unhappily. “I feel like everything I say just makes you madder.”
“You could try saying it doesn't matter to you, that you love me anyway, with one breast or two, if that's the case. And if not, then I guess you're saying what's true for you. Maybe that's all that matters.”
“How do I know what I'm going to feel? How do you? Maybe you'll never want to have sex with me again after this. What the hell do I know?” He was being painfully honest with her and she wasn't ready for it. Her doctor could have told him that, or any therapist, or even Alex herself, but he wouldn't have listened. He was telling her the truth, as he knew it. And she didn't want to hear it.
“I know that I would love you, no matter what happened to you, no matter how disfigured you were, even if you lost your face, or your balls, or your hair, or had to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.”
“That's very noble of you,” he said coolly, “but it's also a lot of bullshit. How do you know what you would feel if something like that happened to me? You don't know zip until you get there. It's very easy for you to pretend it wouldn't affect you, but maybe it would. Maybe it would turn you off, even if that wasn't the politically correct thing for you to be feeling.”
“Are you saying it will turn you off?”
“I'm saying I don't know, and that's honest. I can't tell you it won't scare me, or make me a little nervous at first. Hell, it's a big change. But at least we can make an effort not to let it rock us to the core. This doesn't have to be the big deal you're making of it. Besides, there's more to life than just breasts and sex and bodies. We're friends too, not just lovers.”
“But I don't want to be just friends,” she said plaintively, starting to cry again, while he tried to hide his exasperation.
“Neither do I, so give it a rest, Al. Just let it be for a while. Let us both get used to this, and see what happens.” Why couldn't he lie to her? Why couldn't he tell her he loved her anyway? Because that wasn't Sam. She had always loved his honesty and integrity, even when it hurt her. And it was hurting her now, terribly. “What I don't understand is how your whole identity can be wrapped up in one breast, and not even a very big one at that. I mean for chrissake, you weren't a topless queen, or a go-go dancer. What's the big deal? You're an attorney. You don't need boobs. You're an intelligent woman. You lost your breast, not your brain, so what's all this craziness about?” It was about losing her life, and a part of her identity, and possibly her sex life. She no longer even felt like the same person.
“I just lost a breast, which even if it was small, I'm still vain enough to not want to be scarred for life … I may lose my hair …my ability to have children …everything's changed, and you're even telling me you're not sure how you're going to feel about me physically. How could I not be freaked out by this, Sam? I'd have to be dead not to feel it.”
“Maybe I just don't get it. If I found out I was sterile next week, I'd be sorry, but I'd be happy we had Annabelle, and let it go at that. Stop making such a big deal out of everything. Your identity is your brain and your life and your career, and everything you are and do and represent, not one boob or two. Who cares?”
“Maybe you do,” she said honestly.
“Yeah. Maybe so. So what? So screw me. Learn to live with it yourself, then maybe I'll feel better about it. But I'm not going to sit around and wring my hands with you, it would drive us both crazy if I did.”
“So what are you saying to me?”
“I'm telling you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and forget it.” There was something positive in what he said, and yet there was another part of him that was being deeply insensitive to what she was feeling. “I don't want to think about your having cancer all the time. I can't do it.” That was more honest than she knew.
“What do