Breastless in a world of cleavage

CLEAVAGE. I live in a society obsessed with breasts. They transfix men and women. As a woman, I have come to know the cultural potency of a good pair of breasts. 

Think of the iconic status Pamela Anderson’s pair have attained. What would Baywatch be without the drool effect of Anderson’s beautiful breasts?

Think of the seductive power that Anna Nicole Smith’s breasts wielded on geriatric J Howard Marshall, inducing him to bequeath millions of hard-earned dollars to her, to the chagrin of his offspring.

I, too, have become obsessed with breasts. My obsession started when I lost mine to breast cancer in April 2006. 

It is true that you do not know what you have until it’s gone. I took my breasts for granted. Had a love-hate relationship with them. They were never good enough.

Nonetheless, I thought they would be there till death us did part. I was horribly wrong. I lost them one Friday afternoon, seven weeks after my 37th birthday. I am now 42. Pair of plastic boobs.  An implantable cardioverter defibrillator. Pink campaigns do not tell you of the effects of anthracycline chemotherapy treatment toxicity on your heart.
I am more intrigued by the cultural boob obssession. Bionic woman I now am. With a snigger I ask: Am I STILL a desirable woman? 

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