Writer Abi Morgan: A Letter To My Left Breast
After a cancer diagnosis in 2019, Abi Morgan underwent chemotherapy and a mastectomy. Here, the playwright and screenwriter (behind The Split, The Iron Lady, Suffragette, Shame and new Netflix drama Eric) pens a letter on grief and gratitude, in a powerful tribute to the breast she lost
Dear Breasts, my left in particular,
I’m sorry we had to separate. I never wanted to split you up. But cancer is a cruel mistress. Yes, it used to help me to think of the Big C as a dame. Somehow, if she was a woman, I was under the misguided belief I could reason, placate, negotiate with my fate, to save you. But, strong, voracious, ripping through every cell, cancer is, I came to realise, sexless, godless, indiscriminate and unrelenting.
Standing in an Italian field with the sun on my face, in the days before I knew of cancer’s arrival, I felt as though a horse in a high heel had kicked me in the chest. Sharp. Throbbing. Incessant. Even then you were defiant, sending out a signal, asking for help, hoping I would hear you, feel your pain. I did. I cupped you. I caressed you. I searched for the pea-like lump I had been told would be a sign. I didn’t know a tumor could also be a grape. A lime. A lemon. In my left breast, six centimeters in diameter, it was strangling you to death. Lying on my front with you both suspended in mirrored boxes, we glided into the MRI together, listening to the magnet’s repetitive clang. I prayed to a god, who I did not believe existed, to save you. But mainly I prayed that if it took you, to save me. I am sorry. Thank you for your sacrifice.
You have been the very best of company, nestled close to my chest. A fellow traveler over the five decades that have made up my life. Your arrival was a marvel for the 12-year-old girl who would then spend her teenage years ruthlessly pushing you into every boob tube and strapless dress. You have been held, loved, bronzed in the sun, admired by both lovers and friends. You have kept me warm. You have been my silent comfort on the darkest nights. You have fed both my babies, and been a pillow where they have lain, milky lipped and satiated. You have been the golden thread to my mother and my grandmother and to all those women before them. You are missed. You were loved. There are still days when I feel bereft.
“How I regret my lack of appreciation. My cruelty when you softened and drooped with age. If I could hold you again, feel the weight of you in my palm, I would have loved you more
”
After the surgeon cut you away, I did the daily exercises. Stretched, pulled, tried to accept this new body. This new lopsided shape. The scar has healed. The right breast hangs a little lower now, as if in mourning for its companion. I cup it, as I brush my teeth, as if trying to balance this uneven scale. Nature favors symmetry. Fashion, culture, commerce is built around two breasts. Daily, I stand defiant, opening my arms to this new aesthetic. Yet the slap of the silicone prosthetic as it lands on my desk, pulled from my bra when I am tired of the ache in my neck, is no substitute for you, my friend. They say we come into this world alone and go out alone. But we come into the world with this, our beautiful body. Imperfect, often criticized, disliked, and berated, forced to fit a beauty standard that makes a mockery of us all. How I regret my lack of appreciation. My cruelty when you softened and drooped with age. If I could hold you again, feel the weight of you in my palm, I would have loved you more.
And yet, though grief may still come in waves, there are also gifts. A newfound appreciation for science, for medicine, for the National Health Service, much abused and neglected but determined in its ability to save. The brilliance of minds, and the care of those who fought for my life as if it was their own. I am stronger, more powerful, more loving, and willing to be loved. When life becomes fragile, you learn acutely what to hold on to and what to let go of. A defiance, to truly live in the now, not the whimsy of a platitude writ on a T-shirt or Instagram post, but a determination to give heart and mind to each new day.
Your absence and the snaking scar that cuts halfway across my upper torso is the brutal reminder of how close it came to taking me too. I hold on tight to my right breast, let my fingers understand the nature of its terrain, stay vigilant to change. At least if cancer comes again, I will be waiting, ready. Each morning, I place my hand on the flat left side, and remind myself you have left me something else. With the absence of your fleshy padding, so comes a new clarity. The beat of my heart not only felt but almost visible, pumping under my rib cage. Where once was my breast, now is a reminder that I am alive, the blood circling my body like an ocean flowing around the globe. I take the blessings where I can. I am sorry I could not save you, but I am forever grateful that your loss meant I lived.
Love,
A
Eric, written and created by Abi Morgan, is on Netflix from May 30
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