Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy

by Geralyn Lucas

  No wonder Barbie’s boobs have provoked me so much lately. Hers are a deliberate symbol of power. Mine almost killed me.

  I am still feeling robbed of that power. Booby power taunts me all the time: On my way to my therapist, passing Hooters, I wonder what they might say to me if I went to apply for a waitressing job. Would I get it if I only had one hooter? Am I hallucinating or do Pamela Lee Anderson’s and Anna Nicole Smith’s breasts keep getting larger? They all look like Barbie dolls. Britney Spears keeps denying a boob job. Okay, now I am losing it. Having one boob makes me feel like I don’t belong. I am not a woman. I guess I feel like that “Get Real” girl that Skye tossed into the corner. This is a breast-obsessed society. It starts when little girls are only three! And it just gets worse. It doesn’t matter that I have two Ivy League degrees—I have only one boob.

  Something that I think is very strange and sad happened to Ruth Handler, though. The woman who made dolls with breasts was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to have a mastectomy. I think that it is bizarre that the woman who brought so many plastic boobs to the world found herself breastless. Not surprisingly, she went on to launch a plastic prosthetic breast line called “Naturally Me” so that women “could be proud to stick their chests out” after a mastectomy.

  But I know it is not so natural to put a plastic mound where your flesh and blood used to be. Plastic boobs—on dolls or real women—feel so hollow. But plastic boobs, even on a doll, are such a powerful toy for a little girl to play with.

  I wonder if Ruth herself ever considered making a Breast Cancer Barbie. I mean, they have a Doctor Barbie, Astronaut Barbie, and even a Barbie that does math. If one in eight women get breast cancer, a Breast Cancer Barbie feels more relevant than an astronaut one.

  I cannot get the image of Breast Cancer Barbie out of my head. Could Breast Cancer Barbie still somehow be beautiful with a large red bolt across her chest? Maybe if there were a Breast Cancer Barbie, a Hooter Girl, a one-boobed pin-up girl in Playboy, a one-boobed stripper, I might find it easier to imagine. I would know there is somehow a template for that beauty.

  I have never seen a beautiful woman revealing her booblessness, and I cannot summon it up no matter how hard I try. I still cannot look at myself in the mirror. But sometimes, when Tyler and Skye are asleep, I check myself out at 4 A.M. in the shadows of my bedroom. I study the curve of the implant, the bold red diagonal stripe across my chest, and the tattoo at the end of the red line. It is interesting-looking, and the curve even seems natural enough after all that stretching. It is prettier than I expected, in the shadows, in the dark. It looks better than I ever thought it would. When the shadows move across it, my mastectomy looks a little sexy in a really weird way. It is definitely not a breast, but it has its own appeal.

  When I get the call from Self magazine to pose topless for their breast cancer handbook, the timing feels right. I have just started to look at myself and I want other young women just diagnosed to see a reconstructed boob with a real young woman’s head, not just an anonymous torso, because I remember how much the breast mug shots still scare me. Posing would not be about vanity—it would be charity. At least that was what I expected. After all, I had never seen a beautiful woman with just one breast.

  20

  Developing

  “Take off your shirt!”

  Okay. Now I am seriously having second thoughts.

  I expected some foreplay and I am startled by how forward the photographer is being. This is like jumping into bed with a stranger. I imagined that a topless photo shoot would be more artful than this.

  I remind myself why I am here and why this is a special topless photo: I knew I would not end up on any teenager’s bedroom wall or locker door. I would not be offered a guest appearance on Baywatch, and I am not getting paid big bucks. I agreed to do this because I need to show other women that a mastectomy would not be as horrible as they thought. When the editor at Self made the pitch to me to pose topless in the magazine, it sounded so hopeful: “To offer inspiration to other women facing reconstructive surgery after breast cancer.”

