A Breast Named...?

The technician at the orthopedics shop, Peggy, says sometimes it is so crowded there, with ladies trying things on, that they run out of private fitting rooms. She’s been tempted to just take a customer into the bathroom for their appointment. But, even though the bathroom is spacious and clean, the boss says, “NO,” to that.

I lucked out. On Monday it was just me and her, and Lupe who works at the front desk. Lupe is fabulous. She has high artfully shaped eyebrows and super-thick, super-dark, super-curling eyelashes. I couldn’t tell if they were extensions or the kind you glue on yourself, but they were certainly not her own. A rainbow of lipstick and eyeshadow further asserted that she was not a “natural look” kind of gal. I liked her at once. I also noted that someone who prided herself on being beautifully all-natural would be a bad fit as the public face of a shop that sells prosthetics.

Standing in the lobby, I asked Peggy some questions about how the whole process of getting fitted and supplied with a prosthetic breast worked. I was trying to figure out if I’d have time to get one before I left on my trip, or if I would have to have it shipped to me, or if I should just wait and find an orthopedics shop in Denver.

She tried to answer my questions, but kept missing the point. Also, she kept saying things like, “the patient needs to have an appointment.” I thought maybe she was just talking like that because artificial secondary sexual features are a touchy subject. I thought she was trying to avoid embarrassing me, or herself, or maybe Lupe.

When we both started to act a little frustrated, it dawned on me what the problem was. “Look!” I said, “I’m the patient!” I pulled my souvenir hospital sock out of my shirt to prove it.

Why did she assume I wasn’t the patient? Why did she look startled when I told her I was? Do I look too young? Do I seem too happy? Did I really do that good of a job shaping my sock that morning? I don’t know, but the minute she realized I was the one who needed her help, she stopped reiterating the necessity of appointments, transformed herself into a gracious hostess and led me immediately into a private chamber in this palace of prosthetics.

But, I was still confused. In the fitting room, she opened a cabinet full of clear plastic bins over-flowing with lingerie. I’d thought she would start with a measuring tape, and kind of wrap it around my existing breast. Instead, she waved her hand across assorted flowery support garments as if she were Vanna Off-White on Brassieres of Fortune.

I thought we were having another miscommunication. I told her I didn’t have my prosthesis yet, and asked if maybe I was at the wrong place. This is when I learned another amazing true fact about my new status as a breast cancer survivor. My insurance company will now foot the bill for my bras! These special, and probably obscenely expensive items, have secret pockets sewn into them to keep the breast from floating around and looking weird. After all, the whole point of having one is to keep from looking weird, right?

I chose a black one and a beige one, both in the same design. The fabric is silky and will look smooth, not textured, under a T-shirt. They are underwire-free, and fit perfectly.

(It must be kind of fun to go in there after a double mastectomy. You would be totally unbound from your genetic legacy. Instead of asking, “what size bra do you wear?” they could just ask, “how big would you like to be?” I know it would be expensive, but I really do think I’d want some in every size.)

Next, we started playing around with little jellied triangles in different sizes, shapes and colors. The one that matched my real one the most was kind of spread out at the edges. It added padding not just in the center of the bra cup, but up onto the chest as well, more like my real breast. But it was hard to position correctly, so I chose a more compact model in a monochrome medium-peach. It has a delicate nipple sculpted on front that would only show through a really flimsy top. It is slightly larger than my left one, just like my original right breast had been, so it seemed perfect to me. (Now that I’m writing this I wonder if the right one was bigger because it was growing tumors inside?)

Peggy slipped my boob of choice into the little pocket behind the cup of the black bra, drew the straps up over my outstretched arms and fastened the clasps behind me. I felt like Kirsten Dunst playing Marie Antoinette in that scene where she is frozen, reaching into the air, and other people attend to all the intimate details of dressing her. That scene, out of context, is strange and confusing. Maybe she’s really special, or maybe there’s something really wrong with her. Actually, even in context it is confusing.

My context has been confusing lately too, with so many gifts, so many flowers, so many caring phone calls and love notes. So much attention and generosity made me unwillingly wonder, am I really special or is there something really wrong with me? The answers were yes, and yes.

I think this is why I had such a strong reaction when I placed my own hands on my upper chest, and smoothed them down slowly until I was cupping my new bosom on both sides.

I didn’t expect to care. My lop-sided and scarred chest seemed totally normal to me by now. I hardly thought about it, except to notice how cool and self assured I was for not trying to disguise it. I’d gone to get the prosthesis because it seemed like part of the inevitable process. I wasn’t in a hurry to have it. I was just there on that day because it was close to my physical therapy office, where I’d just come from, and my oncologist’s office, where I was going. This seemed like a smart way to spend the ninety minutes between appointments. Also, I thought it would be fun to have; one more accessory to play with. I planned to keep it in a drawer and pull it out for parties or job interviews.

This shows exactly how much I still have to learn about myself and my healing process. Maybe Dr. Rocco was right to leave a little extra skin around my scar, in case I change my mind about reconstructive surgery later. I can’t imagine now that I ever would, but I couldn’t imagine on Sunday that I would fall in love with my strap-on tit.

With my hands gently squeezing this new, familiarly-full-feeling bra, I could not keep from crying. Like crashers at a party, uninvited and unexpected tears were suddenly hanging out in the corners of my eyes and dancing down my cheeks. My throat closed up and I just held my breath for a minute. It felt so G O O D.

Maybe it was because some part of my brain was finally able to understand that I am okay now. Maybe it was because I could tactically recognize myself again. Maybe it was just because after 20 years of having two breasts, I’d acquired a taste for having my body set up that way. I don’t know. I just know it felt G O O D.

It still feels good. I’ve worn it every minute, except while sleeping or showering. I even wore it on a hike up Madonna Mountain. That probably wasn’t a great choice. I don’t have a sports bra with a fancy pocket in it, so the prosthesis was pressed up against my skin and got all sweaty. Also, the sports bra flattens down my real breast, but my new one is less pliant. It stayed just as perky as ever. I looked more lopsided by wearing it than if I’d left it at home, but I didn’t care. Just having something there is so wonderful.

In addition to looking better, and feeling good to my hands, it pleases my chest too. The area around my incision is still really sensitive and a little painful. I continue to flinch if I get hugged too hard. Every morning, my first thought is still, “My chest hurts.” It’s a fleeting thought; I get up and everything is fine. Yes, I’m very close to being all better, but I’m not quite there yet.

When I used the sock to round out my figure, it hurt after a while. But my new breast is like a soothing balm. It’s delightfully soft, and holds my body heat. It’s like having a hot water bottle, or a tiny teddy bear, cozied up to my ouchie spot. It’s so comforting! I LOVE it.

Maybe it’s not true love. Maybe it’s just infatuation. Maybe next month I’ll look back and marvel that I wore this thing all day in the airport where no one cares what I look like. Maybe I’ll think the pleasure of a jaunty stride that sets both sides of my bosom bouncing is not worth the hassle of carrying this thing around. But, I doubt it. I think this is going to be a long term relationship.

Which makes me realize, I need one more thing. You’ve all been so sweet, asking me over and over again if I need anything. Well, here’s your chance to help me out.

I need a name! Does anybody have a good name for my artificial breast? I just can’t bear calling it “it” any longer. Please send me your suggestions. The winner will be publicly honored for his/her creativity and good taste in one of my future postings!

As always, you can comment here, or write me at doublewhammydiary@gmail.com

I can’t wait to hear what you come up with!