FRESH YARN presents:

What a Waste of a Beautiful Pair of Breasts
By Coley Sohn

That's what my mom said to me when I came out to her a little over ten years ago. It wasn't the first thing out of her mouth. That would be a shrill, dramatically extended, "Whhhaaaaatttt????" as she steered her car off to the shoulder so as not to get in an accident. I didn't mean to tell her over the phone but she left me no choice. When you live 3,000 miles apart and your mom calls constantly from her car phone -- I think that's what they had back in '94, car phones -- wanting to know who you're seeing and what happened to your neighbor Kenny you had such a crush on, and how come she hasn't heard a guy's name mentioned in well over a month? Frankly, she was asking for it.

It probably would've helped if I had figured things out in a more gradual manner. Growing up, I was quite the tomboy, wearing my hair real short, playing boys' parts in musicals, and swimming in nothing but a pair of cut-offs well past when I should have. I would've figured things out a hell of a lot sooner if it wasn't for my mother, Sandy, telling me when I was ten that she was worried I was going to grow up to be a lesbian. That was all it took. There was no way in hell I was going to grow up and become one of those. So I went the other way with vim and vigor. I became this boy crazy 'ho throughout junior high, high school, college, and my early 20s. I did such a fine job of quelling my mom's fears that I suppressed all the mad crushes I had on women over the years. I told myself that it was very normal. Young women are supposed to have feelings for other women. Intense, powerful, think-about-that-person-all-the-time-even-when-you're-having-sex-with-your-boyfriend feelings. Clearly, my mom's statement had quite an effect on me. And by the by, she does not remember saying it.

I digress. This is not about me coming out. It's about my boobs. My point was that during this initial conversation where I shocked the shit out of my meddling mother, she wistfully blurted out, "What a waste of a beautiful pair of breasts." Which is so wrong and so gross on so many different levels, I can't even get into it. It's easier to chalk it up to classic Sandy. Still, like her lesbian premonition she doesn't remember making, the waste of boobs prophecy was absolutely dead on.

My mom harps. I'm not sure if I've mentioned that. Since I was about 25, she's been pushing for me to get a mammogram. Breast cancer runs in the family. She hasn't been hit, surely thanks to all the different vitamins and supplements and herbs and mushrooms she carries around in her purse and pops on an hourly basis. Something has to offset the mini vodka bottles that live in her bag, too. Anyway, she's always reminded me to get checked. My boobs were big. Big supple low hanging D's. Which I never appreciated. First, I'm a smaller person. Second, I have a "little boy way" about me, as this homeless guy with a lot of foresight once put it.

Still, they were nice. Not worthy of all the hype my mom gave them, but they garnered their fair share of attention. In conversation, guys would always look me in the boob. It made me yearn for a smaller, more manageable set. I'd considered getting a reduction, but I'm a pretty firm believer in sticking with what you're given. I'm sure the thought of major surgery and heavy scarring didn't help. So I learned to hide them in loose clothing.

I think I put the whole mammogram thing off for a while to defy my mom. She bugs me sometimes. A lot of the time, really. Every six months or so, she'd ask if I'd gotten one. Not yet, Mom. I will. I swear.

My insurance through the Screen Actors Guild was running out and I was 34 and I figured, what the hey hey, time to go in for a "woman's wellness" exam as they call it. Especially while someone else is paying for it. I'm not a doctor person. I never go. I always thought of going as a big waste. My mom said that's what you hope for. That it's a waste. That's the point.

They asked me on the phone if I wanted a male or female doctor. I went for a lady. My mom had this creepy old gyno I saw as a teenager who left a very bad taste. He told me I "protruded in all the right places." Honest to god. And when I got home and reported back to my mom, she laughed. This is what I'm dealing with.

So the female doctor was cold and no-nonsense. She felt my boobs and all seemed fine. I joked about my paranoid mom pushing me to get a mammogram. Could we please just shut her up? So an appointment was made and the girls were pressed and photographed.

Before I got dressed, the techie instructed me to read this laminated piece of paper on the wall. Something about if you get called back in for another mammo, it's no big deal. Lot's of people get called back in. Okay. Did she see something questionable and felt compelled to point out the disclaimer? Or did she always point to the disclaimer? Surely, if it was on the wall all laminated like that, they wanted everyone to read it. No biggy. I went home, and called my mom at some point over the next few days to let her know I had the obligatory mammo and now she'd have to find something else to harp on me about. Done. I won. Moving on.