  But I don’t think that the way I look could inspire anyone. I just want them not to be scared of what they’ll look like. Maybe it will give them a sense of relief that they won’t look as bad as they thought they would. The magazine editor told me the photos would be “beautiful” because they had hired a very famous portrait photographer. But I rolled my eyes when she told me over the phone they would be beautiful, because she had not seen what I look like. Let’s get one thing straight, I remind myself: This is charity.

  I will do anything for breast cancer, but this is extreme. I am being Mother Teresa. Extreme charity. I am so scared that I will be ridiculed and end up on some Internet fetish porn site. I am scared that every ex-boyfriend who broke my heart, every math teacher who gave me a C, will see this and smirk.

  I have become a reluctant activist. I will speak to any woman who has just been diagnosed. I do it because of Julie’s death. That night I gave my first speech as a breast cancer survivor was the night she died from breast cancer when she was only thirty-four. I need to make sense of her death. My breast surgeon and oncologist give out my number so women can call me. I have met so many women in bathrooms in bars across the city and let them feel me up that it is bordering on slutty. I convinced my breast surgeon and therapist to do the Sally Jessy Raphael show with me. I was worried I might get ambushed and that it might turn into “lingerie after a mastectomy,” but it was totally tasteful up until my breast surgeon was asked to do a breast exam live on a model on national television: I know that even though he is a boob doctor, it made him blush. My most outrageous event was “Boarding for Breast Cancer.” They flew me out to Heavenly Mountain in California to speak to snowboarders about breast cancer. The event was in memory of a young snowboard-clothing designer, Monica, who died of breast cancer at only twenty-eight. I had to go, of course, because it could have been me who had died at twenty-eight. I did not expect that I would have to speak to a crowd of nearly five hundred rowdy teenagers (mostly male) about breast cancer. It was a tough sell, especially because I had to speak after the Foo Fighters performed. The crowd looked like they might start heckling me at any second. I was not wearing the right thing. I had to be strategic and win over my audience. At the top of my lungs I screamed into the microphone, “Touch yourself!”

  The crowd roared. Earlier in the day I had seen a few snowboarders wearing T-shirts with that slogan. I kept going. “You all have dirty minds. I was talking about breast self-exams. And guys, you should learn how to do it, too. It’s quite a pick-up line and so many lumps are found by women’s boyfriends.”

  I told my story—how I had touched myself and saved my life. There was silence. When I finished, someone started chanting: “Touch yourself! Touch yourself!”

  Some really hot young guys carried me off stage, and the crowd was still screaming.

  But now in the taxi heading downtown to the photographer’s chic Noho studio to have my topless photo taken, this feels more daring than facing a crowd of hecklers. I keep reminding myself of how many women I am going to help. I am trying hard to remember looking at my plastic surgeon’s breast photo book—the breast mug shots, the headless torsos. I know that attaching a head to a torso with a mastectomy, especially a young one, will be so helpful, because I receive so many calls from recently diagnosed women who want to see what my reconstruction actually looks like, who got my name from friends, family, and my doctors. I know how important it is to take this picture because I have seen the relief in their eyes when I unfastened my bra in the bathrooms across the city.

  I remember what I imagined I might look like after my mastectomy, and I imagined horrible things. I always make sure to wear my best push-up bra when I meet these women, and even let them feel the reconstructed breast if they want to. I tell them how great I think I look, but part of me feels like I am lying. I need to reassure them. It is an incredible show-and-tell. They are so
relieved to actually see me instead of the breast mug shots/headless torsos in the photo book. I know taking this photograph will be important. I need to put a head with a boob for all those young women.

  I’m only a few blocks away and I start to panic: What if a woman looks at me and is supposed to feel inspired but really feels appalled? What if I scare her? I feel like I’m opening a door for someone to see what is behind it. I can almost taste their disappointment. I consider going back uptown. Instead I am an hour late.

