Milkducts

Count All This — Chapter 21: do I want to be in this club?

Just when Jo Kasten’s son encounters schizophrenia, she discovers she has breast cancer. Meanwhile, her marriage faces a test. Count All This is a story about love and loyalty, addiction and madness. This is the twenty-first chapter. Find the first chapter here.

They say that mother’s milk is the most nourishing and healthy substance on the planet. When I heard that I had breast cancer, in addition to fear of death and mutilation, I felt insulted that it had manifested in my milk ducts; it felt like an aspersion on my femininity, on my gender, on my suitability for motherhood.

I remember when my breasts first filled with milk. I was pregnant with Rose. The experience was fantastic, as if from a fairy tale. My breasts swelled to twice their normal size, firm and full and enormous. The swell of my rounded belly came in a close second.

All my life, I’ve been aware that I am a woman, of course. But before I breastfed my babies, I wasn’t sure what that meant. Afterwards, I knew it meant transcendence.

Breastfeeding is the closest I’ve ever come to a religious experience — the closest I’ve come to God. With a baby at my breast, all was right with the world. There was never a question, as there so often was at other times, about whether I ought to be doing something else. All the neurotic need for progress and productivity fell away, leaving only the baby and my big, life-giving breasts.

Babies smell exquisite. They are softer and smoother than fur. Held against your breast, they are warm and pliable. Their big heads, which they sometimes stroke rhythmically with their tiny hands while breastfeeding, are irresistibly attractive. The whole experience is indescribably satisfying in a physical way. Rose breastfed for six months, until I got pregnant with Eddy and my milk dried up. Eddy breastfed for six months, too, until he decided he preferred a bottle, which was portable and delivered more milk. Michael breastfed for two glorious years, which may be one reason I’ve always felt grateful and tender towards my third child. All in all, my breasts were a magnificent cornucopia of abundance for more than three years.

After each child gave up breastfeeding, and my breasts shrunk back to their normal size, I felt regret. Still, I had proven my femininity, had fulfilled my biological destiny as a woman, a nursing mother of babes. The milk that flowed through my breasts was sweet and rich and full of protective power — had made all three of my babies grow big and strong.

Now they say that my milk ducts are infested with cancer — so much cancer that they will have to cut off one breast.

Does that mean that I’m no longer a natural, life-giving woman? Has the feminine spirit of creation deserted me? Has the masculine spirit of destruction taken hold?

When I no longer have a left breast, after the surgery, will I be less of a woman — more of a man?

A few days before the surgery, Larry and I were walking together downtown when an advertisement blew against my leg. It was a small piece of paper, about the size of a postcard, promoting a nightclub named Rouge. I’d wondered about that club since it opened, because of its pretentious design. After taking over a regular, if sdilapidated, bar with live music, the creators of Rouge had spent almost two years and tens of thousands of dollars guttingand remodeling the venue. The outside was painted a deep chocolate brown and the word Rouge, in giant metallic letters, was installed on the face of the building. The entrance door was rebuilt at a rakish angle under a proscenium arch. To one side of the entrance was a patio was filled with metal cocktail tables and enclosed by chain mail, creating a place for patrons to smoke without leaving the premises. Although I’d never been inside, I could see chrome furniture and flashing, colored lights through the door.

As far as I could tell from the card, there was nothing particular happening at Rouge to warrant advertisement. It stated the hours, the admission price, the cost of a mixed drink. But what grabbed my attention were the graphics. On one side was a woman wearing a fishnet tank top. The view was in profile, from the waist up. Her breast, the shape of a grapefruit, was visible through the material, and her thumb was hooked beneath the oversized armpit hole, pulling the shirt out and away from her skin. She looked seductively at the camera and poked the tip of her tongue between open lips. “Thursdays are Ladies Nights!” the postcard heralded. “Ladies are Admitted Free.”

“Look at this,” I said to Larry. “What kind of woman would be motivated by this card to go to Rouge on Thursday nights?”

Larry scowled and shook his head. “I don’t think that card is meant for women.”

“But presumably they want women to go there, don’t they? Do they really imagine they’re going to attract them with this?”

The back of the card had more information — the address of the club, the name of the DJ — and on each corner was a cartoon figure of a woman. She was all in shadow, stylized, like the cartoon character I’ve seen on the wheel flaps of big rig trucks. She had enormous hair, and an exaggerated figure. On the postcard, she was posed on all fours, like a playful puppy.

Rationally, I know the card was designed by a sexist. Realistically, I know women aren’t toys. But obviously, some people profit from marketing them that way. As I looked at the card, I couldn’t help thinking: if this is what women are, if this is how they are perceived, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I’ll soon be leaving their company. Maybe when I have only one breast, I’ll no longer be ridiculed, condescended to, harassed on the street. Maybe when I’m one-breasted, I’ll no longer be automatically included as a member of this inferior group.

Larry looked over my shoulder at the back of the card before chastising me. “Throw that thing away before we go into the store,” taking it out of my hands by the extreme tips of his fingers and dropping it into the garbage.

“I don’t want anyone to think we’re considering going there.”

That was the twenty-first chapter of my novel, Count All This. To continue, follow the free chapter links below or buy a digital copy of the whole book on Amazon, where leaving a rating or review will help others find my story.

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