Page 114 of While I’m Still Here

Not one bit.

Chapter 18

The day before, 9:00 p.m.

Days until surgery: 1.

Tits: 2.

Tits this time tomorrow: None.

Tumours: 1.

Bras worn during Free-Tittie Week: 0.

Regrets regarding Free-Tittie Week: 0.

Suitcase packed: Yes.

Hospital snacks packed: Obviously.

Times I've checked my boobs in the mirror today: 14.

Times I have touched my breasts today because I suddenly remembered I still can: 24.

Times I've told myself I'm ready: Too many.

Times I've believed it: 0.

Likelihood of sleep: Fucking hilarious.

Chapter 19

GOODBYE MURDEROUS TITS

Beatrice ‘Bea’ James

Tomorrow morning, I am having both of my breasts removed.

There are more sophisticated ways to say it. I know because I have spent the last few weeks collecting sophisticated ways to say horrifying things. Cancer comes with an entire language designed to make the unimaginable sound like something you could schedule between a dentist appointment and getting your eyebrows done.

My personal favourite is bilateral mastectomy.

It sounds so clean… Professional. Almost elegant. It does not sound like tomorrow morning I will go to sleep with two breasts and wake up without them.

Tonight, however, they're still here. That fact has become increasingly difficult to ignore.

They're underneath one of the enormous T-shirts Marcus helped me buy six days ago, behaving completely normally. My nipples are visible through the fabric because I have remained committed to Free-Tittie Week with the dedication of an Olympic athlete. The left one still looks exactly like the right despite being the reason we've all ended up here. The right one remains an innocent bystander in the most aggressive case of guilt by association since somebody decided all Kardashians were equally responsible for everything.

I've touched them twenty-four times today.

Not sexually. Not checking the lump either… Just touching. A hand against my chest while making tea. My palm beneath one breast after getting out of the shower. My fingers absent-mindedly resting against the side of the other while watching television.

Every time, the same thought arrives. Still here. And then the little voice in my head says, Not for much longer.

Which is why there are currently three hot as fuck men in my living room behaving as though we're having a perfectly ordinary Sunday evening and not the final night before somebody removes two reasonably significant pieces of my anatomy.

It is supposed to be dinner. That's the plan. A normal dinner. Nobody is allowed to bring flowers, inspirational cards or anything containing a pink ribbon. Danny is explicitly forbidden from bringing balloons after he asks whether BON VOYAGE, TITS can be printed on them. He arrives at six carrying Chinese food, three supermarket bags and a card that says SORRY YOU'RE LEAVING.