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During the Friday evening viewing at the Funeral home, I was sitting alone with my grandmother and spending a little quiet time with her. Out of no where, she told me how her breasts have gotten so saggy and floppy that she can't wear a bra.

And then she said, "Here, feel this."

Oh, grandma, no.

I said, "No, that's ok," but she grabbed my hand and began pulling it to her chest.

I turned my head away, preparing to be traumatized for the rest of my life. She placed my hand under her shirt, and I felt paper-thin skin covering a hard rectangular object. Puzzled, I looked over. She had placed my hand just below her collar bone on the left side. I was feeling her pacemaker.

"I can't wear a bra anyway, because the strap rubs against this."

I nodded knowingly, and gently pulled away my hand.

Later that night at my sister's house, I told the story to Rick, my sister's husband.

"Thank you," he said. "Now I'm scarred for life."
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