometimes.
Then, I ran my other hand down the left side. No crater. No hard triangle with three dots.
Back to the other side, I slowly trailed my fingers over the tennis ball sized divot. And then I thought about what a surgeon did to me four years ago. I do that sometimes.
But today, I moved my hand and glanced down at the scar, at the area that is missing a tennis ball sized lump of breast tissue even though I didn't need a lumpectomy, just a port, and I wondered what it'd feel like if I ever got rid of my port. What it'd feel like to run the tips of my fingers over that area without the hard triangle with three dots—but to still have the crater.
For a moment, I wondered if, when they eventually change this port, they could just put some of my fat from my stomach back up there. How much would that cost? I shook my head because I know it's just vanity. It doesn't matter. I do this sometimes.
Except, the difference today is every time I feel the divot, touch that hard triangle with three dots, and see that scar, a little bit of anger at the surgeon, regret that I didn't look into his history more (he's done stuff like this before), and frustration with the entire situation bubbles to the surface. A volcano that's never fully erupted, but is active. Is that even possible?
Anger and frustration that he's off living his life, doing what he does, and I'm running my fingers over a lasting reminder that he thought I was fat, decided to do me a favor, and remove tissue that wasn't his to take. He violated my body in the same way it'd once been violated before by someone else I trusted.
He took something without my consent.
And today, over four years later, I'm finally having this epiphany of how a man ruined my chest without any consequences. That he didn't just leave a physical reminder, but with each caress, I'm soothing an emotional one. That every time I run my fingers over this area, it's like I'm subconsciously mourning the loss of that breast tissue that was taken in exchange for a hard triangle with three dots that has helped sustain my life.
I do that sometimes. I just didn't realize until now why.
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