I’ve always had a special and intimate relationship with my breasts, herein renamed ‘my tits.’ I think my tit fixation started long before I had any that could be seen. I blame – and thank – my mother for this. Perhaps it was her tireless devotion to a full year of breastfeeding and for all those cuddles where my baby and child’s head were cradled lovingly to her own ‘pillows of comfort and pleasure’.
Okay. For whatever reason, my tits became my earliest experience of sensual and auto-erotic sensation and awareness. Over the years, as they and I grew, these small but cherished elevations took on an ever-enhanced function in my sense of femininity, sexuality. They were, and remain, the absolute key to my sexual pleasure and arousal. Ignore them and I feel almost nothing. Damn, once upon a time, I could have an orgasm from their stimulation alone. My burgeoning self-discovery seemed to go no further south along my body. It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but I needed an early boyfriend to tell me about the significance of the widely accepted Queen of Female Arousal, AKA The Clitoris. That shows you how important and intimate my tits and I became to, and with, each other. We kept each other warm, feeling at peace and happy with the world.
Sure, as a teenager, I sometimes longed for the prized double DDs that I thought would be my entry ticket to immediate allure, grown-up-land, and desirability. But no matter how many magic creams, press-ups, and wishful thinking, they never grew beyond a modest B cup and even then, they required a great deal of ‘up-push’ to fill that cup – even nearly. However, despite their lack of abundance, I still loved them. They remained pert, did not succumb to the pull of gravity and best of all were crowned by highly sensitive brown nipples. Not that I’m boasting here. I was just eventually happy with what I had. I would have been proud to list them as my best physical attributes had anyone required such a list. (Why would they, Susan?)
You might be wondering if you have stumbled upon the wrong blog if you came for a serious discussion about the unbelievably and deadly serious subject of breast cancer. Bear with me. I’m getting there. These paragraphs are the set-up. My intent is not to create a niche category of erotica, but to provide the context for the devastation that I was to experience.
When I was young – perhaps as late as my early-twenties, I used to think, and would even say openly, ‘If I ever get breast cancer, I’d rather top myself than have anyone hack at my tits.’ They were sacred, the one area of my body that I would never have any surgeon ‘mutilate.’ I know that’s a strong word and an even more extreme statement of intent, but that is what I thought back then. For me, there was no middle ground. Of course, I also thought I was invincible. It could and would never happen to me. No, not to Susan! How could it? My childish and neurotic thoughts had little relationship to the statistical reality of the prevalence of breast cancer, nor indeed did I consider how crazy my words were.
Nobody took me seriously and imagined that these thoughts were the musings of a fanciful and at times overly dramatic adolescent and very young woman who had no idea what she was talking about. Perhaps they thought I spoke for effect. But no. I was deadly serious – at least in my own mind.
Interestingly, later when I was told that the only solution for my serious endometriosis was to have my uterus, both ovaries, fallopian tubes, cervix, and the top of my vagina removed – long before I’d reached my menopause, I hardly blinked. To all those kind people who warned me that I might – or would – feel this drastic surgery as an attack on my femininity, might no longer feel I was a real woman, or even ran the risk of having a nervous breakdown, my retort was, rubbish! How could anyone think that I equated my femininity, sexuality or feeling a whole woman with having monthly periods? Copious bleeding that left me incapacitated for half of every month. All that pain that had become like the heaviest burden I carried on my back, in my belly and in my deepest being – all the time. When the so-called joy of sex had become the dread of the most searing pain, shame, and fear. How could anyone imagine that I enjoyed the endless investigative laparoscopy surgery to discover the source of my problems. Then the treatment with the nasty drug Danazol, which stopped the bleeding and pain but created its own horrible side-effects and my secret fears that I might be permanently masculinised – an acknowledged potential side-effect of the drug. How could the major surgery proposed be worse than all of that?
Of course, I already had a baby and was content to stay with one child. I felt I could afford to get rid of my baby-making equipment without mourning its loss. My only concern was the physical pain I might feel after the surgery, and what I considered to be an excessive recovery period. Three months off work? Damn, I thought they must be joking. But I created a solution for this issue. Susan always finds solutions. I decided to develop a post-operative project. I would use this time to research and develop a commercially viable business. My business idea was to set up a dating site with a cutting-edge difference. So, you see, none of the stories about the possible side-effects of the major surgery were up there with the dreaded words, Breast Cancer.
Now we reach the heart of the matter and this Blog’s focus. I think I’ve completed the set-up phase with the due diligence of any reasonably competent writer.
Fast forward to 12.30h, October 20, 2021. This was the date I booked a private mammogram, just to be on the cautious side, you understand. It had been three years since my previous scan and there was a backlog in the NHS screening programme due to Covid. One of my sisters had been diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer earlier in the year, so I thought I should have a scan. I had been experiencing some pain in my right tit and underarm, but of course everyone knows that you don’t feel pain from breast cancer. Or so I (mis)understood. A regular routine scan is what I thought I was going for. After all, it couldn’t happen to Susan. No sirree! Susan and her tits were invincible. Weren’t they?
I sat in the waiting room of the clinic, waiting for the radiologist to review my mammogram before getting the all clear that would allow me to skip off to do a spot of shopping. I had not been to Selfridges since pre-Covid days so I sat making a mental list of what I might treat myself to. I planned to indulge in some retail therapy. So certain was I that the technician would come to let me know I could leave with a report of immaculate and healthy tits, I was looking forward to my shopping trip – not an activity I normally enjoy.
