If the twins and I were Facebook friends, our relationship status would read ‘it’s complicated’.
By ‘the twins’ I mean, of course, my breasts.
Fraternal, not identical twins, given that one has always been bigger than the other and leans off to the right, as if trying to distance itself from an excruciating sibling, or scan the horizon for greener, less mundane pastures.
I’m a fade-into-the-background type of girl, while the twins love drama and crave attention. Whether it’s vying for the spotlight, embarrassing me, or scaring me half to death, it’s always something with them.
I’m 12 when they make their debut appearance. My indifference quickly morphs into irritation. They hurt when I run, and I can no longer sleep comfortably on my tummy.
Older women in my life inform me that the twins cannot be allowed to roam the world unrestrained.
They make these statements while staring at my chest, the twins straining for the spotlight under my t-shirt. I’m made to feel somehow culpable, choosing as I did to cultivate, and apparently, flaunt these annoying new bits of myself.
When I’m taken bra-shopping, I’m mortified to discover that it’s someone’s job to measure your chest, stare at your naked twins, and chat about this state of affairs to your mom.
We leave the store with a size 32AA bra, in bland beige. I shove it into my underwear drawer and pretend it isn’t there.
At age 15, I can’t pretend the twins aren’t there on a cold morning as they make themselves visible through a bra and a school shirt.
It’s the frank, scandalised delight on the faces of the boys who spot them across a crowded school corridor that makes me wish the twins and I weren’t related.
Skip to age 30. I’m breastfeeding Kid One. As if competing for the attention I’m getting for birthing a whole human being, the twins grow to twice their size, become solid and painful when Kid One is overdue for a feed, and leak flagrantly during work meetings.
Then, at 38, I schedule a routine mammogram, unaware that, while my diary entry for the afternoon reads ‘mammo’, theirs is ‘blind, unadulterated panic’.
If you’ve never been for a mammogram, here’s a tip. Fold your dignity up as small as you can and tuck it safely away for the duration.
There’s nothing quite like trying to maintain a neutral expression while the twins are lifted by a perfect stranger, like a portion of dough, or a boneless ham, and gently kneaded into position under a chillingly-named ‘compression paddle’.
This ordinary afternoon, the twins go for broke and take centre stage. The mammogram is complicated, and the mammographer keeps asking for different views of my breast tissue.
It’s followed by an ultrasound, the sharp contrast between the cheery chatter of the former and the determined silence of the latter doing nothing to ease my growing anxiety.
And then the interminable, sweaty wait for the doctor. I feel faintly ridiculous in a colossal, starched hospital gown. When he eventually appears, I have to crane my neck to make eye contact as he remains standing and tells me it’s probably nothing, but that a biopsy will tell us for sure.
I think of my dad’s mom, who died of breast cancer at age 38.
I think of all the times I thought about breast cancer and vowed to ‘get rid of them’ if necessary.
I try hard not to think of the weight of the word ‘biopsy’.
It’s over in a flash. I get an appointment the next day with a doctor who is just the right amount of efficient without being brusque and compassionate without being sappy.
A few quiet words of reassurance as she plunges a comically long needle into one of the twins, and before I know it, I’m sent on my unsteady way.
A week later, I hear that it is, indeed nothing. I acquire new terms – ‘dense breast tissue’ and ‘microcalcifications’ – and I’m told to report for biannual mammograms for a while. Importantly, I discover the improbability of this turning into cancer, provided I’m vigilant.
You’d think, after that experience, that the twins and I would have called a truce, gone for couples counselling, or at the very least, quietly started appreciating one another more.
You’d be almost right. They’re annoying as ever. I’ve recently discovered that any weight fluctuation has to go through them first: 5kg either way, and they’re immediately and noticeably bigger or smaller, instead of the places I’d prefer to see grow or shrink.
Like siblings, though – exasperated by each other, but also inseparable – we share a past.
I’m no longer entirely comfortable with saying I wouldn’t miss them if they were gone. Attention-seekers or not, if it means they’ll be sticking around, I’ll accept ‘it’s complicated’ as our relationship status.
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