plus more surgeries for reconstruction. I’ll never look or feel the same again. I mean, not that I will anyway, but…”
He doesn’t respond, turning to take a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. The surreal quality of this moment washes over me—my husband getting breakfast ready while we discuss the most viable way to cut into my body and rid me of cancer.
“Dean, I want to keep my breast. As much of it as I can, anyway.”
I smother a rush of embarrassment, the sense that I’m being silly and vain.
I have cancer, for god’s sake.
Why am I not firebombing it with the most invasive treatment possible? Why am I worried about keeping my breast, the way I’d look, how I’d feel about myself? Why am I worried about what Dean would think if both my breasts are gone? Why am I worried about how the different treatments will affect our sex life?
Shouldn’t I remove my breasts in the hopes of obliterating the cancer? And it’s not as if a lumpectomy won’t change the way I look either. There will be scarring and misshapenness, not to mention the effects of possible chemo and radiation…
I sense Dean’s gaze on me, and I look up at him. He’s watching me with sorrow and helplessness, which makes my chest ache.
“I want you here, Liv,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I want you with me, with our children, for many more years. I love your breasts. But nothing—nothing—compares to how much I love you. It makes me insane to think of you having to go through a mastectomy. And that doctor who recommended it was a jerk. But if it lessens the chance of reoccurrence, no matter how slight, and the need for chemo and radiation, that’s something to consider.”
“I have considered it,” I say. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be in favor of a lumpectomy?”
“I’m in favor of whatever destroys the damned thing,” he says. “I’m giving you my opinion.”
I bite back the retort that I didn’t ask for his opinion.
“Dr. Turner said a lumpectomy is meant to conserve as much of the breast as possible,” I continue.
“I know.”
“He also said many younger women opt for a lumpectomy, if it’s an option for them.”
A faint tightness pulls at Dean’s mouth. “You’re not many younger women. You’re you.”
“I know who I am.” I cross my arms almost unconsciously, as if I’m trying to protect myself. “And I want to keep my breast.”
Silence falls. It’s not just about sex, though that’s part of it. My breasts have always given both Dean and me immense sexual pleasure. They’re also…mine. Part of me.
How many times did I nurse my children with them? How many hours did I hold my babies to my breasts while they slept? They both still lean against my breasts when we’re cuddling on the sofa or reading picture books. Bella nestles her head on my breasts when she comes to sleep in our bed.
And of course Dean…
No, my breasts don’t define me, and yes, I’d be the same person without them, but severing part of my body…
“Dean, I need…” I swallow hard. “I need you to support me on this.”
His expression clears. He puts down the carton of milk and crosses the kitchen to fold me into his arms.
“Of course I support you,” he says. “I will always support you. You know that.”
“I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m making the wrong choice. That I shouldn’t be so concerned about keeping my breasts when I have a life-threatening illness.”
Dean’s arms tighten around me. His heart hammers against my cheek.
“Liv. It’s your body. What you should be concerned with is fighting this the way you want to. And if that means a lumpectomy with treatment, then that’s what we’ll do. The only thing I’m going to think is that you’re a goddamned warrior. ”
I close my eyes and breathe. I wish I felt like a warrior.
“I’m scared,” I confess.
“I know.”
“What are you scared of, Mom?” Nicholas’s voice comes from the hallway.
Shit.
Dean squeezes me tightly before letting me go. We both turn to our son. My heart constricts at the sight of him standing there in his Superman pajamas, his dark hair sticking up in different directions.
God in heaven, please let me see my children grow up. Please let me be there for them.
“Good morning, Nick-Nack.” I hold out my arms so he can come and hug me. I pull him close, inhaling the sleep-and-shampoo smell of him, absorbing the feeling of his