Having a series of saromas (on one side of my chest, after a single mastectomy) has made me consider the size of what I have lost.
The breast must have been around 500 ml, if the amount of liquid which has been filling the space is anything to go by.
Half a litre is a large saroma. A handful, in every sense.
Though the edges of my saromas have sadly never been quite as well-defined as those of the real breast.
Somehow they seem to just sprawl.
Unfortunately, each saroma has turned out to be a hopelessly amateurish and unwanted imitation of the lost breast.
A painful disappointment.
A process that gets repeated over and over again, with no significant improvement in sight.
It’s just so awkward.
My body: Look! I made this! For you!
Me: Ooh. That’s interesting. How thoughtful! Is this … another saroma?
My body: Yes! Yes! It is!
Me: Okay … Let me have a good look at it …
My body: Do you love it then?
Me: Well …
My body: What?! You don’t love it?! But I made this especially for you!
Me: Okay, okay, okay. I was wondering a little bit about the edges, that’s all? You haven’t kept inside the lines?
My body: That doesn’t matter. Edges are boring.
Me: Edges aren’t important?
My body: No.
Me: In that case … thank you, body. It was kind of you to want to make me a new breast. This is a really, really good effort. I can see you have put such a lot of work into this for me.
My body: Yay!
Me: However, I might have to put this one in an extremely safe place, along with your other masterpieces. Like maybe in the hospital.
My body: Oh? Okay, that’s fine. I’ll just start making you another one then!
