Goodbye, Girls

         I was in the third grade when I discovered my breasts. Well, that’s not exactly true. Pat Povah discovered them first.

            Pat Povah was the “rich kid” in our small school.  His parents had enjoyed a generation or two of contracts with the National Park Service giving the Povahs the exclusive right to provide visitor services in Yellowstone National Park . Until very recently, Hamilton Stores provided all the gas and grocery supplies in the park and had the rubber tomahawk market cornered as well. They were wealthy and Pat was perverted in what is still a charming way.

            Our school was very small, so small in fact that each classroom had two grades. Mrs. Smith taught the first and second graders, Mr. Hanson taught the fifth and sixth graders and a fairly short-timer, a youngish woman whose name I cannot recall, prepared the second and third graders for Mr. Hanson’s class.  When I enrolled at West Yellowstone School in the spring of 1959 I was in the third grade and Pat Povah was a second-grader.

            It was in the month of May when the snows had receded sufficiently to allow us to play outside at recess that Pat approached me.

            “I want to look at your titties,” he said matter-of-factly.

            “I don’t’ have any titties.” I replied.

            “Well, you will have them someday and I want to see them first.”

            “That’s stupid.”

            “I’ll give you a dime if you do.” He said.

            It was at this very juncture when I realized that just because a boy’s parents are rich does not make him smart. It was also at this juncture when I first understood the concept of “caveat emptor” – let the buyer beware.

            I didn’t have titties, but I didn’t have a dime either, so we struck a deal.  We wandered over behind a large wood shed near where Jan and Cal Dunbar eventually built the Food Roundup which exists there still. 

            “Give me the dime first.” I told him, and when he did I lifted up my shirt obligingly.

            Pat put his hands on his knees, bent over and peered at my boyish chest with great interest. The experience must have disappointed him, but he never complained.  He walked away thinking that titties are overrated.  I walked away awash in the sublime circumstance of independent wealth and entertained thoughts of a Dairy Queen treat after school.

            After this initial experience with breast potential, I frequently looked at breasts which came my way. The housekeeper Joanie had them. My teachers had them. Most women I saw were clearly blessed with breasts, some larger, some smaller. I wasn’t sure what they were good for, perhaps men paid dimes to see them. I wasn’t certain, but I did assure myself that I would be similarly endowed someday. The question was, how endowed would I be.  I resolved to question my mother at my next opportunity.

            That opportunity came that very afternoon while Mother was taking her daily bubble bath in preparation for work. (We owned a bar and restaurant and Mother was the resident blackjack dealer. She worked nights, of course.)

            I perched atop the commode while she soaked amid the billowing white mountains of scented bubbles. “Mommy, when I grow up will I have long titties too?”

            I remember her stricken look as clearly today as if it were yesterday. I don’t remember what her answer was, but all these years later, I can tell you the correct answer was “Yes.”

            When I finally blossomed, my breasts were a source of horrific embarrassment. For one thing, they came so quickly that a chorus of stretch marks appeared overnight. My classmates seemed to stare at me and my step father amused himself by calling me “Chesty.” 

            As the phases of my life unfolded, my breasts have represented food for my babies, a playground for my men and, lately, a heavy burden to carry around with me every day.

            I say all of that to tell you this.  Over the past few weeks following several mammograms as many ultrasounds and a surgical lumpectomy, I was diagnosed with lobular invasive carcinoma.  I have breast cancer.

            I am scheduled for a double mastectomy on Friday, September 12^th.  My family and I are preparing for a battle which I have no intention of losing. I don’t know what to expect except that I will live and love happily ever after. I hope you will keep us in your prayers.

            I’ve never been any good at worrying people. Those of you who know me well understand that I always insist upon being the hostess at every party – telling you all this puts me in the unusual position of being a little weak and whiney. Please don’t fret. Please don’t worry. I will be fine. And, just imagine how much money I’ll save in bras!!