The morning of my surgery, I looked into the mirror, viewing my breasts one last time. I felt like I should have a ceremony or something - maybe some pomp and circumstance. The thought made me laugh to myself, but at the same time I felt I did need to say good-bye. I told my breasts “Thank you.”

"Thank you for feeding my child, thank you for giving her a soft place to lay her head. Thank you for the beauty you added to my body. Thank you for the pleasure you gave my husband.” Then I cried.

In the past, I had reminded myself that it was no big deal. It was just fatty tissue, globs of stuff that I didn’t really need. However, on that day, it didn't feel like it. I realized that in three hours I would no longer have breasts and I would no longer be the woman I had spent forty-one years making myself. With the loss of those two pieces of flesh came the loss of much of my identity.

"What do you think they are going to do with your boobs after they cut them off?" It was Crazy Woman.

"You've got to be kidding," I thought.

"Do they put them in a jar or do they just throw them in the trash?" she continued. "If they end up in the landfill with the cancer still in them, can it still grow? And if it does, can it get into the water supply and give somebody else cancer?" She knew she could still mess with me.

"You really are crazy," I said to her. "Insane."