Ordinary breasts and an unremarkable cervix
exploring the language of the body.
If I weren’t having surgery tomorrow, I’d be participating in a reading of the Ballard Writer’s Collective, a group I’ve belonged to for around 20 years. This year’s theme is Language of the Body. I signed up to read long before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Now, of course I have something to say on the topic. I guess sometimes art imitates life.
When I was in my mid-twenties, I went to see a new-to-me gynecologist in Washington, DC. Her name was Dr. Violet Bowen-Hugh. She was a Southern woman of a certain age – with bright yellow-blond hair, full make-up, and a drawl. Her frank demeanor suggested that she’d done some living and was nobody’s fool. She was utterly charming.
Recently, I Googled Dr. Violet Bowen-Hugh and found her obituary. I learned that she was originally from West Virginia and was a Southern Baptist. After working for the State of West Virginia and General Motors, she returned to college and then medical school, graduating in 1961.
Clearly, she was a “steel magnolia.”
I’ve never forgotten Dr. Bowen-Hugh because of the quirky language she used to describe my body parts. After a thorough, no-nonsense examination, she stood at her full height and drawled,
“You have ordinary breasts.”
After letting that sink in, she added,
“And your cervix is quite unremarkable.”
What 20-something woman wants to hear that there is nothing special about her body, especially the sexy bits?
I pressed for details and was told that ordinary breasts meant no evidence of fibrous or dense tissue. An unremarkable cervix meant that I was free from any suspicious looking cells that could cause me problems.
Fast forward ten years or so, and at age 36, pregnant for the first time, I graduated from being “nothing special” to old. “Advanced maternal age” was how they characterized women experiencing pregnancy over 35. Mine was a “geriatric pregnancy.”
Indeed, that pregnancy had a way with words. First came the placental abruption, which put me on bed rest for several weeks. Then, my senior cervix decided to take her sweet time dilating during labor, leading my husband J. to remark that she was like a “tough old piece of flanken.”
I’ll note here that our wedding vows included a promise to maintain a sense of humor.
I sing the body electric
Beyond what doctors have to say, as people, we become accustomed to hearing others use words to describe and pass judgment on our bodies. When I say people, I mostly mean women, but others are not immune to comparison and criticism and insecurity.
Our parts are called too big or too small, though what’s acceptable often changes with the times. Had I known big butts would become popular, I might have invested less energy in shrinking mine.
I once wrote a poem about my thighs. It began like this:
One day, while sitting on the toilet, I looked down and was shocked to see my grandmother’s thighs.
When I turned 40, I went to the Olympus Spa, a Korean sanctuary where you can bathe nude in a series of hydrotherapy pools, visit infrared energy rooms and steam rooms, and enjoy (though that’s not quite the right word) a vigorous body scrub. They also have great food.
As women stood up in the baths to pour buckets of mugwort-infused water over their naked bodies, I saw a range of vessels for the soul and a preview of things to come.
It’s an experience I recommend everyone have, because it humanizes and demystifies our amazing bodies.
Dr. Violet Bowen-Hugh might have been interested to know that my parts didn’t stay ordinary forever. I bid farewell to my unremarkable cervix a few years ago. The following year, my large intestine was deemed extraordinary enough to be considered for an article in a medical journal, when it telescoped in on itself, requiring emergency surgery.
The lexicon of my body increased by three words then: intussusception, stoma, ostomy. The appreciation for my body and for science increased 100-fold beyond that.
Now, my ordinary breasts are having their fifteen minutes of fame.
I have a new doctor, a surgeon, with her own unique style and turns of phrase. When describing one of the unlikely complications that could arise from my upcoming breast cancer surgery, she told me my body might temporarily turn “blue like a Smurf.”
She’s no-nonsense, just like Dr. Violet Bowen-Hugh. So I will believe and hopefully remember for decades the very first and most important words she said to me:
This is curable.
The best thing to cook at a time like this
Huevos Rotos from Diana Henry’s Simple: Effortless Food, Big Flavors
They say you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, which is kind of how I’m starting to feel about a year’s worth of cancer treatment.
Huevos Rotos are a specialty from Madrid. I discovered Diana Henry’s version years ago, when I was commuting to work and would come home starving and with a family to feed.
This is comfort food at its best. I forgot to take a photo when I made it the other night because we dove right in.
Slice of Midlife (Substack version) turns 6 months old next week, If my recuperation goes well, I hope to have something special for you then.
Alison, it is so clear that your sense of humor will buoy you during your surgery and recovery. Love your blog and making women "of a certain age" proud and comfortable with who we are!
You are a warrior!!
Love, light and prayers are sent to you as you begin to navigate through this cancer journey.