This is a copy of the short that won The Glamour Reel Moments Writing Competion. I've never put it on the blog in full, but some of you have asked to read it, so here it is. Let me know what you think.
How to Give Your Boobs a Proper Send-off
By Jan Livingston Mokhtari
As a healthy 37-year-old mother, I like most women in the world have my insecurities, my skin is too white, my thighs too big, but my breasts always made my list of favorites. Not that they’re large or have the perfect cleavage, my B Cup breasts were always just right for me. They stood humbly under t-shirts in my teens, introduced themselves in tank dresses in my twenties and breastfeed my two beautiful daughters in my thirties. But now I have tested positive for BRCA2, the Breast Cancer Gene. My mother successfully fought Breast Cancer twice and my cousin lost her battle at age 34. And with an inherited 84% chance of developing Breast Cancer, I’m not going to wait around for their next act.
Less than three weeks ago I said goodbye to my breasts when I had a prophylactic Double Mastectomy, but before they went they deserved a send-off worthy of their considerable contributions, a moment in the spotlight, a boudoir photo shoot.
This idea terrifies me, since as a creative director in advertising I am much more comfortable behind the camera. It was my dear friend, who is a photographer’s idea, but she was half a country away in Chicago, and I was only three weeks away from my surgery and work, kids and budget did not allow for such a frivolous trip. As I made my phone calls to let my friends know I had decided to have a preventative mastectomy, a good friend who has known me for sixteen years also loves the boudoir photo shoot idea. The award winning creative director in her thinks about it all night and in the morning calls one of her friends in New York who is a print producer. Over the course of 24 hours, without my knowledge, they both make it their own personal mission to have a proper going away party for my boobs.
In the middle of a busy work day, two weeks before my mastectomy, I get a phone call from Erica, the print producer I have never met. She informs me that not only has she arranged a photo shoot for me free of charge, but also she has gotten some of the best in the business to donate their time to my boudoir shoot. After I get over the shock of asking who she is and how she knows me, I thank her profusely for her generous hard work and I ask her, “When?” “In four days, at a studio in Hollywood.” she replies. My heart stops, taking some topless shots with one of my best friends in my bedroom in one thing, but posing nude in front 20 strangers in a studio, with lighting, and crew, and a craft service table, this was not something I was ready for.
Back at home that night it seems surreal, and when I meet with my surgeons the next day to for pre-op appointment it sounds ridiculous. With everything else I’m trying to deal with this week how could I brave this. But my husband reminds me that this just may be the thing that helps heal me most of all. Making all of the necessary arrangements for the surgery, I hadn’t really gotten to deal with how losing one of my favorite parts of my femininity would affect me. They had been seeing the light of day more than usual. But being poked and prodded, and scanned in many cold, florescent lit rooms was not the spotlight I had envisioned.
Four days later, I enter the studio wearing sweat pants and wet hair. I meet all of my ‘boudoir shoot’ team. They offer hands, smiles, hugs and stories of how they have been affected by cancer and what drove them to give up their valuable time and talents to a chick they have never met. I am overwhelmed and humbled by their generosity. I haven’t felt so much love and support in a room since my wedding day, these beautiful strangers believe in me, believe in what we are about to do and suddenly I believe in it too.
Two hours later, thanks to my thoughtful team of stylists and make-up artists I have been transformed into a bombshell, I don’t even recognize myself. I’m wearing a bustier, tiny briefs, turquoise Louboutins and I feel naked. I look out at the crew, the lights, and the huge white sweep waiting for me… and my breasts. I tuck back into the dressing room one last time realizing this is going to take some mustering. I had spent so much of my life keeping my boobs under wraps. Tucked away. Covered. In hiding. They had never been adorned with beads at Mardi Gras, flashed on spring break, or in a candid portrait on a boyfriend’s cell phone. Their life appearances had been rare, usually in a dimly lit room. I had never regretted their humble anonymity until now. Weeks away from the end of their existence to save mine, I felt an unwavering, relentless desire to give them a glimpse of what it would have been like to live a brave, bold life.
I look in the mirror and tell myself and my boobs a little prayer or pep talk, “This is it, I’ve got to do this, this is your last chance to shine and there’s no room for shy. You can do this!”
I walked down the stairs straight into my first shot and my husband’s mouth drops wide open. Not just because of how I look, but because I’m owning it. He says I look “fierce”. This is not a word he has used to describe me before. I’m an Irish Catholic from Nebraska, I feel guilty about my bra straps showing, but here I was, a wind fan in my hair, surrounded by crew and topless. Boobs out, shoulders back, brazenly baring all. Not just surprising my husband, but also myself. Maybe before being exposed would have been about what men wanted, but this was all for me. And my beautiful breasts.
When my 3 year-old dances she mistakenly sings, “Shake your beauty!”, instead of “Shake your booty”. But maybe she wasn’t mistaken, here I am shaking my beauty and I have never felt more powerful.
That night after the shoot I cried on and off for hours. But they were very different from my tears of sadness and loss in the weeks that proceeded; these were tears of elation and gratitude. I had said goodbye to my breasts that day and I was ready to welcome a long, healthy life.
preventative mastectomy, brca
