Nan’s Boob Trilogy
Things you need to know:
- When I was 8-years-old, I moved in with my maternal grandparents. From that day, Nan and Pop raised me.
- Nan taught me how to play the organ. One of the songs she taught me was the drinking song, Little Brown Jug. (You can catch it on youtube here.)
- Nan had a radical mastectomy in the early 1970s. A radical mastectomy is a complete amputation of the breast including the underlying chest muscles and lymph nodes. It leaves a cave of flesh where once there was a breast.
- I am a Registered Nurse by education and license.
In nursing school, an introductory lecture on mastectomy started like this:
“As symbols of her gender, of motherhood and womanhood; as tools of her attractiveness and sexual abilities a woman’s breasts are very important to her. Disfiguring breast surgery, especially amputation, can be psychologically and spiritually devastating. A women’s self-worth and self esteem are often intractably tied to her breasts.”
I must have made a goofy face. The lecturer noticed.
“Do you have a question, Mr. McCormick?”
“Well, I don’t mean to disagree, but — Are you sure? Because that has not been my experience.”
And then I went on to tell her several stories about Nan’s boob:
Part I
Nan was not a cut-up, but she was a funny woman. She was never one to tolerate insults, especially from those in her care. And that was all of us.
This is a tough old bird that you never wanted to mess with. However, she and I had a special arrangement. I could needle her and she’d take it. We traded verbal blows with each relentlessly.
One day, when I was in my teens and sitting on the couch watching television and Nan crocheting in her chair across the room, we got into some verbal jousting. I eventually got in a great zinger.
Nan was not one to be outdone, even when she had nothing left to say. She reached into the neckline of her shirt, pulled out her fake boob, and threw it at me. It landed, heavy and warm, in my lap.
A teenage boy, especially one that had yet to handle his first real breast, has no rebuttal for that.
She wins.
Part II
Same couch. This time Nan is sitting there with me. Pop is between us. His arm around Nan’s shoulder. It’s Sunday. We are watching The Lawrence Welk Show.
All is quiet until Nan abruptly stands up and reaches into the top of her shirt while saying, “Goddammit, Herb. If you want it that bad, here. I’m making tea.” And placed her fake boob, heavy and warm, into Pop’s hands. And walked into the kitchen.
A husband of nearly 50 years, especially one with a blank stare and his wife’s boob in his hand, has no rebuttal for that.
She wins.
Part III
As you’ve just read, Nan had a prosthetic breast. She never opted for plastic surgery to remake and remold her old breast. Who knows? In the 1970s this may not have even been an option.
Prosthetic breasts have to be replaced from time-to-time. I guess they wear out, especially when one was as busy with them as Nan apparently was.
My sister once helped Nan order a new boob out of a catalog. When it came in my sister was aghast. Neither she nor Nan realized that the suffix “-BK” stood for black.
Nan opened the box and there, in her hands, was a dark brown prosthetic breast. My sister was so embarrassed that she was nearly in tears, “I’ll send it back! I’ll send it back!”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Nan stuffing the plastic and silicone breast into her bra. “It fits perfectly.”
That’s when I started whistling that drinking song that she taught me on the organ: Little Brown Jug.
A woman, especially one with a fake black breast in her bra, has no rebuttal for that.
I win.
Everybody sing!
Ha-ha-ha, Hee-Hee-Hee
Little brown jug, how I love thee
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