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Two Of Us Are In a Room One of us is sick.  She has lost what would’ve identified her as a girl. The thing women look to have, develop, and maintain throughout our lives. Yes, the very same thing that causes teenage girls to cry over the pain of them growing. They are for much more than looks-they symbolize what we, as women associate with being feminine. In this room, the doctors have taken both of her breasts to try and save her life. They tell her the illness ravaging her body is hormone-based and she must have a full hysterectomy to live. We all know there is so much more to being a woman than breasts and a womb, but can you tell her that? Can you tell her that she is still a woman as she sits in this chair with poison being fed into her body to try and shake the disease? She has already cut  her hair. She said now she has to shave it off, because it hurts her. She is losing the feeling on the bottom of her hands and feet because of the side effects of the poison. It w

For many of us, the idea of blooming into a woman was an exciting prospect. I remember there being so much emphasis on those two organs that grew upon our chests. I remember the pain they caused me as they grew. I cried myself to sleep many nights in the 7th  grade because I went from an A- to a D-cup seemingly overnight. By the same token, I remember how, even at that age, I somehow felt more attractive because I had breasts than I would be without them. No, I did not base my worth on my breasts, but I did gain more confidence in those awkward years for having them. As I’ve grown older, I have had a more hate than love relationship with my own breasts. They were not great milk producers when I tried to breastfeed my son. They still make shirt-shopping such a hassle and the “boob gap” you get with button-down shirts is a thing! Not to mention the fact that I regularly find random debris in my bras. I must be struggling with where to put food because, no matter how h