You wake up to a new contour on your beautiful firm breast. The dinner gown no longer fits. Cleavage has lost its magic. You adjusts for an extra 10 minutes. A futile adventure. An awkwardness runs the length of your gown as you step down the stairs. The lump on your right breast eats a chunk of your self-esteem. Your girlfriend helps you tuck it in under your bra. You convince yourself it’s a skin reaction. From one lotion to another you transversed the world of blind self-medication.
Weeks turn into months. Here, you sit before your majestic mirror. Observing what has grown into a painful swelling. Thick with miniature dimples like an orange skin. You feel nauseated. Pregnant? No. But your nipple now produces blood and malodorous discharge instead of milk which maps out its existence on everything before it. The last time you were called for an exercise, you slept over. Nothing seems to explain your weight loss.
It’s your turn now after two hours at the waiting room. He’s the same doctor you met the last time you came to treat Malaria. Words from last encounter flood your brain. You did not examine your breast regularly. Your teeth clenches on your lips in self realization. For God’s sake, you should have known it was a breast disease. Apparently a tumor. Helplessness asserts itself on your makeup. Tears gather over your eyelids as he tells you that the plan is to remove your right breast. Then place you on drugs till the tumor cells totally clear off.
The sun rises. Pierces through the curtains. It was a dream. You brace yourself for the mirror and realize your breasts are Ok. They stare at you from the mirror demanding a promise to check on them regularly. Tears of joy solidifies the YES in your head.