I’ll tell you that my legs were swing­ing off the exam table. But it was an MRI machine and I don’t know how to phrase that. And I’m six feet tall and my legs don’t par­tic­u­lar­ly swing off any­thing. But I’ll tell you that my legs were swing­ing off the exam table because in my head I felt child­like. Though my con­cerns were any­thing but child­like. They were about to stick a needle in my breast (I think) to take out cells (I think) to test them for cancer (I know) because there’s an error in my genetic code (I think) that means at 32 this is a clear and present danger (I know). I don’t know all of the answers to all of the ques­tions because all I asked about were scars. “The thing is … some­times people still like … you know … I’m still out here … some­times men still see my boobs.”

It felt like a con­fes­sion. Not a con­fes­sion of all of the men who have seen my breasts. Who at some point in the future I’ll want to see my breasts. But a con­fes­sion that I have just learned to be this woman. The woman that enjoys men who enjoy my breasts almost as much as they enjoy my ass. The woman who buys bras with padding I don’t par­tic­u­lar­ly need, and lace I don’t par­tic­u­lar­ly want to like. The woman who gifted herself a tattoo mere inches under where they’re prepar­ing to insert this needle. I have fought to love this body. They tell me there’s an 80% chance that at some point I’ll be at war with this body. And so all I want to know about is scars. All I want to know is if these pre-battles, this train­ing ground of tests and screen­ings and pre­cau­tion will be marked on my body. If I’ll have to explain it to the next man I’m willing to let into my bed, but not into my story. If I’ll have to explain to myself. That I’ll be ok. That I don’t know if I’ll be ok. 

The threat passes quickly. The scar fades. Slowly. I am never asked to explain it. I still don’t know how.