And I could see that he wanted to, and I knew I did, so I knew ultimately we would but I would leave it to him to make the decision for himself. I just stood there, sweating, trying to smile away the awkwardness until he mustered up the nerve, and when he did it wasn’t really much, just an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders, and a look that seemed to say “I’m up for this if you are,” but that was enough for me. I took a very deliberate step toward him, and then he opened his arms and I stepped between them and he pulled me in. And then it was as though there was no one else at that party, no one else in the room, no one else in the world, just Andrew Marks and that song and me.
So that was the night I learned that I like being pretty. It didn’t matter to me at all before and it has ever since. It still does, now, even as I lie here in this bed, wearing a stained cotton gown that ties in the back, thinking about the dress I wore the night I danced with Andrew Marks. It matters to me, even as I contemplate what life is going to be like for me from now on.
They removed my breasts today.
There’s no doubt it was the right thing to do, it was an easy decision to make, but somehow typing out the words isn’t quite so easy. Just looking at them now is hard, reading them in the dim backlight of my laptop. They removed my breasts. I have a gene that dictates I am at a disproportionately high risk of breast cancer. If not for the gene, the doctor said he would have considered just a lumpectomy, but I think I still might have asked to have the surgery. I want this out of me and I don’t want it back.
Still, it was strange to hear.
“I strongly recommend we take your breasts off.”
Like they were ski boots.
Next up is reconstructive surgery. And then, for all intents and purposes, I am cured. So, my emotions are in a peculiar state this evening. Because of my breasts, but also probably because of the drugs. And what I find most interesting is that when I woke up from the surgery, my first thought was of you. I needed to go to the forum and find out what has happened to the heroine in your story.
You don’t know me at all, and I understand that I have absolutely no right to intrude on your experience, but I can’t help myself. You didn’t respond to my person-to-person and I fully understand that, but if you can please update your story, I can’t explain why, but I need to know.
* * *
Person2Person
From: Brooke B.
To: Samantha R.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
Andrew Marks is my family’s pediatrician, and he is super cute.
He looks like he’d be an excellent kisser. Is he?
* * *
Person2Person
From: Samantha R.
To: Brooke B.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
I cannot tell you the excitement that raced through me when I logged on this morning and found my icon flashing. No one has ever written to me on the forum before and I just knew it was going to be you. (And, by the way, I don’t have very good past associations with surprises in my e-mail. I’ll tell you that story someday. Major drama.)
It hasn’t been the easiest day. The good news is my reconstructive surgery was a complete success, and the surgeon does not foresee any complications. Everything is as good as it can be under the circumstances. Still, I feel tired and sad, and a little worried about ever feeling as good as I did just three weeks ago. I was a serious athlete. Now I am a patient. I know I should feel grateful, I know how much worse this could have been, but I’m sorry, I’m just having a hard time feeling lucky right now.
Your note cheered me. I cannot believe Andrew is your doctor. I knew he had followed in his father’s footsteps but I had not heard he was still in Greenwich. I lost track of him while he was at Yale. He’s not on Facebook—one of the very few people I grew up with who is not. I think the last time I saw him was at his father’s funeral, maybe ten years ago. The whole town was there. I saw Andrew from a distance but I never