The next week the techie called me. Her voice was shaky, but I think it may've always been shaky. She said I needed to come back in for spot magnifications. How often does this happen, I asked? I know I read the laminated thing but I'm one of those people who need to hear things several times. Once is just not enough. Three to five people a week, she told me. Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. But I'd have to go way out to their west Valley location. They were too booked at this one. I hemmed and hawed 'cause I don't like to be put out. I'd try to make it work. But it better be during non-traffic hours. And it better be quick. I'm a busy lady.

It was one of those days where I left the house before 10:00 that morning and didn't come back until after 11:00 that night. In between a walk-through and a three-hour home inspection -- I sell real estate too -- and my acting class that night, I dragged my ass through the Valley, to pick up my previous mammos in Burbank, and schlep them to Woodland Hills. After the re-shoot, I was told to wait, that the radiologist wanted to talk to me. Is this going to take long? Because I'm getting together with my scene partner before class to run lines. We're putting up our scene tonight. It's from In the Boom Boom Room. I'm playing this MC at a strip joint. I bought fishnets for it and everything.

The radiologist was a somber, quiet man, who pointed out my calcifications and said he didn't like them. I'd have to have a biopsy. He said if I were his family, he'd make me do it ASAP. But you don't understand, I sold my house a few weeks ago and my girlfriend Andy and I are doing all this work to our new place. There are all these workmen around. Oh, and we're going to Kauai in a few weeks. It's our 10-year anniversary. Can I do the biopsy after? It's just not a good time. He'd do it now if he were me.

Fuck him. What the fuck did he know? I called my mom on my way to class and broke the bad news. I told her about the calcifications and she looked them up online as I drove. Are they the macro or the micro? I'm not sure -- I think micro. Oh, 'cause the macro are better. They're usually benign. You can get them from a sports injury, say a soccer ball to the chest. Surely that's what happened. A soccer ball pummeled my breasts some time in my teens and this fucked up hypochondriac of a radiologist is just being over-precautionary. I know better than him. Oh, and my mom said that biopsies are nothing. They're painless. She's had two, which both turned out fine. And she's bad with pain. So I made an appointment.

Our new couch from Crate and Barrel was being delivered the morning of my biopsy. Horrible timing. I considered rescheduling. But no, it was the Friday before Labor Day weekend and we wanted to know that these calcifications were nothing before we went off to Kauai. Our friend Rob came over to man the door and sign off on Grace, our 68-inch, clean-lined espresso sofa/loveseat hybrid. Off my girlfriend and I went to the Providence Breast Center so I could get poked and prodded.

The biopsy hurt like shit. I'm not going to lie. I was face down on some table with my left breast hanging through a hole, clamped tight in a metal vice, while this needle connected to a mechanical arm proceeded to ram the shit of me. In and out, up and down, all over the joint, making sure to get good samples. These worm-like collections of tissue. Squiggly little pieces of boob. Barb, the very nice nurse, stroked my hair while I squeezed a spongy ball. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.

When we got home, Grace hadn't arrived. Alas, Rob couch sat for naught. She was delivered soon after and we enjoyed her all weekend, trying not to think about boobs. I was instructed to sleep in a sports bra and leave the biopsy bandage on while I showered. I looked at the red quarter-inch incision and wondered how long it would take to fade or if it would mar my breast forever.

The problem with having a biopsy done the Friday before a holiday weekend is that you have an extra day not to know. An extra day to wonder. I don't recommend it. Not that it mattered that much. 'Cause we knew it was going to be fine. We were thinking positive. We knew I didn't have breast cancer. That would be way too fucked up.

I called the nice nurse Barb Tuesday morning. Or did she call me? That part's a blur. On Friday she explained that she normally didn't give results but would in my case, so as not to keep me waiting. The second I heard her voice Tuesday morning I knew it was bad. She had that low, slow, I'm about to tell you something horrible cadence. I wrote down everything she said. DCIS, micro invasion, estrogen positive, herteuneu negative. I was probably looking at a lumpectomy with a likely side of radiation and possibly chemo. What?? Are you sure? No. She wasn't. That's why she normally didn't deliver this kind of news. After it was all said and done, I still had to ask her if this meant I had breast cancer. Yes. You have breast cancer.

