Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy
by Geralyn Lucas[ Non-Fiction, Medical, Health and Fitness, Biography ]
Having recently graduated from Columbia Journalism School and landed her dream job at 20/20, the last thing twenty-seven-year-old Geralyn expects to hear is a breast cancer diagnosis. And there is one part of the diagnosis that no one will discuss with her: what it means to be a young woman with cancer in a beauty-obsessed culture. Trying to find herself, while losing her vibrancy and her looks, Geralyn embarks on a road of self-acceptance that will inspire all women. Although her book is explicitly about a period of time when she was driven by fear and uncertainty about the future, Geralyn managed a transformation that will encourage all women under siege to discover their own courage and beauty. The important and outrageous lessons of WHY I WORE LIPSTICK come fast and furious with the same gusto that Geralyn has learned to bring to every aspect of her life.
1
Stripping
* * * *
I am the only woman in the room with my shirt on at the VIP Strip Club (except for the coat-check girl and she definitely doesn't count). So I am trying to blend in but it is not working. A preppy guy has already come over and asked if I would spank him. One of the bouncers heard this and moved me over to a more private corner of the club. I appreciate this gesture because I have come here to face the biggest decision of my life, and the disco music was just too loud in the front to really concentrate.
I have never been in a strip club before, and they would not allow me in without a man. It was more humiliating than being carded. So I waited for the next guy to show up and asked if he would be my escort. At first I was embarrassed, but then I got over it because I need to be here.
I have come to this mammary Mecca to decide if I can decide to have a mastectomy to deal with the cancer they found in my right breast ten days ago. This was one part of the diagnosis that no one would discuss with me: what it means to have one boob in a boob-obsessed universe. It seems taboo to actually admit this, or to factor it into my decision about whether I should have a mastectomy. But for me, it is now, strangely, the deciding factor. The argument for having the mastectomy and removing my breast seems pretty obvious--it would be so much safer--until I start thinking about how I will exist as a twenty-seven-year-old woman with one breast. I am not a stripper, but I have always taken for granted that I have two boobs.
I am scared that admitting that this is my wild card will make me a shallow person. I mean, we are talking about cancer here. So I am here at the strip club to confront the unspeakable.
Breasts are beautiful, I agree as I plop into my plush purple velvet chair. The view is much better from back here. It is sort of pretty--the room is sprinkled with shimmers from the huge mirrored disco ball swirling overhead. There is purple velvet on the walls and even on the floor. I catch my reflection in the smoky mirrors, and I am illuminated by strange lighting that is dimmed, but more fluorescent than romantic. There is a stage with purple curtains and the disco ball hangs directly above where each dancer stands when she's announced by a deejay in a booth off stage. The carpeting precisely matches the purple velvet chairs (which I have noticed, if you stare too closely, have stains). Cocktails, cigarette ashes, and maybe some other nasty stuff. I think that's why they picked deep purple--it hides stains and wear and tear. Yes, this is a high-volume place. Lots of breasts, lots of guys, and lots of noise. I can smell sex in the air, and it smells like a locker room after a football game, covered in aftershave.
All the men in this room are reminding me of the power I stand to lose. They are here to worship boobs.
