"Pretty Pathetic" Prosthetics

Protracted intensity would be one way I would summarize my year of cancer diagnosis and treatment. The intensity of life under those circumstances is not always negative, but it is, nevertheless, INTENSE. In an effort to curb the intensity after my first lumpectomy in November 2009, we decided to plan a get-away weekend to the beach in early December. We promised to have a cancer-free weekend with a moratorium on all cancer conversation. Aside from my post-surgical, glow-in-the-dark, "auroraboobealis" breast, it was sure to be a good time. I was very pleased that the lumpectomy hardly altered the shape of my left breast. I felt good. I felt hopeful. I felt frisky. I still had my long hair and generous "rack." I felt absolutely cherished by my husband. And I was absolutely clueless about what lay ahead in the coming months.

We checked into our favorite place, The Surfrider, and commenced with our usual coastal habits of chowder sampling, red wine sipping and general frolicking. It was a fabulous time. It was so good in fact, we went again in April amidst chemo treatments to recharge our batteries.

In July 2010, I began emerging from the formidable fog of chemo. The pace of life and it's demands rushed in like water flooding a bowl when it is submerged under water. Five months of chemo had created a semi-surreal, slow-motion quality to my life. Once it started to clear in July, things were "game on." I continued getting short of breath with long stretches of walking and still needed to nap deep into the fall. It was not easy keeping up with school commuting, school sports, work,home and farm life.

It was evident that Rog and I could use another weekend at the coast as an antidote to the crush of daily life. The "crush" had definitely taken a bite out of our intimate activities, but I also had insecurities emerging that the reduction in "fun" might be related to being "rack-less." Vagrant thoughts like these were never far from reach when I would change into my nightie at bedtime.

What had previously been a robust contributor in our connubial connection was unequivocally GONE for good. With chemo in the rear view mirror and surgical healing more than complete, I wondered what our new "normal" would be. I hoped that we weren't living it right now, because even without checking with him, I was pretty sure the new normal wasn't really satisfying for either of us.

How could I impact this, I queried myself. How could I spice things up? It was not as easy as buying a new, hot, little number like in past slumps, or was it? That was when I had the bold idea to surprise him on our upcoming trip with boobs, silicone boobs, but still boobs. I was working on the assumption that ANY boobs are better than no boobs to a guy.

Unfortunately, I had the epiphany to procure boobs about five days before we were set to leave. Would this be enough time to accomplish my mission? I hoped so. I was actually getting excited about this surprise. I called my surgeon to get a new prosthetic prescription because I had lost the one she had written ten months earlier at a post-mastectomy appointment. I had not pursued it before because I wanted to see what it would be like to go without boobs. I wanted to collect my own data about whether I really needed to wear prosthetics on any emotional or physical level.

With our sex life waning, I decided it was time to dip my toes in the pool of silicone simulations. I had pretty high hopes because they have been around a long time and had surely been improved upon, right? I remember when my high spirited, cancer survivor friend proudly announced she had finally gotten her "girls." "Go ahead and feel 'em," she invited, puffing her chest out towards me. Naturally, I did what I was told and put both hands up to cop a feel. Wow, I was impressed! They felt like real boobs and looked great under her sweater. I was still squeezing and pressing around on them when I broke myself away, remembering that we were standing in the open kitchen at church during Coffee Hour! What must everyone be thinking?!!!

My friend admitted that she finally got her prosthetics because one person too many had asked her if she was pregnant without them. I had noticed that I looked pregnant too after the mastectomies. Boobs had helped visually balance my belly fat and without them, much to my chagrin, my collection of abdominal adipose magically magnified.

Only two places in Portland provide prosthetic fittings. I chose Nordstrom's because they were conveniently located and I love their philosophy of service and quality. I wasn't sure what to expect as I made my fitting appointment, but I was confident that it would be topnotch. I met my consultant in the lingerie department and she took my insurance card and wrangled all the necessary paperwork for me while I took a seat in Children's Shoes because it was taking so long. I had to admit that it felt more than bizarre to present my insurance card instead of a VISA in Nordstrom's!

When she returned, she apologized for the wait and I followed her into the fitting rooms where we occupied the larger, handicapped stall. I was feeling really good about all of this so far. I was not nervous, emotional or sad. I was still hopeful that getting fitted would be a slam-dunk and I would walk out with a silver Nordie's bag holding my new best friends. So, I was surprised when I removed my top for her to begin the fitting, that I was swiftly overwhelmed with such sadness and grief. My eyes immediately began dripping alligator tears and I pulled my hands up to cover my contorted face. That moment of standing naked in front of the consultant in the cold, fluorescent light of the dressing room had unhinged something in me.

She was young and she was obviously new at this. She did not know how to react or comfort me. All she could say was, "The scars will fade." "Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think I was going to cry. I'm fine, really. Sorry," I managed to squeeze these words past the prickly, kiwi-sized lump in my throat. I had to ask for tissues.

Retrospectively analyzing the overwhelm, I think it had something to do with this being another marker as to the permanence of my new condition. This stranger had to be let in on my secret ugliness and deficiency. I was not going to grow new breasts. This was it. I was here for replacements. I managed to pull myself together and turn on my self-effacing humor and make friendly conversation with the consultant.

