It's not until something is gone that you truly miss it, writes Natalie Yule Yeoman.
It's January 20, 2016. I am walking on Totaranui Beach in Abel Tasman National Park.
I'm wearing a singlet top in the heat and I'm thinking of ... cleavage!
My mum died three years ago. Her last years were marked by dementia, mildly amusing at times but increasingly worrying and sad.
Part and parcel of this was that my ever-so-circumspect and slightly Victorian mum, in losing her ability to discern social cues, exhibited a growing tendency to make inappropriate comments.
She reduced my sensitive sister-in-law to tears on one occasion, saying "Do you like your hair like that?'' (It would have been done carefully and at cost).
Sister-in-law replied diffidently but affirmatively. Mum replied emphatically, "well I don't!''
So I was forewarned when I flew to Auckland once again, to spend time with Mum, still in her own home but on numbered days.
Sitting across the table from her at breakfast, I became aware that she had ceased eating and was staring questioningly at me.
"Do you like your hair like that?''
"Yes, that's why I wear it like this.''
"Well, I don't.''
"Oh. OK. Why not?''
"It's all messy.''
"Oh well, I guess that's fashion.''
"Well, I hope it goes out of fashion very soon!''
Mum started saying whatever came into her head.
This was ironic from one who had raised eight children with the precept, "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?'' to moderate our rigorous family gossip and banter, an impossible task.
Sitting at traffic lights, Mum in the passenger seat (no longer able to drive) would observe pedestrians crossing with comments like, "she's a bit porky isn't she?''
Did Mum always have thoughts like this?
The most she might once have said, would be, "she's amply endowed, isn't she?!''
And then Mum got obsessed with "cleavage''.
Sitting in the doctor's waiting room (again with my caring sister-in-law), flipping through the women's magazines, pausing and puzzling over the models and celebrities, she became increasingly agitated.
"I don't like it ... I just don't like it, it's all this ... ummmmm, what is it? I don't like, what do you call this, I don't like ... what's that I don't like ...'' as she struggled to locate the word and finally, with a flourish of triumph, announced loudly and emphatically for all the fellow patients-in-waiting ... "CLEAVAGE!''.
She began to comment regularly on "cleavage''.
Who knows what was going on in the subconscious and the long-term memory?
I remember clearly, growing up with a mother who was modest, but liked to look good. And she always did.
And because we were a family growing up near the harbour bridge in Auckland, we all swam frequently, at the Point Erin Baths, in school swimming pools and in the sea.
Swimming was part of our family culture and Mum looked great in togs.
She had slim legs, a trim figure (even after eight children) and yes, a cleavage! She had a lovely bust. Photos confirm my memories.
It was a standing family joke each January, as we spent a whole day packing the car, trailer and roof racks, for a month "up north'', that Dad always found Mum's swimming togs the most difficult item to pack.
This was because of the "very-important-inbuilt-cups''.
These needed a meticulous plan and considerable problem-solving skill, not to mention patience.
Other items could be squashed in, squeezed beside, sat on, wrapped around, tucked under, folded up, pushed, poked, and pulled as necessary. But not the "very-important-inbuilt-cups'', oh no.
Dad, along with cheeky asides, lovingly gave his annual devoted attention to the problem.
We all loved it!
I never really used to think about "cleavage''. But February 2015 changed all that.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer, (what? where did that come from?). I had a rightside mastectomy and axillary clearance of lymph nodes. This was followed six months later by the discovery of a secondary tumour in the bone behind my left ear.
I spent much of the year in treatment and recovery. Dunedin Hospital became my "home away from home''.
I was delighted with all the little pleasures along the way, as I gradually adjusted to my new realities.
There was my beautiful new prosthesis, after months of little dacron cushions, (too small? here's a bit more; too big? just pull a bit out).
I was overjoyed with the gorgeous lacy bras with subtle little pockets for the prosthesis to slip into (thank you, Helen Clark, I'm told you were the one who got the subsidy organised for all this. Hope you win the UN job!)
I loved the stylish bathing suits from Ezibuy that Judy at Caversham Sewing Services cleverly modified just for me.
Again and again, I was thrilled.
One-breastedness was a breeze!I went through the Dunedin winter, eight snowfalls in total, gradually restrengthening and abundantly clothed.
Breasts and specifically my breast, were pretty much out of sight and out of mind for hours, days, weeks and months on end.
But I dreamt of summer and I planned ahead, I was hanging out for our camping holiday come January. My dreams kept me going.
Skip to January and my inaugural holiday swim did not disappoint. I told anyone who was prepared to listen, about my special milestone.
"Today is the first day of this special swimsuit and my first post-mastectomy swim!''
I felt great. Possibly OTT. We had two long weeks to look forward to and our first week was dream weather. We swam several times a day.
But by the end of the week, I was beginning to tire a little of the fussy rituals, the changing in and out of garments, the swapping my prosthesis from one costume to another, the covert rinsing of the said item in the communal laundry tubs, the careful drying of it and furtive transportation of it back to the tent, occasionally dropping it, changing, inserting, washing, drying, swapping, hiding, wrapping, and then doing it all again.
And again. And then again.
I was getting irritated. I had to consciously address myself, rebuke myself, correct myself.
Good grief, wasn't I lucky to be alive and well and in this beautiful place, with people I love and doing what I love?!
And then, on the beach, gradually, I began to notice ... cleavages. They were everywhere.
Every female figure past puberty age seemed to have one.
They were all magnificent, no exceptions ... tiny, subtle, discreet, modest, large, voluminous, tattooed, full-on and in your face.
And that's when I realised, I don't have one! How ever did I miss this?
What you don't notice when you are part of the majority!
So I began to think about cleavages. And I didn't even have dementia. I have one breast. I can get away with looking two-breasted, thanks to my fake breast, when I'm clothed in a higher neckline.
But now I was beginning to realise that you don't need a dramatically plunging neckline to reveal a small cleavage.
Even the most modest woman regularly displays a little cleavage in the summer months.
Cleavage is normal, cleavage is routine. When you have two breasts, you have a cleavage, it's non-negotiable. You can fake breasts. You can't fake cleavage!
As my various dictionaries tell me, it's all to do with a sharp division, a split (often "asunder in two!''), a space between, a breakage, a coming apart, a gap.
Well, I mused, you can't have a space, a gap between two things if you only have one thing.
And now, for the first time since my surgery on April 17, 2015, I was seriously missing my cleavage.
I was missing it more than I missed my breast!
Having successfully adjusted to one breast, I now faced the challenge of cleavage-deficit. It took me by surprise.
For the record, Mum, I'm willing to admit that dress I wore to a niece's wedding a few years ago, did reveal too much.
I bet you noticed. I probably gave a bit much away at some more recent family weddings, too.
But you left us in 2013 and weren't at those. Photos remind me.
Should I have worn those dresses?
But let's look at it this way: they were my last chance to not "mind the gap''. I didn't know that then.
I'm glad Mum, that you left us when you did, because you would have felt a mother's pain for me last year.
I'm pleased that alongside your growing unease with cleavages, you never had to get your head around the fact that mine was gone!
Be at peace.
- Natalie Yule Yeoman teaches Te Reo Maori and music at George Street Normal School.
