Bras

I realized last night that I hadn't really filled you in on the whole bra situation. Up until last weekend, I was wearing what I endearingly referred to as the "Frau Blucher" bra. I wore this 24/7 from the date of surgery until last week, except for showering.

Fortunately for me (?), my 84-year old grandma from WVA brought her Frau Bluchers with her from her mastectomy 8 years ago! And you know what, they worked! Now, she's about 4'11" and 150 lbs. I'm 5'6" and 135. But when it comes to Frau Bluchers--size just don't matter. They have heavy, wide velcro in the front and big, non-stretchy velcro adjusted straps. It's a harness. And there's nothing like that family feeling that comes from sharing your bras with your grandma, I think.

So, at long last, the day arrives when they've told me I can sleep WITHOUT a bra! Whooooooo! In the past, that would never have seemed like that big of a deal. Many-a-time have we women folk fallen asleep in a bra and really didn't even notice, that much. But, there's a big difference between one night and THIRTY!

Can I just say that I can totally relate to a workhorse coming in from the field and dying to get that collar off; to roll in the field and work those harness marks away. The only difference is that my harness marks aren't going anywhere.

And therein we discover the great difference between God-created breasts and those made by mere mortals. The mortal-ones don't move. No slippin'. No slidin'. No crashing together in the middle. They're immobile.

Even so, it was great to ditch Frau Blucher for awhile and then even move on to sports bras. Sports bras are great, if you have the upper-body strength of Peyton Manning, to even get them on. For someone with a somewhat incapacitated upper arm movement and strength, it was a battle for the ages. I was afraid someone would find me writhing around on the bathroom floor, both arms locked in the upright position, unable to get the thing past my face, smothered. But, mustering all my resolve to not humiliate myself further, I did manage to get it over "them". They, of course, did not move, even for the sports bra.

It's a lot like dressing a statue.

The bad part is that the little remaining scabby parts are hard and sharp like iron. Combine that with limited feeling in the scabby area and you have some hairy situations--like: "ooh, there's a chunk coming off. I should pull it so it doesn't stab into me later. Why isn't that coming off? Ooooh, it's still attached. Ick! Where is that red stuff coming from?!"

The alternative scenario is this: "Ooooh, there's a chunk coming off. I don't want to pull that off prematurely and make it bleed (like last time, idiot!). I'll just put more neosporin on it and check it later. Twelve hours of numbing sports bra therapy later..."OMGosh! I'm impaled on a piece of scab!"

So goes the body sculpting adventures of a rural housewife. Ooooh, I gotta back off on those stool softeners...

P.S. Handyman is mortified that this has been made public, so please don't mention it to him, EVER...but it's a part of recovery and it helps me to laugh about it. Gross-ness shared is gross-ness reduced, in my mind.