I was thus unprepared for the nurse who came to tell me that the consultant radiologist wanted to do an ultrasound and physical examination of my perfectly formed elevations. Even those words failed to alert me to what was to follow. ‘Have you lost weight recently?’ the kind nurse asked me. You’d think that by now I might be a tad anxious, but no. After all, Susan was invincible. As it happened, I had lost a little weight but that was because I’d been experiencing a lot of nausea, headaches, and weird dizziness, so had been eating very little for three weeks or so. I put those symptoms down to some bug I must have picked up. A nuisance, but nothing to be concerned about. So unconcerned, that I failed to mention any of this.
What followed was the start of the nightmare I continue to live through. Not a nocturnal nightmare confined to sleeping hours, but one that envelops my every waking moment. I don’t sleep much. In fact, I’d say I hardly sleep at all.
‘I think you may have a carcinoma in your right breast, based on the mammogram, ultrasound and my physical examination. There is a palpable mass that looks very suspicious and not one for which I can immediately find an alternative explanation. I’m very sorry to tell you this. You understand, I have to tell you.’ Those were the consultant’s words. He went on to explain that I would need to have a biopsy to confirm his suspicions and to indicate the grade and stage of the tumour and to identify its receptors. I stared at the doctor. I heard the words, but failed to fully take them in. For a change, Susan was speechless. You hear stories of people being in shock when receiving bad news. Now I really understand the import of those words.
He realised I was in shock and very gently explained my options and next steps. I could remain within the private sector, alternatively, they would immediately refer me back into the NHS. Given that my local hospital was University College London Hospital, I would be assured of excellent and swift treatment. He went on to say that if I was his relative, his advice would be to be that I should be treated within the NHS on the urgent Cancer Pathway 2-week referral. He advised me that his report would be with my GP within half an hour and that I should contact the GP that afternoon. I agreed that this would be the best option and left the clinic.
I left. But I was still the deer caught in the headlights. All thoughts of retail therapy had vanished from my brain. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. My only action was to order an Uber to get me home as quickly as possible. Although it was only 14.00, I wondered if I should mix a stiff G &T to steady myself. But even that was impossible. The damn nausea I was having made it impossible for me to drink anything more than a glass of water when I got home.
From the moment I got back, things moved very quickly. By 15.00 my GP, Jessica Baron, rang me, having received the report. She told me that she had already sent the referral to UCLH on the Cancer Pathway but asked if I wanted to come in to talk to her and to be examined. All props to my GP practice, the James Wigg Group Practice and especially, to Dr Baron. I saw no point in any further examinations and didn’t want to waste her time going over what I’d already been told. She explained the process in a caring and gentle manner. Told me that it looked like it had been caught early and that I shouldn’t worry too much. There were excellent advances and treatments available. Only part of my brain took in what I was being told.
If I had experienced nausea in the weeks before that date, they were nothing in comparison to what I felt listening to her words. The reality was gradually penetrating my consciousness. The unthinkable had happened. My precious tits had been attacked and a major assault would be forthcoming.
The following day I received a phone call from UCH Macmillan Cancer Centre to book an urgent appointment in their breast clinic.
Immediately after taking that call, I went online and bought a series of expensive and very sexy bras. I had no impending ‘hot date’ or specific reason for buying them on that day. But somewhere hovering in my brain was the thought that perhaps time was running out for me to wear my favourite items of lingerie. Funny how such trivial things can come into your mind at the most serious moments.
A very senior medical friend, and my oncologist cousin talked to me about the excellent survival rates for early breast cancer, how treatments have advanced – including their side effects. They speak of how surgical intervention could be minimal if caught at a sufficiently early stage, etc. etc. They may be eminent physicians, but they are both men. How could they understand? I hear the words, but my brain loops back to my thoughts of decades earlier.
I am not a young woman at the start of her emotional and sexual life, but I am a woman. I am a woman who has been a widow for two and a half years and have just started getting my life back together again, making plans for my future. I am a woman who has very recently begun to take tentative steps towards breaking a long period of celibacy and hopeful of forming new attachments and having adventures. These are difficult spaces to navigate at the best of times. I feel out of step. Forgotten the rules and the mystical ways of attracting and engaging with others in a romantic and erotic context. Now this. Why?
How could I ever be the same again? I might stay alive, but what would that life be like? Would I still feel feminine? Would I still be desirable – to myself, let alone to anyone else? What will my body look like when the surgeon, radiation and drugs have finished with me? Will I still feel anything? Anyway, how does anyone know it was caught early enough?
At times, I rage. Other times I weep. At times I feel vane and petty worrying about these issues when the medical teams are focused on my survival and trying to reassure me about the curability of early-stage breast cancer. Other times I think of women whose cancer has not been detected early. But none of that changes my reality.
A few days after that phone call, I sat in the UCH Macmillan Cancer Centre in Huntley Street, London. I sat on the same seating where I’d spent nearly three years from 2015 to 2018 waiting with my late husband for his appointments. He had been diagnosed with Stage 4 Prostate cancer and died in the Hampstead Marie Curie Hospice, in early 2019. I looked at the cheerful bright mosaic floor in the waiting area and those years came flooding back as if they were yesterday. Not only was I living my own reality, but I was catapulted back into all those weeks, months and years of anguish and grief. This time, I sat alone. Waiting.
To "like" this piece doesn't seem appropriate. I guess I just want to say it really got to my heart and made me love you more.
Fearless, feisty and funny. Thank you Susan. x
A perceptive and fearless piece of writing. Andy
Captivating writing Susan. Looking forward to your next entry. xx
Great writing! I am hooked (as it were.) x