A Closet Full of Boobs and the Thought That Caught Me by Surprise

If you’d asked me a few years ago what I kept on the top shelf of my walk-in closet, I would have said old handbags, photo albums or maybe Christmas decorations. I never would have said boobs.

Yet there they are.

Twenty, give or take.

All lined up in neat little pink zippered cases, each one nestled lovingly in its own fabric hammock, like it’s headed to summer camp instead of storage. They are silicone breast prostheses — perfectly shaped, softly weighted, remarkably realistic. And they are no longer in use.

Cancer changes many things in your life, but one of the strangest is how casually you can end up talking about body parts that used to feel intensely private.

This afternoon, I walked into my closet looking for a sweater. Instead, I found myself staring at that top shelf. And that’s when the strangest Christmas idea drifted into my head.

What if I gave these away as gifts?

I stood there holding a sweater in one hand and contemplating those 20 spare breasts up on the shelf, and the absurdity struck me all at once. I laughed so suddenly and so hard I had to sit down on the little ottoman I keep by my shoes. Cancer has taken a lot from me, but apparently, it has not taken my ability to think completely ridiculous thoughts at inconvenient times.

Now, let me be clear. I am not actually planning to hand out prosthetic breasts at Christmas like stocking stuffers. Breast cancer is serious business. Life-altering. Life-ending for far too many. But sometimes, in the middle of all the heaviness, an unexpected thought comes along and reminds you that you are still allowed to laugh. Even about the parts that hurt.

And once the thought landed in my brain, the images followed.

Would my friends freak out in horror?

Would someone quietly slip it into a drawer and never speak of it again?

Would one curious soul hold it up to the light like a museum artifact and say, “Well… I’ll be.”

And then there were the guys.

I could immediately picture one of the fellas on my list tossing it like a baseball. Someone else might try to bounce it. And yes, in my imagination, at least one of them absolutely using it in a game of cornhole.

That’s the thing about Southern imagination, it doesn’t whisper, it hollers.

My family wouldn’t be shocked. They’ve been with me through diagnosis, surgery, scars, doctors, drains, fear, healing and everything in between. They know my body has been altered by survival. They would receive a prosthesis with tenderness, maybe even reverence. Not because it’s silicone, but because of what it represents: what was lost and what was endured.

But friends? That’s another story.

I’ve done my best to keep my breastlessness a private matter. Not out of shame, goodness no, but out of choice. Some people know because I told them. Some know because they’ve read my writings. And some probably have inwardly wondered and then politely minded their business, which is a Southern love language if ever there was one.

So, my imagination got busy.

One friend, bless her heart, would immediately cry and hug me until we were both sniffling and my mascara had surrendered completely.

Another would ask questions. Practical questions. “Does it feel heavy?” “Is it hot under there?” “Can you sleep on your stomach?” (No, No, I cannot.)

Someone else would approach it like an anthropological study. “Fascinating,” she’d say, gently poking it as if it might suddenly breathe.

And then there’s that friend. You know the one. The one who laughs first and thinks later. The one who would slip it in her bra for exactly three seconds just to say she did and then shriek herself into next week.

Cancer does that to friendships. It rearranges them. Some get deeper. Some grow quieter. Some don’t survive the strain. But the ones that stay, they learn how to hold both the sacred and the absurd at the same time.

The truth is, those prostheses on my shelf are not party favors. They were companions for a while. They helped me step back into the world when I felt lopsided in more ways than one. They helped my clothes hang right. They helped strangers not stare. They helped me feel balanced when everything inside felt like it had tipped over.

They carried weight, in more ways than one.

Now, they rest in their pink cases, unused but not unimportant. I keep them because I don’t quite know what the right ending is for them yet. You throw away old shoes. You donate old coats. But you don’t casually discard something that once helped you feel whole again.

And that’s where the humor sneaks in, soft-footed, not loud. Because if you don’t laugh now and then, the seriousness will crush you flat as a pancake.

Cancer is scans and scars and blood work and waiting rooms. It is terror and bravery and grief and grit. But it is also standing in your closet with a sweater in your hand, laughing at the idea of gifting boobs for Christmas, and realizing you are still alive enough to find that funny.

Sometimes survival looks like strength.

Sometimes it looks like tears.

And sometimes it looks like inappropriate laughter at a shelf full of flesh-colored prostheses.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Joy and sorrow are not opposites. They ride in the same truck. They sit on the same couch. They both show up uninvited and make themselves at home.

I will not be wrapping up silicone breasts with bows this December. But I will be wrapping up gratitude, and stubborn hope, and the kind of joy that shows up sideways when you least expect it.

And every time I reach for a sweater and glance up at that shelf, I will probably smile.

Because that shelf holds proof that I lost something precious.

And that I lived.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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