  I think maybe I’m in the wrong place when I walk into the bland entranceway and enter the creaky freight elevator with the big iron gate, because it is not glamorous. But when the elevator jumps to a stop at the ninth floor I know I am at the right place—when I step out of the elevator, I smell how hip the place is. Incense, perfume, photography chemicals, and air conditioning are blending together to create some sort of tonic that instantly reassures me I am in a famous photographer’s studio.

  I am unsure of how to introduce myself to such a famous photographer —does she even care what my name is? It’s sort of that feeling you get when you introduce yourself to your new gynecologist. She just wants to look. I am the one-boobed poster girl. This famous photographer usually photographs celebrities—strictly A-list, no B’s. What am I?

  I had done a Google search on the famous photographer before my session, and I was thoroughly impressed. She has traveled across America and captured bizarre and disturbing images in the heartland. One of her most famous shots is of a little girl smoking in her plastic kiddy pool. The picture is pretty incredible because she actually got the rings of smoke, and the way this little girl is standing, she looks so mature. But then you see her pudgy thighs sticking out of a frilly bathing suit and remember that she is only eight, and how could her mother let her smoke a cigarette? This is good photography. She has even had fellowships named after her, and exhibitions in Venice and Barcelona, and her work starts conservatively at ten grand.

  Then I notice something that terrifies me. There are a lot of stylists for this shoot: hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Good-looking, cool young guys standing around, kind of slouching, posing, looking bored, but snapping to attention whenever she needs something. Are they going to be in the room? Will they see my scar, too? I have no problem with the camera, the photographer, and other breast cancer patients seeing it, but these guys? I mean, they seem sweet, but I don’t want them to look at me without my shirt on. Should I ask them to leave? But is that totally hypocritical to show my boobs to thousands of strangers and care that a few people will see them first? I don’t want to make waves before I take off my shirt. I want them to like me before they need to see me.

  I watch her moving around her studio, commanding it in a very synchronized fashion while taking the picture of a woman before me. There is a lot of commotion as she adjusts her light and lens, and then she takes some deep breaths. There is absolute silence before the loud, crackling, flashbulb pop. It is as if she is capturing the image in her net, like a butterfly.

  An assistant ushers me over to the buffet while the photographer is finishing her last photo. The buffet is magnificent. There are little signs that explain the food in detail: free-range chicken salad with basmati rice and organic beets and basil vinaigrette. Maybe this is why women pose topless? I am excited to dig in, but the now anxious assistant tells me, “Sorry, you can’t eat now because she is ready for you.” I am led across the large loft, and everyone parts like the Red Sea.

  I don’t know what I think should come next but I am stunned. Just “Take off your shirt.” I don’t know how I thought I would actually remove my shirt. Maybe I thought that they would wrap me in a cloak like those art school nude models, and suddenly the gown would fall to the floor in a dramatic whoosh. The assistants don’t give me a gown and they are not leaving the room. She tells me to stand on a platform. And she is waiting for me to take off my shirt.

  I am tugging on my T-shirt to stall while deciding if I should play along and be cool or ask everyone to leave except her and the camera. I am trying hard to be blasé: So what that I am posing topless even though I only have one boob? But I am a lot more scared than I thought I was going to be. I start to sweat and that’s when I panic, because I remember that I have not worn deodorant—I was scared a white ring might show under my armpit in the picture.

  I realize how ridiculous it is that I chose to wear a foxy bra. It does not matter. It’s boob time. I am fumbling with my bra strap and I look up and that’s when I meet her eyes for the first time. She seems to be getting impatient with me and I feel like a melon waiting to be examined in the produce section.

  I am still fumbling with my bra and there is still a small crowd just waiting to see what I look like. I am terrified to unhook my bra around all these cool people. I am chickening out. One of them approaches me with a can of hair spray and a blow dryer to break the tension and fix my hair, which is now messy from pulling my T-shirt so sharply over my head. She glares at him and turns her attention to me. She instantly starts seducing me. She tells me that I look perfect. She is a flirt—it is hard to say no to her.

