This is from the Philadelphia Inquirer (main Philly newspaper) of 10/25/98.

Essay
One breast?  The world is unable to deal with it

by Elizabeth Nassau, for the Inquirer

   I am working out in the gym one morning when I notice two men casting
furtive glances at my chest.  They snicker as they confer.  Cheeks burning,
I hear the judgement in their voices as clearly as their words.
   And the words they voice so easily, so gracelessly are these: Cancer Chick.
   It's not that I particularly object to the term Chick.  I am, after all,
a 42-year-old mother of four, with countless surgical medals to pin to my
half-flat chest.  And, despite the excess baggage of unwanted weight, I can
match anyone, step for step, on my favorite cardio-contraption.
   Yet those harsh words slice through me as neatly as the surgeon who
amputated my right breast to eradicate cancer during the fourth month of my
last pregnancy.  Why do I feel myself flush with sudden shame?  I have done
nothing for which to apologize.
   What I have done is exercise without the benefit of a breast prosthesis.
   It is not a decision made lightly.  After trying countless "sports
breasts" -- a hollow yet heavy silicone breast, an elliptical foam pad
weighted with sand, and many more -- I have decided to give higher priority
to my physical comfort than to social convention.  Most people at the gym
know me, know my situation.  They seem as comfortable with my appearance in
baggy tees and sweats as I am.
   Or so I think.
   The brief exchange I have overheard casts uneasy ripples through my
world.  Once my humiliation abates, I luxuriate in self-pity.  Then true
outrage sets in, followed by sadness and depression.  Have I been naive?  Is
my asymmetry unsettling?
   I need a reality check.
   So I conduct an admittedly unscientific survey.  I must confess I am
disappointed -- no, shocked -- by the results.
   A dear friend says, "You know, Elizabeth, I don't go out of the house
without makeup, let alone a body part.  I'm not the right person to ask."  A
former colleague abruptly changes the subject each time I approach him.  The
mother of one of my children's friends tells me, "If it makes people that
uncomfortable, then maybe you should just wear the damned thing."  And many,
many people are certain that breast reconstruction is the answer.  This,
despite learning that two plastic surgeons have declared it too risky for
me, given my medical history.
   The most disturbing response is expressed by someone concerned that I am
becoming "one of those in-your-face survivors."
   I for one am grateful to "in-your-face suvivors" such as Matuschka, the
courageous photographer and cancer survivor whose naked photograph --
mutilated breast and all -- graced the cover of the New York Times magazine
in October 1993.  If not for that controversial photograph, I might have
dismissed the lump in my own breast that, one horrifying month later, would
be pronounced malignant.
   Five years later, the universal response to my survey -- regardless of
race, gender, age, and so on -- is discomfort, dis-ease.  Few people are
open enough, thoughtful enough, simply to say, "I don't know how to respond
. . . you do YOU feel about having had cancer?"
   I have come to accept the loss of my breast although I don't like it one
bit.  I'd rather have a real breast that I don't have to carry in my gym bag
along with my water bottle and headphones.  Yet I am alive to complain.  I
am learning to value myself *AS I AM*, something few of us are taught.  It
is no wonder we seldom extend that kindness to others.
   In the end, our children may be our best role models.  If I am out and
about without my prosthesis, children rarely notice.  When they do, they
express curiosity in a straightforward way, without judgement.  I am glad to
answer their questions directly.  I am never embarrassed.
   In my house, I have been known to yell, "C'mon guys, where's my breast?
I'm going out to dinner with Daddy."  It has turned up in my youngest son's
toy box ("My soldiers need a hill," he complains as he surrenders it to me.)
I have discovered it among the costumes in my daughter Leah's dress-up
trunk.  ("I'm playing Mommy," she explains with the innocent pride of a
4-year-old.)
   Back at the gym, Leah waits patiently for me on a bench in the locker
room.  She watches intently as another woman exits the showers.
   In the car, she can hardly contain her excitement.  "Benjamin," she
shouts to her 5-year-old brother, "Ben, guess what?  I saw a lady with two
breasts!"
   "Yeah?" her brother replies.  "So what?"
   Exactly.