Tits - Breast Cancer Part 1

photo: Helmut NewtonI love my tits. I really do. They have fed three children and amused men. My nipples are enormous. I blame my mother. I was mortified when the obstetrician at Hammersmith, when pregnant with Jamie Matthew George back in 1979 took one look and announced, 'Well, I hope you're not going to waste THOSE!'And now, I have breast cancer. Fuck pink ribbons and midnight walks, badly cut T-shirts and collecting boxes. I really don't need this. Am I angry? Hell, yeah.I didn't have a lump. I had a mammogram. A dodgy mammogram.'We have located calcium granules in your right breast.'Which, apparently meant:a] I had limescale in me old kettleb] cells had gone awol cos of cancerI lost.I'm angry.I like my tits and have a full summer planned. With both tits.I really don't have time for this.'I don't want to be an orphan,' says my daughter on Facetime from Greece.I don't want to die. Or have one tit. I'll never get a boyf.Of course I won't die, mammogram diagnosis is shit hot and I'm lucky they caught it early. But suddenly, I don't trust my body. No part of it. Have a got a swelling in my neck? What's that funny feeling in my leg? Last night I extracted a piece of stitching from the site of a basel cell carcinoma biopsy I had in my arm in March.I won't even mention the lump on the back of my head where I fell over at a wedding in June. The heel on my gold stilettos broke, honest guv'.I'm adrift.