She had to make multiple departures to and from the stall to fetch alternate sizes and fitting bras, all the while I was left standing half naked with boxes of boobs cluttering the only place to sit. It would have been nice if there had been a chair and an light robe to put on for the appointment. I still intend to write Nordstrom's and offer my suggestions for the next breast cancer client.

Prosthetics come in different shapes and sizes to compensate for the amount of tissue that was removed. I tried on different sizes thinking I might want to downsize a bit, but the C-cup looked like mosquito bites on my large frame. Damn. Oh, alright, we'll try a D-cup. Looks good. I'll take 'em. Are we done? No? Insurance pays for four bras to house the boobs, go shopping. The nice thing about Nordstrom's is that their seamstress will sew pouches on any bra you choose. This means a woman is not limited to the industrial-looking bras usually associated with prosthetics. This cheered me up a bit and I browsed the racks with a lighter heart.

I was able to find a few bras that were pretty enough, whose designs were big enough to conceal the prosthetic, but not big enough to bivouac in. My new selection of bras was nothing like my old cache of frilly, sensuous Victoria's Secret sundries, but it was still better than nothing. The good news was that the seamstress could be done as soon as tomorrow afternoon. The bad news was that this Nordstrom only had one of the prosthetics I needed and it was closing time.

Wearing only one boob was definitely not going to accomplish my mission. I had to have the other member of this set and I needed it by the next evening. This is where my consultant saved the day. She located another size D and drove on her own time to pick it up. I was very touched by this effort and made sure to fill out a customer satisfaction card and bring her a gift when I retrieved my new "girls" the next day.

Finally, we checked-in at The Surfrider Friday night. We opened a bottle of wine, red of course, and stretched out on the bed to watch some mindless TV. Now, I had to seriously plot how I was going to introduce the new "girls" to Rog. Prosthetics are individually packaged in boxes large enough to hold a small cake, so I had to put them in the bra I wanted to use in advance of the trip or Rog would have been asking about the extra "luggage." After relaxing a bit and after enough wine to bolster my courage (I was actually feeling kind of nervous now), I announced I was going to take a bubble bath. I did draw a bubble bath, but was only in it long enough to wash "the goods" so as to buy time to don my new accouterments and to situate everything.

Well, as you might of guessed, it did not go as smoothly as I had planned. I found myself fighting with the prosthetics for about 15 minutes in an effort to get them to stay up where they were supposed to be. I did not win the fight. It turns out the soft pouch material the seamstress used was not stiff enough to provide a rigid backdrop for the fake boob. Without a strong backing, the prosthetic slumps down in the pouch. Oh, crap, now I've gone from no boobs to saggy boobs and a bra that looks like it doesn't fit. In the fitting room, the fake boobs stuck to my skin like vinyl window clings, which made the bra look great.

Standing in front of the huge motel bathroom mirror, I struggled and fiddled with the boobs, the bra and my posture until I could feel frustration mounting. This is not good. This does not lead to sex. Me, angry and agitated, is not the surprise I wanted to give Rog tonight. I refuse to be mad or cry, I told myself. Besides, this was the first time I had bothered to put on make-up in months. I had to salvage this. My confidence in surprising Rog with my new set was seriously beginning to fade. The effect I was hoping for was simply not materializing like I planned.

I was ramping up with anxiety and feeling like a pimply-faced, self-conscious junior high school girl. I looked up from messing with the boobs and stared straight into my reflection and ordered myself to, "STOP!" Okay, take a deep breath. This is still better than nothing. Odds are that eventhough the presentation may be flawled, he will still like the overall effect. Let the agitation run off. Be brave. You love him so much, you must not blow this. This is about him, not you. He loves you and will appreciate this. Now stop talking to yourself and put on that new nightie that lets the bra peak over the edge. Be confident or at least fake it. Open the door and go to him, you moron. But do I just show up with boobs or do I say something as I come around the corner? Oh, geeze, this feels so awkward. I think I feel a little nauseated. Could you be more rididculous? You are such a moron. Okay, here we go. "Are you ready for a surprise?" I asked, tentatively stepping out from the sanctuary of the bathroom.

When I rounded the corner into full view, my eyes locked on his face like a sci-fi tractor beam. Would his response cause me to feel even more foolish than I already felt? Would I be able to catch him stealing away one reaction to front a loving and supportive husband response? I can't really explain why it was so hard to walk out there with fake boobs on, but I really did want to make a joke about it and hide by folding myself over into a ball. It was all I could do to continue walking over to him as he put down his book and sat up on the side of the bed. A slow, steady smile began to spread across his face as he watched me approach. Oh, thank God. I could breath again. With the pressure lessened, I began to chatter nonsense until he had to silence me by pressing his finger to his lips, saying, "Shhhhhh, Let me just take you in." I was actually grateful for permission to shut up. Okay, this is going to be okay. You did it. You gave him a pleasant surprise. Good girl. I'm sure it is no surprise what happened next.