Cancer survivor wonders why her asymmetry unsettles so many.

By Elizabeth Nassau

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 judgment 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 sweat pants 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 adeptly 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 survivors" 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 . . how 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 judgment.  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.

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Elizabeth Nassau is a writer who lives in West Chester.

For questions about breast-cancer issues, call the National Cancer

Institute's information service at 1-800-422-6237 or the Living Beyond

Breast Cancer survivor's helpline at 610-617-1035 in Narberth.

©1998 Philadelphia Newspapers Inc.