Sharon had been afraid that day in the shower. She was afraid when she made the appointment. Doctor Chin's cold hands had poked and squeezed, and brought to mind her manner of selecting a ripe tomato from its siblings in a grocery display. The monotone explanation and discussion did nothing but fan the flames that licked at her sanity into a raging inferno of absolute terror. Her drive to the quiet Chicago suburb was made in a slow motion mixture of unconscious mechanical control of the sedan and wildly careening thoughts. Now was terrifying and the future was impossible to contemplate. That night she told her husband, Jim, about the examination and the impending surgery.
On Monday of the next week, Sharon donned the simple, open-backed gown and slipped between the stiff hospital sheets. An hour later, the smiling Doctor Chin paid a visit. It was as if she were trapped in a dream that kept rewinding and replaying, for the same quiet voice again explained the procedure to be followed, and the alternate procedure that would be required should the conditions be worse than he feared. Sharon watched her unfelt fingers grasp the pen to write "Sharon Morris" on the consent form. When she lifted the pen, the numb hand shook, and she realized she could not decipher the blue scribble that was her own name. Jim held her hand until the young nurse slipped a needle in her right arm, and then Sharon's world went to sleep.
Sharon swam through a fog of clammy blackness toward a distant, tiny pinpoint of light. Her arms and legs would not function in their role as instruments of propulsion; her forward motion was the result of the iron will to burst from this prison of nothingness and silence. The pinpoint became a dot, the dot became a beacon, then suddenly burst into blinding brilliance that forced her eyes shut. An attempt to rise was made futile by the bindings on her arms and chest. She tried to cry out, but the painful effort resulted only in a tiny mew.
"Sharon, it's OK. Just relax. You'll feel better in a bit." The gentle female voice was distant, and yet comforting. The soft hand that touched her forehead wiped away all her strength and she let herself fall back into the inky silence.
The "squish, squish, squish" sound woke her. It took a moment before the white blob at the bedside became a plump nurse. The grey-framed face smiled down on her before turning away to stare at the wall. Sharon became aware of a gradually increasing tightness around her left arm.
"Just lie still for a minute, Honey, so I can get your pressure."
Sharon closed her eyes again and tried to remember what had happened. Her mind was a vacuum. The ripping sound at her arm brought her back to half-awareness of her surroundings.
"There. All done. You ready to wake up, or you want to sleep a while longer? Some do and some don't, so either way is OK. You're doing just fine. Doctor Chin will be in to see you sometime tonight." Sharon felt her hand being closed around a hard plastic cylinder. As she began to drift back into the black cloud she heard the nurse again. "If you want anything, just push this little button."
She woke again at the touch of a hand gently holding her wrist. This time, the nurse came immediately into focus. The grey head stared at the watch on her arm, then lowered Sharon's hand to the bed and wrote something on a clipboard.
"Sorry I woke you, but I have to monitor pulse and pressure while you're in recovery. How do you feel?"
"Exhausted, and my head is killing me."
"Probably the anesthetic. It does that to some people. It'll go away in a little while. I can't give you anything for it until Doctor Chin says it's OK. By the way, I'm Bonnie, and your husband just stepped out for a minute. He'll be right back."
Sharon was awake when Doctor Chin and Jim came into the room, although she was still a little groggy. The chubby Asian face was blank as he walked to her bed, and the icy chill of fear paralyzed any attempt at motion. Jim's face was a mask of some emotion she had not seen before. A lump began to form in her throat and she gripped Jim's hand tightly.
"Mrs. Morris, I'm sorry, but it was worse than we originally thought. I'm afraid we had to remove the breast in order to get the entire tumor. I've prescribed a short series of chemotherapy treatments, just in case, but we found no indication that it had spread. You should be able to go home in a day or so, and take the treatments on an outpatient basis. I've asked that you be taken to a standard hospital room, and I'll look in on you tomorrow. Would you have any questions while I'm here?"
Sharon bit her lower lip and shook her head. Speech would have meant releasing the tears of sorrow, rage, and betrayal that threatened to burst from her eyes. Speech would have meant screaming at God, "Why me? What have I done that was evil enough to deserve this?". Speech would have meant breaking the last gossamer thread that held mind to body. The tears would come, but they would come when she was alone.
Three months later, Sharon stepped from the shower and patted herself dry. She walked to the full length dressing mirror and stopped. It had taken six weeks before she could bring herself to stare back at the disfigured woman imprisoned in the glass. Before that, she had only allowed herself to lower her head to examine the right side of her chest. The sight of the flat chest wall with the thin, red scar had caused tears and sobs for weeks until familiarity finally pushed them aside for thoughts of "At least I'm alive, aren't I?". The visits from the volunteer worker had helped some. Sharon could hardly tell which of the white-haired woman's breasts was real and which was the carefully matched prosthesis. The woman seemed at ease with her condition, but Sharon wondered if she had any reason to care. Celia was old enough to be her mother, and Sharon could not imagine the polite, matronly widow having any need to be thought attractive to the opposite sex.
