Tag Archives: brasierre

I’m gonna live, so why am I crying…again?

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So I’ve had this marvelous breast reconstruction thanks to a very skilled plastic surgeon (which means despite bruising and surgical tape and drain holes, I’m fine with what I see in the mirror), I don’t have to do chemo or radiation, I’m walking around alive, and yet here I sit in the bathtub, in the grips of yet another crying jag.

Either I’m one ungrateful sod or it’s something else.

A good friend, who also happens to be a psychiatric nurse practitioner with lots of experience in wimmen’s stuff, tells me it’s something else. A panic attack, actually.

How embarrassing.

Which means we’re not just talking about one panic attack. I’ve been having them every time I turn around. Friends have assured me all this crying is normal. I’ve had my breasts cut out, for Pete’s sake. Which sounded right at the beginning of it all–back when illness and survival and a decent reconstruction were still uppermost in my mind.

Well, I’ve admittedly won the lottery as far as all the the above is concerned, but here I sit in my lavender bubble bath, crying my eyes out. Again. For hours. Yes, really, hours. Thank heavens I have a sensible husband who isn’t prone to panic. He just holds me and understands there’s nothing he can fix. At least not this minute.

Given to us by a dear friend and worth reading daily.

Given to us by a dear friend and worth reading daily.

The latest crying jag happened when I got convinced we’d all be homeless because of a $3,500 vet bill–payable right now, before we left the surgeon’s office or it was just a matter of hours before our doggie would be permanently disabled.

On top of a bazillion dollars not covered by own medical insurance. On top of me being off work long enough to run my disability down to zero and put an end to FMLA “protection.” Not to mention the taxes that would be due if we took money out of retirement.

And did I mention the IRS audit? The one that’s turned into two audits? Yeah, I think I mentioned the first one in a previous post.

I’m usually pretty good at ignoring unpleasantness. Even where the IRS is concerned. A trait that drove my mother crazy. She was into unpleasantness in a big way. So another thing fueling the crying jag was my certainty I was morphing into Mom.

Apparently not. My nurse practitioner friend said I needed an antidepressant. Like now. Been there, done that, but never for this particular symptom. And never had it work as quickly as it did it this time. Thanks to whatever powers that be, I haven’t had another crying jag (panic attack?) since.

What upsets me now is the realization that my mom, famous for the aforementioned unpleasantness, never had access to (and would never have accepted), the kind of help available today. It’s unfortunate the term “mental illness” was ever coined. Perhaps just unfortunate it’s used so freely for the kind of help many of us need when life becomes suffering.

Certainly some entities need to be thought of as true illness of the mind. If only so their sufferers can access state aid, have livable housing, and their medical needs met.

But should those of us fortunate enough to recover normal life with therapy and medication be thrown into a pot so discriminatory as to create fear about getting some help? I think not. To do so is irresponsible. And sad.

So I am sad for my poor mother. I think she could have been helped just as I have been. And I am sad for the women I see in clinic who are afraid to accept drugs or therapy when emotions get so awfully out of control.

I can be sad, but even so am feeling daily more able to enjoy the miracle that is life. Come to that, I’m downright happy about having a chest my husband’s not afraid to look at. And I’m not planning more crying jags any time soon, thank you very much.

At least not until the IRS checks in again.

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Things that go soft in the night…

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I can’t stop looking at them. Or touching them. I’d best not go out in public right now for fear of getting arrested for indecent something or other. I can’t believe the difference between my new “real” breasts and the tissue expanders. They’re absolutely beautiful. Even with the bruising. And the surgical tape. And the drains. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dr. N.

One of his lovely nurses told me they don’t want the implants moving around much just yet, so I have to use this gawdawful mastectomy bra for a couple of weeks. It looks like a girdle. From the 1940s. For breasts.

"Mastectomy Foundation Garment," or:  The Bra From Hell

“Mastectomy Foundation Garment,” or: The Bra From Hell

Well, I negotiated that down to an ace wrap. Much better. Until I noticed it was flattening things out. Back to the mastectomy bra, this time with some spouse assisted modifications–ribbons that tie in the front to keep the velcro from hell closed and off my hypersensitive skin.

And at night? I can sleep on my sides. Well, not just yet. The instructions say a 30° rise should be maintained for awhile, so I’ve got a bed wedge. But I’ve rolled to my sides a few times to test things out. Instead of looking down to see two tangerines poking out from the front of me (separated by a good two inches), I’ve got breasts squishy enough to meet in the middle.

Touch them (which just about everybody in my all-female office has done), and they’re soft. They feel real. They’re actual breasts (or quite the facsimile thereof). Halleluja!.

At least that’s how I feel right now. Hope it lasts.

I’ll letcha know.

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Girl Talk!

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Let’s go back for a moment to my 6th grade class. It’s in one of those bungalows set high above the asphalt so no one but the principal can see inside. If he’s riding a horse.

