A Breast Cancer Survivor's Delightful Dilemma

If you’d told me last week that I’d be walking down aisles full of fake boobs like a kid hunting for toys at Toys “R” Us, I’d have spit out my sweet tea laughing. But there I was, stepping into a boutique that looked just like that old toy store I used to drag my kids to — except instead of millions of toys for kids of all ages, it was millions of boobs for grown-ups who’d survived something.

Rows and rows of options greeted me: perky, modest, full-on glamorous and even “swim boobs” that promised a perfect beach silhouette. Some were silicone, some were foam, some practically wiggled with personality. I felt like a kid in a candy store — except instead of picking candy, I was picking parts of myself I never imagined shopping for.

I half expected a clerk to hand me a catalog and say, “Pick one, sugar, and don’t drop it.”

I wandered down the aisle, and I swear it felt exactly like the toy aisles of my youth. There were “boobs with bells and whistles” over here, “classic everyday boobs” over there, and the “swim boobs” section had me laughing out loud. I picked one up and imagined strutting down the beach like some kind of glamorous mermaid — or maybe a confused old lady who didn’t quite know what she was doing. I leaned in and whispered, “Well, Lord, at least I’m not shopping for a pony this time.”

The “party boobs” section caught my eye next. They were all perky and proud, practically yelling, wear me to a cocktail party and own the room! I picked one up and held it against me.

My reflection in the mirror gave me a cheeky wink. I could almost hear them saying, Honey, we’ve got more pizzazz than you’ve had in decades. I laughed so hard I startled a woman in the next aisle.

I tried on a small, modest pair. Too shy. Then a medium — maybe. Then I dared a larger one — and nearly tripped over my own feet, imagining what would happen if someone bumped into me. Would they know? Would they notice my new additions? I muttered, “Good grief, these things have a mind of their own!”

By the time I got to the swim boobs again, I had half a mind to march straight to the beach, flip-flops optional, and see if anyone could guess they weren’t “real.”

The sales woman smiled patiently as I shuffled from table to table, my arms shielding my chest like I was protecting a nest of fragile eggs. And then it hit me: these boobs weren’t just fake — they were freedom. I could put them on or take them off whenever I wanted.

Some days, I wanted them. Other days, I didn’t. Most of the time at home, I went flat.

Comfort won every time, and my family had gotten used to it. My husband barely blinked, my kids shrugged, and my grandkids didn’t even notice.

At nearly 70, I was learning not to care too much what anyone else thought.

Who I am isn’t measured in ounces or cup sizes.

As I held the options in my hands, I imagined them in everyday life. What would breakfast be like with these perky ones bouncing gently while I reached for the cereal? Could I rock the mailbox with confidence on my morning walk? Would the mailman notice, or just politely pretend he didn’t? The thought made me snort-laugh right there in the aisle, and the clerk gave me a patient, knowing smile.

I finally made my choice: a pair that felt right, not too big, not too shy, just enough to make me smile when I caught my reflection.

Like any good shopping trip, I left feeling a little richer, a little braver and a lot more like myself.

I realized that even in this silly, nerve-wracking, utterly ridiculous experience, there was a kind of empowerment in picking what made me feel good, on my terms.

Boobs R Us, indeed.

And honestly? Some of the fancier options could double as Halloween props or party accessories — which is just the kind of versatility I can get behind at my age.

Some days I’d put them on for style, some for fun, some because it just tickled me to see what kind of mischief I could get away with. And at the end of the day, whether flat or fabulously full, I was still me — laughing, living, and fully, gloriously, myself.

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

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