A few years ago Marie Kondo and the KonMari Method became bywords for decluttering. Indeed, this Japanese woman was suddenly everywhere, telling us to keep only those things in our lives that “spark joy.” I was sceptical.

My old receipts and bank statements and P60s and everything else that forms the midsize paper mountain atop my filing cabinet do not spark joy, but unfortunately, I am always worried I’ve done my taxes wrong and HMRC and maybe the Home Office too are going to come after me (I’ve only just become a citizen, surely they can still oust me?).

So I keep the unsorted pile in my office and will likely do so ‘til kingdom come.

But I get Marie Kondo’s way of thinking: hold on to what makes you happy. Hold on to what is valuable — at the present time. Let go of the things that are just taking up space in drawers or boxes or under the bed. And when you let go, especially if these things were once meaningful or important to you, honour them.

Thank them for all they have done for you or for your family. Then say goodbye.

So that’s what I’ve decided to do.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I thought we had caught it early enough that it could be quietly excised and leave me, pretty much, exactly as I am today.

The first doctor I met with, a registrar, said she could do a small surgery to remove the lump. A lumpectomy. It didn’t sound too bad. A little piece cut out, bing bang, cancer gone. Moving on.

When the NHS letter about the appointment arrived in the post a couple of weeks later, I sat down to read it, and one line, something I didn’t remember hearing, caught my eye: “The current size of your lump, if remains the same after MRI assessment, is at the limit for breast conserving surgery.” At the limit?

What did that mean?

At my next appointment, I enquired. The consultant — this time I met a very senior member of the clinic—explained.

My lump was not small. It would create a large hole. Moreover, it was in a very visible spot, being on the far left and top of my right breast — in other words, the middle of my décolletage. I was wearing a scoop-necked shirt and looked down. Yup, right there.

So perhaps a mastectomy would be a better option for me. The doctor went on to describe reconstruction possibilities. I could leave the one side flat. I could have an implant inserted. Or I could have a breast constructed out of belly tissue.

“Ummmm… like a tummy tuck?”

“Reconstruction from your belly requires, of course, two areas for us to operate on,” she warned, and then she gave me the details of the surgery.

It’s the kind Fergie had recently. Hers took eight hours, and that’s probably on the low end. It can take ten, 12, 14 hours for a mastectomy with Diep flap reconstruction.

“After that, you’ll have to stay in the hospital for about five nights. Maybe a week. That period used to be longer, but people prefer to recover at home. While you’re here, you’ll be on an IV drip and a catheter and a morphine drip.”

Somehow, it felt like things had changed.

I went home with a heavy heart. The lumpectomy was still an option, but I had been persuaded: it was not a very good option. So, what would I do?
The results of my genetic test arrived.

When I said I was an Ashkenazi Jew (well, half, anyway), the doctor immediately arranged for a screening of known genetic variants for Ashkenazim. BRCA is the most famous of the group.

Happily, I had no genetic variants.

Or rather, no known variants.

I was comforted. But not enough. And a question began creeping into my head: why did I want to hold on to my breasts?

Over the next few weeks, I spoke to a lot of women who were ahead of me on this ugly road. One woman had a lumpectomy, a recurrence, and then a mastectomy.

Another woman had a lumpectomy followed by a second lumpectomy. One had a single mastectomy and then a year later discovered cancer in the second breast.

Several told me about “scanxiety”, that feeling they experienced every time they went for a mammogram to check their existing tissue.

And so, I made a decision.

Dear breasts, I honour you. You gave me confidence when you adorned me in my youth, and you fed all three of my children, who have now grown into big, healthy boys.

Dear breasts, you sparked joy for me and my family. But you serve no purpose now, and I must let you go.

So long, and thanks for all the mammaries. It’s time to say goodbye.

My double mastectomy is scheduled for the second week of September, just before Rosh Hashanah. If all goes well, I will begin 5784 decluttered.