![]() I had an income that could withstand the loss of earnings as I slowed my work pace down. I didn't have to show up in an office or depend on the empathy of an employer. I had the support of a loving partner and fabulous friends and family. Lest this sound like Pollyanna, I want to acknowledge that my experience was shaped by my good fortune. ![]() In fact, to me they were beautiful: the bodies of brave Amazons who had done what was required to survive the particular engagement in which they found themselves. In the locker room after workouts in the hydrotherapy pool, women who had undergone mastectomies unself-consciously displayed bodies that were by no means mutilated. Spared a mastectomy, I have instead a trio of fading scars, each a couple of inches long: one diagonally across my breast where the cancer had been, another under my arm where they removed the nodes it might (but fortunately hadn't) spread to, a third beneath my clavicle, where a valve was temporarily implanted to ease the administration of chemo. ![]() What else? The disfigurement that my younger self had dreaded turned out to be nothing very drastic.
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