Thirty six sweaty kids hurry to finish their spelling assignments so the boys can go out for a rousing game of basketball. The girls will stay inside for “Girl Talk!”

When the teacher got her brainstorm and started Girl Talk!, everybody had to get permission slips signed. The boys so they could have an extra hour of PE every week, the girls so they could discuss the mysteries of poo-ber-tee. That’s what Mrs. Forrest called it, anyway. With her face screwed up like she’d got lemons in her mouth.

When she makes the announcement that Tuesday will be Girl Talk! day, the class explodes–boys guffaw, arms flail, they fall off their chairs, and girls giggle themselves to tears.

From This...

From this…

The whole thing was sparked by the observation that some girls were wearing heels far too high for health (it was the go-go boot era), and some had gotten bras. Whether they needed them or not.

This did not describe most of us. Or me. The worst of it was that the girls who talked to the cutest boys (the ones with Donny Osmond hair), were the ones already beginning to “develop.” Like Polaroid film, I guessed. The kind my dad used to shoot pictures of naked ladies before he painted them. I knew all about that. They had breasts, but then they weren’t in sixth grade. The rest of us were. Goofy. With braces and headgear.

The boys elbow and snicker their way through the door as the teacher’s pet, a little thing not four feet tall (she didn’t have go-go boots), stands on a chair and reaches high to write our topic on the blackboard in big, embarrassing letters: Girl Talk! Every third boy in line bends over as he passes, miming a look under her skirt. Thankfully, she had no idea.

The permission slips were bad enough. Everybody saw those, from old Mrs. Ross in the office where they got mimeographed, to the hippie janitor, Fred. And I just knew Mom would tell my dad about “Girl Talk!” No mother-daughter secrets here. No implicit understanding that some things are simply too embarrassing to be borne. And what if she said puberty? To my father?

I was mortified. But utterly fascinated, if truth be told.

What was this business about seeing whether or not a No. 7 pencil would stick under your breast to prove you deserved a bra? What the heck was a cup size? Why, in this upside down world, was it suddenly better to have a “C” than an “A” in anything? And when would I get a waist? I sometimes fiddled with a tape measure, but it just slid down my seat when I followed the directions on a sewing pattern to get a “high hip” measurement.

So far as periods went (I refused to even think men-stroo-a-shun), the idea was frightening. Tentative explorations down there hadn’t yet yielded a vagina. Oh god. Maybe I didn’t have one. Could I ask when we talked about tampons? Would we talk about tampons? And what if I didn’t have one? That would be fine with me, but would Mrs. Forrest send my mother one of her famous notes? Only this time it’s not about refusing to play tetherball, but: “Mrs. Boyle, I’m sorry to say your daughter has no vagina. She is dismissed from class until she gets one.” It’s no surprise we all awaited puberty with angst. Especially me. My mom was going to tell my dad I had no vagina. I suffered agonies.

But waited breathlessly for breasts and bras. Mom insisted I didn’t need a brassiere, and that was the end of that. Of course I didn’t. I was twelve years old and built for speed. And for awhile I was on a swim team. Which only enhanced my metabolism to the point I’d probably never need one. If I’d known then what I know now about the dampening effect of athletics on female development I’d have quit in a minute. I was so desperate I wouldn’t even have minded one of those goofy training bras. They were kind of pretty, though universally sneered at because their cups weren’t sized A through C, but were simple flat discs of stretchy lace.

To this in one semester.

To this in one semester.

I learned later my best friend (whom my mother chose because she got straight A’s and would be a good influence), found the whole discussion so distasteful she decided to divorce herself from it. She stopped eating to get rid of her breasts (Mom was right–my friend was a helluva lot smarter than me). No bras for her, thank you very much. And none of the misery of modeling one in front of her mother. She’d just reverse the process and not be bothered. I saw her years later when she was little more than a shadow, having reversed herself right back to 72 lbs.

I was thirteen when my grandmother came to the rescue. We were shopping and passed a rack of training bras. The flat, cup-less, lacy kind. I couldn’t help but look. Mom didn’t notice, but Nana pulled me back and started thumbing through them. “What about this one?” she asked. “So dainty. And much more modest than being all bare under a shirt.” In a single moment my mother became a convert. Without realizing it–or maybe she did, being a teacher (one of the good ones) from way back–Nana helped the two of us breach a wall that had existed for years.

I don’t know what happened to the friend who was so put off by puberty that she figured a way around it, but her specter haunts me. While I was anxious but enthralled, she was utterly disgusted. A deadly brew when combined with control issues and shame. It’s something I try, try, try, to keep in mind when dealing with women. The younger ones, the ones in the middle, and the ones after that. Each one is a unique individual with her own fears and anxieties, realistic or not.

So I get new breasts (today, September 11, yay!) And when I’m all healed up, I’ll get new bras. Doctor’s orders. And I don’t have to do chemo. I won’t wear underwires ever again. I am one lucky gal. As a fellow blogger said: “See you on the other side!”

(Love and kisses to all of you.)

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