excerpt from Finishing the Breast (Or, Four Bras a Year)

I’ve imagined that last visit like an unveiling of a piece of art. Imagined the office staff coming to the door to see. The receptionist, the scheduler. The other patients. Everyone exclaiming and applauding. Confetti drifting down from the ceiling.

For the twenty-fifth time I’ll take off my blouse and show the doctor my chest, and I’ll pose for a horizontal photo of the final landscape, image complete.

Maybe he’ll tell me my chest looks fabulous.

Maybe I’m supposed to say that to him.