  “Don’t touch her hair. I love it wild like that.”

  Someone in the small crowd tells her he has not done my makeup and another says he has not even touched my hair. She doesn’t care. She wants my bra off. Now.

  What is she thinking? I didn’t even brush my hair this morning because they told me they would have “hair and makeup” at the shoot. My hair is the authentic bed-head look and I am craving some lipstick. I ask her if I could have some lipstick, please, pretty please, I need lipstick. I need something to center me here. I need to lick that beeswax and taste the courage.

  “Give her some lipstick!”

  This is more like it. But she will only indulge me so long and she starts to sigh and I know the bra has to come off.

  I want this famous photographer to like me. I want to be cool. I don’t want it to seem like a big deal. But it is. Forget my messy hair and that I need makeup—I need a nipple. I am fretting that my reconstructed mastectomy-side breast is so much higher than the other real one, there is no symmetry. I can hide it with bras that have underwire and smush them up so there is an illusion that things are working, but there is nowhere to hide here under the bright lights that she is instructing another assistant to adjust.

  I keep breathing and take off the bra.

  Breathe. Look up.

  Breathe. Look down.

  Breathe. I see my tattoo and I smile, but I do wish for maybe a second that I had gotten a nipple. I could really use a nipple at a time like this.

  She walks over to me and tells me to put my hands on my hips.

  “What?”

  Maybe I am naïve but I thought she was going to put me in some artistic pose where you couldn’t really see a full frontal . . . maybe an arm draped gracefully across my chest so you couldn’t tell I’m missing my right nipple, or maybe I would cup my hands under my breasts so they would be slightly covered?

  “Can’t I just drape my arm over my chest?” Now I am begging.

  “No. Everyone will wonder what you’re hiding. Put your hands on your hips!”

  I must have completely tensed my body because she yells, “Stop!” and has to reposition my hands. I am such a loser that I cannot even put my hands on my hips correctly. I start sweating more. The men are now very close, hovering and inspecting my hands to make sure they are right. Do I smell? I could have used my husband’s deodorant because it’s a clear stick, to avoid deodorant lines in my topless photo. Do they airbrush out deodorant lines? Can they airbrush in a nipple?

  When I look around everyone is still gathered about the photographer and waiting. They have seen my chest. They are slouching as if to show they don’t care, but they must be horrified. They are pretending not to notice me, which is making it worse. I don’t know what I expect them to say. I’d be relieved if they were thinking “It doesn’t look as bad as we thought it would.” Every time she m
oves they are anticipating her reactions and ready to lurch.

  She positions me on a platform in front of the camera. There is complete silence in the room as she steps behind her camera.

  It is a camera that perfectly matches her. It is spectacular. Grand. I have never seen a camera so big. It must be six feet long and three feet wide. It looks old-fashioned and makes a lot of noises. One of the articles I read said that she takes pictures with this camera and that there are only three in the country! I picture her driving across the Midwest with the camera in its own car. On the front of the camera is the word Polaroid, and it is not until I look up at the photo on the wall that I realize what Polaroid means. As in instant picture. The photo is almost billboard size, black and white, of course (she only photographs in black and white). It is of a young woman who did not have reconstruction and she seems so brave and proud of herself. I have never seen such large pictures—they are imposing and humongous. I am not that brave. I cannot have this picture taken. I am wondering how large my scar will look blown up on a billboard as I hear the momentary silence and see stars from the flash of white light. The white flash reminds me of the operating room lights and I have the same strange dizzy sensation that I felt when they put me to sleep before my surgeries. I lick my lipstick for strength.

  It takes about six minutes for the camera to spit out the picture. I am standing on the platform covering myself with a shirt someone has brought over to me. I have not put it on, I am just holding it up. There is lots of gurgling, and the mood in the room feels clouded with the tension of waiting. There is only whispering so as not to disturb her.