I'm a happily married 42-year-old woman with an 8-year-old son. So how did I end up inside the bathroom of a downtown brew pub with my face in all those knockers, the bare breasts of a group of women I'd just met, with our shirts up and bras hoisted? All the stroking and pressing and gazing might sound like fodder for Penthouse forum. 

Actually, we're all breast cancer patients and survivors.

Last summer, I had a mastectomy. I finished chemotherapy two weeks ago. December and the beginning of the new year will be filled with holiday celebrations -- and daily radiation. Currently, my left breast is stuffed with a rigid, plastic, saline-filled chest-expander, a space holder for my future silicone implant. The surgical swap out will happen next summer, after radiation is completed, and my skin has healed for the requisite six months.

How I long for a breast with a little softness and droop to it. How I look forward to having a breast that you'd want to have some fun with, not something you try not to bonk into. I don't exactly love having one perky, overly firm, scarred, bolt-upright breast and one natural, low-slung, post-nursing breast that I can practically tuck into my jeans. But I'll take these mismatched breasts any day. I'm alive, and I'm thankful.

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