Running Late

One great thing about not having a car is, I don't run around the house 10 minutes after I was supposed to leave, hunting frantically for my keys.

Instead, I'm tearing through my suitcase, and my pile of dirty laundry next to it, hollering, "Honey! Have you seen Phyllis?! I can't find her any where."

I know I can leave the house without her. I often do. But the nice thing about Phyllis is that she gives me a choice. If I can't find her, I don't have any choice. Not having a choice about whether or not my body looks normal in clothes makes me feel like there really is something wrong with me. It makes me feel like a victim instead of a survivor.

The longer I looked, the less my voice came out through my mouth and the more it started to come out through my nose.

"Where is she!? I have to find her because I'm starting to get whiny!"

From the other room, "No comment!"

A few more minutes went by while I scanned the bookshelf, the medicine cabinet, the top of the fridge. I took a deep breath and tried to sound like a normal non-panicked person.

"Baby, are you sure you haven't seen her? I can't find her I anywhere."

I don't know what kind of answer I was wanting or expecting, but this wasn't it.

"Um...have you checked the dogs' beds?"

Oh no. I flashed on a vision of my beloved little peach prosthesis, riddled with slobbery punctures. Of course. The puppies walk around all day chewing on fleece footballs and plush walruses. My squishy plastic breast must have seemed like quite an upgrade, especially if they got it right after I undressed last night. It would have been warm from my body heat, and smelling reminiscent of my right armpit.

(Persistant readers will remember that my right armpit is a lot smellier than my left one ever since the sentinal node biopsy altered my lymph system.)

I got down on my knees and rooted around on the big furry cushion by the front door.

"Not here!"

I did a thorough sweep of the plaid pillow next to the arm chair in the living room.

"Not here either!"

With one last place to look, I crawled under the desk to explore the padded area where the younger one curls up at night. And there was Phyllis, lounging contentedly like a sunbather at a nude beach. To my incredible relief, she was whole and healthy, and didn't have a mark on her.

Maybe it's weird to speak of Phyllis like a living thing, but it's hard not to. She's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy human. In fact, she's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy ME. That's how I've started to think of her, as an optional extension of my own body. I guess you could say we've successfully bonded, me and Phyllis.

The happy part about this story is that I found her.

The sad part about this story is that, even if the dog had chewed her up, unless she had been utterly shredded beyond cohesion or recognition, I would have worn her anyway.