As soon as she no longer needed the dressing, Sharon drove to the shop on West Madison that Celia had recommended. The sales clerk had fitted her with the special bra and silicon rubber breast that disguised her loss. That bra, and the ones that followed, were pretty and feminine, and looked just like the ones she wore before the operation. Only the fuller cut of the cups and sides, and the special pocket for the prosthesis were different. When she was dressed, Sharon could almost believe that the disaster had never happened. The mirror on the bedroom closet door took every opportunity to force her belief in the reality.
The first mirrored look at her altered body had been of the "good" side. The natural curve and swell of her left breast still looked as before. Sharon had always thought her breasts were nicely formed, if not large, and had fancied that men liked them too. The fantasy that she was unchanged could be maintained by the simple act of choosing her viewpoint. In a few days, she had mustered the courage to look face on with the image of herself. The need for tears had passed, and instead of sorrow, Sharon felt rage at fate and rage at the man who called himself a doctor but made his living by butchering women. "He wouldn't have been so quick to cut off his cock", she said to the face in the mirror. "Why couldn't he have found another way instead of leaving me like this."
Jim had left the day after their first attempt at making love. She couldn't blame him for being honest, really, but his words still seared her mind.
"Dammit, I'm sorry, but I can't. I just can't. You're not the same anymore. I look at you and..."
"And what?"
"You look...you're different and...all I feel is pity."
Pity. Now she understood his unfamiliar face in the hospital. Jim might as well have called her an ugly hag. He had filed for divorce the next week, and had been more than generous in the divorce settlement, but Sharon had paid for the house and car with the loss of confidence in her sexuality.
Returning to work had been hell. Her female coworkers had been sympathetic, but Sharon knew that, behind her back, they were thanking God it hadn't been them. She had also overheard a conversation during which Judy boasted that "she might not be as thin as Sharon, but at least she still had both boobs". After a time, she grew to hate their bodies, and then to hate the women who lived inside them. The men had suddenly lost the desire for the playful flirting that had been thrown her way in the form of innuendo and intentionally loud whispers. They treated her as an asexual being and their professional demeanor was killing her self-worth as a woman. On Saturday, she called her boss to request two weeks of vacation and then went shopping. On Sunday afternoon, she packed a few things, and was on her way to Michigan. She had to find herself again or withdraw into the private hell of her own hatred and paranoia.
She and Jim had often driven to the Michigan coast before the surgery. Sharon loved the sandy beaches and the atmosphere of the little tourist towns. Bridgeman had seemed as good as any place to stop, and the "Lakeside Court" seemed to fit her mood. The older motel sat quietly in a grove of tall old pines. There was no motel as such; the rental units were kitchenette cabins set apart from each other along a thinly graveled, horseshoe drive. The faded paint and dilapidated appearance of the most remote appealed to her, and she smiled when told it was available. Sharon produced a credit card, and in one quick swipe, the shabby cabin became her retreat from the world. A short trip to the corner convenience store stocked the kitchenette with coffee, creamer and sugar. The pizza shop across the street furnished dinner, and by nine she was sitting in the creaky bed and reading the complimentary guide to the area attractions.
Morning came filtered through the lush fronds of the sheltering pines. The travel alarm said ten when she lifted it to her eyes. Sharon first remembered where she was, and then remembered that the pizza had been small. While she made coffee on the tiny stove, the growling from her midsection served notice that a meal was expected. The chill of the night had not yet abated, so she slipped on a sweatsuit and jogging shoes. The sign on the diner said their specialty was pancakes, and Sharon ordered a short stack. After drowning them in maple syrup and butter, Sharon leisurely ate the strawberry treat. She drank the coffee black to make up for all the frivolous calories.
Sharon returned to her cabin and tried to decide the activity with which to occupy her day. The photo of the beach on the guide beckoned, but the thought of wearing the swimsuit from the specialty shop terrified her. The lycra one-piece blaze of blue and orange was cut to hide the imitation breast and the thin scar, but deep in her heart, she knew any observer would quickly distinguish the contrast between the soft bounce of her own body from the more firm sway of the imitation. The thought nibbled carefully at her determination to overcome the fear; the swimsuit looked better hanging over the shower curtain rod and she donned shorts and a heavy T-shirt before driving out of town.
