Date: Mon, 23 Jun 1997 11:14:25 -0500 From: Phanny Subject: SUB: CONTEST: Humor: Prose: See Jane. See Jane Laugh. See Jane. See Jane Laugh. By Jane Doe Dear Cousin Phanny, Breast cancer is a funny thing. I don't just mean erratic, or peculiar, although it is certainly that. I mean really funny, downright comical. I know *that* sounds peculiar, but it's the truth -- cross my heart and hope to die! Oops, I suppose I shouldn't say that kind of thing anymore. I sure don't hope to die anytime soon, and if truth be told I don't have much need for anything to cross my chest either. That's because my chest is "unencumbered," or to be on the level I'm flat as a pancake. Remember those old insults: carpenter's dream, flat as a board? Or, pirate's treasure, a sunken chest? Well, that's me -- a pinup girl for carpenters and pirates everywhere. About a year ago, my breasts were cut off to try to prevent the cancer from spreading to the rest of my body. I was crushed about the situation at first, but I had a lot of spare time while going through chemotherapy, so I did some research and found out that I had just joined an elite circle of breastless -- but very hip -- celebrities. Everybody knows about famous European survivors like Napoleon, who lost his left breast to cancer and then spent the rest of his life trying to cover it up with his right hand. He was actually relieved to go into exile because there was nobody around to see his chest anymore, so he could forget about the cover-up and use his hand for other things. And in the royalty division there is Marie Antoinette, who first lost her breast and then temporarily lost her head and arrogantly declared, "Let them eat breast of chicken." That left a fowl taste in people's mouths and ended up with her losing her head for good (i.e., she was not a survivor). But you don't need to look to Europe to find breast-cancer luminaries. You may not be aware of it, but some of the most celebrated people in American history were "breast-impaired." This is not commonly known because in the past breast-cancer was usually kept in the closet. I managed to turn up numerous patriots who were single-breasted, but kept it close to the vest. You will probably notice that this list is top-heavy with men -- well, they were top-heavy only *before* they got cancer. Afterwards they were just off-balance. First and foremost among the patriots was Nathan Hale, who died saying "I only regret that I have but one breast to lose for my country." Hale actually could have donated both breasts, but he didn't know the word "bilateral," so he died with his boots on, but with only one breast off. His compatriot Patrick Henry was a bit more revolutionary in his thinking. His famous rallying cry -- "Give me liberty, or give me breasts" -- loosely translates into "Lock me up with these boobs, or set me loose and leave me flat," proving that Henry cared more about freedom than he did about a good set of pecs. Contrast that with the attitude of that over-rated old fashion plate Barbara Frietchie ("Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's bosom," she said). Talk about an over-reliance on decolletage! Needless to say, Ms. Frietchie is not a hero to the modern breast-cancer movement. Ben Franklin was another patriot with enlightened ideas. His July 4, 1776, warning about lopsided implants -- "We must indeed all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately" -- is still quoted by plastic surgeons today, although his famous maxim "A breast saved is a breast earned" proved to be misguided piffle. There are a few Twentieth Century politicians whose pronouncements highly suggest that they knew how to take their lumps. Look at Martin Luther King and his stirring "I have a breast" speech. And let's not forget Richard M. Nixon, who defiantly proclaimed "I am not a breast," and John F. Kennedy, who emphasized his dislike for Communism by declaring "Ich bin ein breast." Now, these guys might not have actually had breast-cancer, but you can't tell me they weren't practicing Breast Self-Examination. You don't become that aware of breasts for no reason. Breast cancer is a bit like pregnancy in that once it touches your life you see it everywhere. So, until I got cancer, I never noticed just how many literary masterpieces have been written about this disease. Not only are there dramatic classics like MacBeth ("Out, damned breast!"), but many of the best-selling books of all time feature breastless men or women. My favorites are the books in Consumer Reports' brilliant Areola Trilogy: "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Chest," by Ken Kesey; "Two Years Before the Mastectomy," by Richard Henry Dana; and "The Rise and Fall of the Third Nipple," that brilliant reconstructionist