The weight of the world is no longer on my shoulders says the pleasingly full young model in the Playtex bra commercial. Mine neither, honey. The big c took that problem off my chest seven years ago. And for a woman who claimed to not define herself by her body I sure have been doing a lot of that recently.

14 months into a try for reconstructive/restorative surgery I am still hoping ... hoping for success in a return to what was, in a sort of space age plastic way that still seems appealing. First up is that I am grateful for life. Any adversity I encounter I know would gladly be picked up by any number of women who no longer have the option to be annoyed. There is beauty beyond the cultural expectation as proven by my husband who married me before any of this reconstructive process began, and it was not a pretty sight. The feel of the touch of his hands on my chest, though, the warmth, the care, ahhhhhhh ... especially because the only touch since the removal had been the hands of my surgeon on regular 3 - 6 month check ups.

So now whenever there are honorable attempts to educate and enlighten the greater community regarding breast cancer, I am not impressed. I am not interested in the color of healthy women's bras. I am enraged at feeling my own loss again. When I cannot grocery shop or look for shoes or watch a football game in October without having what I live beyond brought to mind, generally in a shroud of cleavage, I am not impressed. Oh, and that "Save the Ta-Ta's" bumper sticker? Last one I encountered in a parking lot after a long shift on my feet at work I felt like taking my key, scraping through it, then taking a BIG BLACK SHARPIE and writing over it "It's Too Damn Late!!!" I mean, really. Really? Can't we somehow do better? Surely.