Nipples

So today I'm thinking about nipples in general and my left nipple in particular. It's an interesting experience to look at a part of your body that you've had all your life and know that it's shortly going away. I don't think that's ever happened to me before, unless you count cutting off hair and trimming nails.

When I've told people in person that this is about to happen (not many, actually), I think I see by their expressions that they're embarrassed or horrified, or maybe embarrassed because they're trying not to show that they're horrified. But is it really all that bad? This is what I'm contemplating today.

That nipple (and its twin, of course) has had a long and rich life of its own, in a way. I remember very well when it first puffed out at age eleven, and my puzzlement about this, since I hadn't exactly been briefed on expecting it or what it meant. I can recall fitting into a size A bra, which became a B rather quickly after. There was the odd recognition that boys were very interested in the existence of those nipples, and not quite understanding the enthusiasm behind that for a long time.

It took a while to see the beauty of a breast and nipple, and to think my own were quite pretty. The nipple part of the breast is almost always painted as rosy and smooth, or photographed in glowing light, when in fact it's not lovely in itself, especially the bump at the end that goes into the baby's (or lover's) mouth.

Then came the babies, three of them, if anything more fixated than the boys had been, each infant in turn totally obsessed with those nipples. They were sore with the babies' vacuum sucking, as unbelievably (to me) they delivered the milk with sloppy efficiency and were always there in the middle of the night when they were needed (unlike plastic bottles that had to be fetched from the kitchen). And for a long time, even when they weren't needed (as in the middle of the night past the newborn stage) they were still always wanted, possibly the most wanted part of my entire body, since they've done double service for sexual desire and nurturing.

Because of breast feeding or weight gain or both, the bra size became a C and stayed there, and the bra no longer had to be the kind that opened for the baby's mouth. And so it proceeded for many years, the admirers of the nipples being lovers only, no more infants.

And now -- no babies, no lovers, no admirers any longer for those nipples. That one will be just gone, and the poor breast will look odd, probably monstrous to anyone who should look at it. I don't intend for it to be seen, though, maybe not even by me. I'm recalling that when my father had a mastectomy (he had male breast cancer) and swam shirtless in a pool, someone complained to the management that his surgery scar was disturbing and they made him put on a shirt when he swam. I remember his face when he told me that. And I've seen pictures of mastectomies myself online and in magazines, and I thought they were repulsive and disturbing to look at too.

Yet I am not very upset at losing my nipple, in spite of facing problems in looking good in shirts and tank tops. What's the value of looking good? I've been giving that up for years now. I feel like I've made a swap, my nipple for my life, and I've got the far better part of the bargain. I'm going to say goodbye to that nipple fondly and with regret, but it's going to be a hearty farewell. You might say that after nursing babies and pleasing lovers, giving and getting pleasure, it's done its job long and well and the last thing it can do for me is go quietly to save my life.