saga by William Shirer. But there are so many other great ones. For Christmas my mother gave me the touchy/feely "Chicken Soup for the Surviving Nipple," by Jack Canfield, but I don't think it stands up to close scrutiny. I much prefer Maya Angelou's Pulitzer Prize-winning "I Know Why the Bald Woman Pukes." It addresses the same issues as "Chicken Soup," but it's not so hard to swallow. I also love Marcel Proust's sensitive retrospective "Remembrance of Breasts Past" and C.S. Lewis's breast-cancer fable "The Lion, Witch, and the Prosthesis." I read that to my kids over and over, and they cry every time I get to description of the lion's mastectomy. I have to admit that I cry, too. That witch should never have been allowed into med school! Many famous movies focus on breast cancer also, most notably "All Quiet on the Western Front," about mastectomy techniques in World War I, "M*A*S*H," about a mammography clinic in war-torn Korea, and "Beauty and the Breast," about how women with scars on their chests can still be animated and have a good time. And who can ever forget Clark Gable's famous "Frankly, my dear, I'd rather be flat," from "Gone With the Breast"? I think Gable deserved an Oscar for that performance, because you can tell he was really on the level when he made that remark. Daniel Day-Lewis did win an Oscar for "My Left Breast," although I think they should have given the role to a man who really has breast cancer. The music industry is full of breast-cancer themes, too. I never get tired of listening to Roberta Flack's "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Scar," or the sentimental Disney favorite "A Whole New Breast," from "Aladdin." And nothing can beat that show-stopping scene in "South Pacific" when Nellie, nearly bald and vomiting from chemotherapy, belts out ""I'm Gonna Wash That Hair Right Off of My Head." I get all choked up every time I hear it. Nellie was so brave to go through chemo and serve in the war at the same time! As you can tell, Phanny, I have gotten to the point where I see this disease everywhere. Even our family car trips have turned into occasions to laugh about cancer. Just last week we were driving home from DisneyWorld when we came upon a semi with huge letters on the side proclaiming "Chemotherapeutic Hazardous Waste." I immediately imagined that truck from hell rear-ending the van and leaving me plastered flat, I mean flatter, on the highway. So, creepy as it may seem, John and I started making up epitaphs for that unhappy situation. Here are some of our favorites: Here lies Jane, she ran out of luck, With high-dose chemo administered by truck. Poor old Jane, chemo wasn't her friend. She got it in the arm, but it got her in the end. Here lies Jane, and here's the news: She was flattened by chemo she couldn't refuse. While we were still thinking up Jane epitaphs we saw 20-foot-high plastic cow being towed by a truck. So then our thoughts took a different turn as we imagined John being killed by the cow truck: Here lies John, who was heard to mutter, "Jane took the high road, and I took the udder." There were more, but I'm not one to milk a laugh. And now, dear cousin, I need to end this letter. Sunday is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis, and John and I are throwing a no-holds-barred extravaganza at Hooters Restaurant to celebrate the occasion. I have invited all my friends from the breast-cancer listserv and my face-to-face support group, and we are working on party games to try to get everyone to mix. These are the activities we have so far: -- Looking for Lumps in All the Right Places, a guessing game to see which blindfolded contestant can find the most tumors -- Carpenter's Dream Contest, to see which woman can balance two FULL champagne glasses on her chest the longest while lying on a 2-by-4. -- Wet T-Shirt Contest (having breasts is not a requirement) -- Used Prosthesis Toss (fake boob, for the unitiated) -- Pin the Nipple on the Boob (we're still looking for a boob to volunteer) Even the refreshments will have breast-cancer themes. We're going to serve Shirley Temples (she's a survivor), and all the hors d'oeuvres will be made from recipes by Julia Child (another survivor). There'll be succulent turkey breast, mounds of mashed potatoes with lumpy gravy, and a special dessert called Silicon Gel-lo Surprise, served in perfect Size C cups. We'll even cook with plenty of "Grease" in honor of Olivia Newton-John (you guessed it, she's one of us, too). And now I really do have to run. I need to drive over to K-Mart to get party favors and booby prizes. Write soon, dear Phanny! And, remember, if you ever get a serious disease, I'll be there to help you laugh your tears away. Cross my heart and hope to live! Love, Cousin Jane