I was in our back house that we use as an office. I stumbled into the front house in a daze. Andy was futzing through the entertainment center looking for CDs to burn. She spends way too much time on iTunes if you ask me. She didn't realize I'd been talking to Barb. I have breast cancer, I told her. Whhhhaaatttt?? Not as shrill or dramatic as my mom's voice when I first came out to her. More heartfelt. And full of disbelief. Her eyes were instantly full. We hugged and she begged me not to leave her. Then she looked me hard in the eye and told me she was going to take real good care of me. Then we called my mom.

My mom is not good in these situations. I immediately prefaced the call with a, "Mom, I need you to be strong for me." She proceeded to tell me that I was going to have to have chemo, which would make my hair fall out and I'd probably put on weight. Hefty words from the woman who constantly reminded me throughout my teenage years that I could afford to lose a couple. I burst into tears and my girlfriend promptly hung up on her.

The next few hours, days, and weeks were filled scouring the internet and books, and talking to friends, family, doctors and survivors. I needed to suck in every single piece of data I could. It was information overload. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. We went off to Kauai and did a lot of laughing and a lot of crying, just trying to swallow the whole thing. We spent a lot of money too. Things are very expensive there. But we deserved. We had a very good year up until now. And we had cancer.

We got back to the mainland and it was time to make a decision. All the research and soul searching kept bringing me to the same conclusion. It was time to let the beautiful pair of breasts go. By doing so, I'd most likely avoid chemo and radiation, I wouldn't have to worry about boob #2 getting hit, and I'd have that perky set of B's I'd always longed for. Win/win. A no brainer. And this time Mom had my back.

She tells me now that she knew it wasn't good when she was doing her internet research on calcifications. And I kind of knew it wasn't good all along. Just a feeling. In fact, after I was called in for the second round of mammos, I subconsciously started to flaunt 'em. I wore tighter shirts. I showed more cleavage. Something was telling me to appreciate them while I had them.

They're gone now. The beautiful pair of breasts I was born with and hated when I wanted to swim topless with the boys. The breasts that many a passerby seemed to enjoy when I jogged in nothing but a sports bra. I missed them so much when my bandages first came off a week after surgery. When I saw these bizarre nipple-less bumps where my old melons used to be. With criss-crosses stitched in the middle, like cartoon drunk eyes. I despised them so much I put off showering for days. Eventually I broke down and got naked in the tub. I think I had to 'cause I was going somewhere. I couldn't look at them; they were so foreign and ugly. And I couldn't reach my head. My girlfriend had to come in and help me through. I hated not being able to wash my own hair. And I hated seeing her real, beautiful breasts. I cried the whole time. And I'm not a crier. At least I didn't used to be.

Seven months later and I'm cancer free. Looking back, I know it wasn't a waste of a beautiful pair of breasts. In fact, it's just the opposite. The old boobs of 34 years served as a tremendous sacrifice for everything I've now gained. Thanks to them, I experienced firsthand the incredible support team I have in my friends and family. What a gift to get to see how much you are loved. And to get to see the effect you have on others. It's invaluable. And thanks to them, I'm also acquiring that special insight that comes with a life threatening disease. I think they put it in with your stuff before you leave the hospital. Suddenly my car leaking oil doesn't feel so dire. And I hardly notice that we still haven't painted the trim in our living room and dining room. Oh, and the hallway trim needs painting too.

The doctors say that my mom saved my life. That if I didn't have that mammogram, in another year it would've been too late. Against my better judgment, I told her what they said. To my surprise, she took it with a grain of salt. I'm sure if I bring it up in a few months she won't even remember.

And now, in mid-reconstruction, I'm loving my new nipple-less boobs. I love not having to put on a bra. Ever. I love being able to wear nothing but a tank top, a feat for a formerly big bosomed gal. I love that when I jump up and down, nothing moves. I love how the smaller girls suit my smaller frame. I love how free they make me feel. But I want my old boobs to know that I will never, ever forget them. I will always appreciate who they were and what they did and will be forever indebted for what their absence has taught me. Like I said, they were not a waste. At all. My beautiful pair of breasts were my salvation.

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