Pockets and Bubbles

I love my little pink prosthesis, Phyllis. I love knowing she’s there and I love the pressure of her weight against my damaged skin and I love the way she saves my figure in in a tight T-shirt. I love to hold her in my hand and to squeeze her and play with the shy and retiring little nipple. Unlike a real nipple, the more I touch it, the more it sinks into the fleshy hill behind it. It practically disappears if I press right on it, but it always comes back after a few minutes.

But lately, despite her charms, Phyllis is giving me trouble. I don’t lose her anymore, thank goodness. Years ago, Mom sent me a set of black and red zippered bags for my birthday. They were pretty, but they weren’t anything super-special. They were just the kind of thing you would use to organize your suitcase or your top dresser drawer. She apologized at the time for not coming up with a better gift idea, but I still cherish these bags years after I've forgotten or used up other, showier presents. They are pretty, and useful, and fit my strict color scheme. Best of all, there always seems to be one in the perfect size and shape whenever I suddenly have a need for such a thing. I've used them for more purposes than I can count and the medium sized one is now the perfect home for Phyllis to share with my compression sleeve and the pink music festival style bracelet that annouces " ALERT:LYMPHEDEMA No Blood Tests, Blood Pressure, No I.V. or Injections Into this Arm!”

Now that I have a place to put her, I do a good job of remembering to put her away every night. My problems start when I am getting dressed the next morning.The two bras I bought the day I got her each have a little pocket sewn into the cup. She rides in there and it keeps her from moving around on her own. Also, it’s just more attractive. She’s hidden from view. If I’m wearing something low cut, and bend over to pick something up, and someone happens to see down my blouse far enough to notice that something is off*, they might notice that my chest looks unbalanced. They might notice that the silky black fabric is doing something a little different on the right side than it is on the left, but the details of the situation are not entirely obvious. They won’t see what looks like a shiny chicken cutlet peeking out between my body and my lingerie.

More importantly, I don’t see it if I happen to glance down my own blouse. I hate the way that looks. There is my smooth, clean, healthy skin. There is my cute, stylish undergarment. And there, nestled between them like an over-zealous chaperon, sits this fatty cold-cut. It cleaves to my skin in the center, but peels away at the edges. The look is sloppy and unsettling, like I left the body factory before I was fully assembled. It makes me sad to think of myself like that.

The problem is, if I use the little pocket, I can’t get her out again without practically undressing. This makes an awkward follow up to my frequent invitation, “Hey, wanna see my fake breast?” When I can’t plunge into my neckline and whip her out at a moments notice, I feel like I shouldn't even mention her existence. Being forced to err on the side of modesty and tact might seem like another plus side to using the pocket, but it’s not. Shameless exploitation of show and tell opportunities is one of the entitlements that comes along with breast cancer survivorship, and I like to make full use of it.

The other problem is, I’m pretty sick of having just these two servicable, but dull brazierres to choose from. I long for the black and cream colored lace I bought at Soma during a shopping spree with Iona last Thanksgiving. I sorely miss the cute pink racer-back that snaps in front and works great under tank tops. I sigh and shrug at department story manikins in their tempting underwire fashions with the pretty matching panties. I don’t even think about trying things on anymore because the voice in my head says, "Not for me. Not for me."

But it's not as pitiful as it sounds. I'm probably just being lazy. I think it's time to sit down with a needle and thread and figure out how to do some custom alterations to my undergarments. I'm developing a plan for fast application of easy-exit pockets. If it works out, I can buy and wear any bra I choose.I’ll still be able to bring Phyllis out at parties, but I won’t have to worry about random peek-a-boos. I won’t have to worry about her drifting over to the center of my chest, and I won’t have to worry about her sticking to my skin. She soaks up my body heat nicely after a few minutes, but when I first tuck her in, she’s always bitingly cold.

And there are hygienic concerns. I mean, really. What if I get sweaty? How often should I wash her? What should I use? Dish soap? Woollite? What about my lotion, my underarm deodorant, my perfume? These things might have a degrading effect over the long term. I don’t remember if she came with care instructions. If she did, I’ve discarded them by now. Or, they’re tucked in a storage shed twelve thousand miles from here.

I don’t even know what she’s made of.

The inside substance reminds me of silly putty, but softer. It reminds me of jello, but firmer. It reminds me of memory foam, but it’s not as firm as that. Overall, Phyllis seems very fragile and delicate. The outer surface, which appears to be responsible for holding the whole thing together and creating it’s pleasing shape, is nothing more that a clear plastic sheet several times thinner than a Ziplock bag. It’s more like the free bags you peel off the staticky roll in the produce aisle. I try to re-use those bags, but they just don’t seem up to the task of constant occupation. I use Phyllis almost every day!

What is going to become of her?She’s already starting to change. When I first got her, all her surfaces were smooth. Now, on her back side (which is my problem area too,) she’s developed some unsavory bumps. Multiple air pockets have formed between her pinkish bulk and the transparent sheet of her skin. At first these bubbles were small and pretty evenly distributed, but they’ve started to merge. Now there’s one big blister the size of a quarter, where the casing has completely separated itself from the filling. It’s driving me nuts. I want to prick it with a pin and force the extra air out. Everyone I talk to says this is a bad idea. But when I show it to them, they can understand the temptation.

I wonder what would happen if I popped it? Could I make a little round hole in the plastic without damaging the integrity of the whole thing. Would the surface start to rip? Would the inside start to squeeze out like toothpaste? Would a little dot of superglue save it? Would it need a Band-aid?Thank goodness the bubble has formed on the back side. If it somehow moved to the front, and settled into the center, the results would be devastating. My adorable little nipple would end up looking like the empty reservoir at the tip of a french letter. Forgive me for the U.K. euphemism. I cannot bring my self to write the C-word. (If you don’t know the phrase, or for a fascinating historical account, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_letter) I cannot bring myself to write the word, because the very idea of such an allusion turns my stomach.

What would I do if this happened? Disgust at one's own prosthesis is not quite close enough to home to be called self-loathing, but it's in the neighborhood. I’ve got enough body-image issues to deal with since my surgery. If that air pocket bubbles up under my nipple, I’ll settle for a gym sock stuffed C-cup. Phyllis would be in the trash faster than you can blink.

Like I said at the beginning, I love Phyllis. But, sometimes love just isn’t enough.





*I first typed the word “off” in the third paragraph as a way to say “not quite right.” I laughed at the double meaning when I re-read it. Something certainly is "off" when it comes to my chest, and we know exactly what it is! Looking the word up in the Thinkmap Visual Thesaurus (http://www.visualthesaurus.com/) that my sweetheart recently bought us a subscription for, I found that almost all the definitions for the word “off” seem strangely accurate in this context.
a. Not in operation or operational
b. Below a satisfactory level
c. In an unpalatable state
d. Not performing or scheduled for duties

And my favorite:

e. Not plugged in or connected to a power source.