I wear a cup B

I grew up in a family of small-breasted women.

That declaration will cause an uproar from my sisters, resulting in a show of cleavage—existent and nonexistent—plus a review of bra sizes at our next family group chat. My mom will watch us, laughing quietly, while my dad will pretend indifference so he doesn’t have to participate in this irreverent discussion. My brother will remind us all that at least, we did not grow up with small-breasted men.

I was supposed to have an older brother. No, that’s not true. I WASN’T supposed to be born. My parents had wanted to stop having children once they had a son, a longing that must have grown stronger after my two older sisters were born a year apart. Unfortunately, Kuya Darwin, as I came to refer to him when I was old enough to understand, died in my mother’s womb. The image of my dad walking and crying while carrying a shoebox-sized coffin, followed by a small group of friends to the nearby cemetery about 500 meters from our home, has been etched in my mind forever.

And so, it was with mixed emotions (and I guess disappointment, although they never mentioned it) that my parents welcomed my arrival three years later. Lucky for me, I was quite a pretty baby with bright brown eyes, a small bulbous nose, and very pink lips on relatively fair skin. Luckier for me, my parents are kind and love every bit of me.

Growing up with sisters who are seven and six years older was—how do I say it?—mostly fun, but also lonely. Oftentimes, it was annoying.

My sisters love singing. We grew up to the songs of Engelbert Humperdinck and Nat King Cole blasting from the big, black rectangular stereo radio bought from a needy neighbor, who may or may not have been a petty thief. My sisters would put on their minus-one cassette tapes and we’d sing hits by Barbra Streisand, Olivia Newton-John, Diana Ross, and more recently, Mariah Carey and Celine Dion. Not that we ever got to reach Mariah’s or Celine’s octaves, but we sure did have fun trying. I’m not sure our neighbors felt the same way.

My sisters had fun dressing me up, possibly because we couldn’t afford a Barbie. I wore dresses and shoes fit for a teenager when I was barely 11, and got my period in first year high school. I was now a woman!

And so I waited. Then waited some more. But my breasts never cooperated and grew to a size that would convince the world that I was not a boy sporting long hair. Lucky for me, my sisters, Donna and Delia, introduced me to the wonders of the padded bra.

It felt very weird. There was an awful lot of air swimming between my actual breasts and the bra cup. When I wasn’t careful, the padded bra would move up toward my neck as there were no “humps” to stop them.

What it lacked in comfort though, it made up for in the look I got after I put on a shirt. It was like magic! Sure, a few would assume I was wearing Madonna’s famous cone bra underneath. But man, that extra curve did make a huge difference. I felt self-conscious at first, but after years of wearing these magical undergarments, they have come to feel like an extension of my body.

So, in 2019, after I spoke at length to an aesthetic surgeon about reconstruction surgery following my upcoming mastectomy, I decided it was not worth putting my body under additional stress by getting implants. My husband supported my decision. I knew I could still depend on my padded bras to give my body the added “oomph” it needed. Still, I felt a bit embarrassed about getting a mastectomy. Do I become less of a woman because I’d be left with only one breast? Will my confidence be affected because I’d be “disabled”? I wondered: would a man feel the same if one of his testicles were cut off? I wasn’t sure.

My siblings reminded me that I never had ample breasts to begin with, so I shouldn’t be overreacting about losing one. Not to forget that I had nursed three happy and healthy children. They are right. My breasts have achieved their purpose. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Sometimes, I call myself the one-boobed wonder. Those who know me well laugh when I tell them. For those who don’t know me, well, I wear a cup B.

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Darlyn Banda Gutierrez was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer in 2017 and has since been on a challenging but inspiring journey of resilience and self-reflection.