I’m reading Dawn French’s autobiography for Book Group next week and have just read that her bra measurement is 42H. Having lived in the non-committal (bra or no bra?) world of the 34A for decades, I didn’t know they went up to that size. I guess I never even thought about it.
So why is this relevant? On Wednesday I had an appointment with a lovely member of St James’s breast care team who measured me for a new bra. 36D. In my head, I just scoffed. My first post-mastectomy measuring had been at the specialist Nicola Jane shop and the assistant measured me as 32 C or something. When I questioned the 32 (I hadn’t got as far as the C), she assured me it was more like 30 but it was academic as their bras started at 34 so let’s just see... I came away with what I still call my fortress bra because that’s what it feels like (34C) and I have never been able to wear it or any other more functional bra I’ve bought for more than an hour without having to yank it down to avoid my sore ribs and yank it off at home so I could breathe.
Anyway, like Dawn French, I’m digressing. The nurse took out a 36D bra (functional, flesh-coloured knitted cotton with seams across the front (!!?!) and we put it on. These nurses do like to help. Being a patient seems to deprive you of your ability to perform simple tasks for yourself so WE put it on. I felt quite smug when I looked down at the solitary boob and noticed all the crinkling. “It’s too big,” I said triumphantly. “Hold on a minute,” and she rearranged my boob, yanking a handful of what I can only assume is my new fat, and then pronounced “There you are. Perfect.” Perfect it was but the other half lay like a popped balloon, a shell of broken promise. In went a gigantic prosthesis: a little too large at the side. In went another: not enough in the top. In went a third: perfect match.
I almost skipped out like a happy bunny, clutching my indiscreet purple plastic carrier containing discreet box, old (expensive), defunct bra and a brochure which gives me 20% off my first purchase. I had to walk back through the clinic where we’d sat miserably, waiting for details of my chemotherapy regime to be explained, and where I’ve sat on tenterhooks awaiting the dire mammogram, but I barely noticed. I just knew I was displaying matching boobs for once. Poor Dennis, who insists on accompanying me to every appointment I have but is always consigned to the corridor if they let him inside the hospital, was leaning against a wall and yet again we got lost trying to find our way out. It just takes one wrong door and you embark on yet another adventure exploring the dark depths and back alleyways of St James’s.
We popped into Maggie’s where Dennis again went into a relaxed trance just by sitting on a sofa, while I poured my heart out to a different counsellor who suggested I might benefit from seeing a psychologist. I know my head is a bit of a mess but a psych and a psych? I can’t see that would do any good. So do I stick with the devil I know or drop her for a short stint with someone who truly understands Cancerworld?
After that, it was meant to be straight home but i) I couldn’t find my keys - had they fallen out of my jeans pocket at the Breast Clinic? I emptied my handbag twice, which is no mean feat considering how I’m prepared for every eventuality that never comes, but they weren’t there. The counsellor was just about to ring the clinic when I found them in my jacket pocket. My only excuse is that I thought I as wearing the one with no pockets so I didn’t bother patting myself down. Embarrassed apologies, lots of reassurance and we left, only for me to realise that ii) I didn’t have my velvet scarf. I’d looped it round the strap of my handbag because it was warmer than I expected but it was no longer flapping. Back into Maggie’s, ignoring the subtle eye-rolling I’m getting used to from Dennis, but it wasn’t there. Abandon it and head home or retrace our steps, which wouldn’t be easy given how we’d got so lost? I decided to check the route I knew we’d taken early on and, at stage two of my mental map, there it was, draped over the handrail of some steps. A heartfelt THANK YOU to some kind passerby, probably a member of staff more than used to dozy-minded patients who can’t remember what they had for breakfast as they work through a mental fog.
Thinking of mental fog, I woke this morning and it was dark, which I found surprising. I reached for my phone: 05.12. I knew the clocks had changed so I put on my glasses and looked at my watch: almost quarter past six. I know it’s ‘Spring forward, Fall back’ but I must have spent 10 minutes waking myself up unnecessarily, trying to work out if the new and exact time was 5 or 6. I gave up in the end. Wasn’t it enough that it was still dark?
Now what else has happened? I got my cholesterol result (7.7!! The consequence of the fatten-her-up diet during my treatment. Ok, and probably the chocolate) so dietary changes are again required if my eye is to revert to normal, let alone if a stroke or heart attack are to be avoided. Not to mention vascular dementia. Bloody hell, once you get on the Health Train, there’s no getting off. Anyway, I have to try statins again. They didn’t like me last time (about 3 years ago, when my level was highish but mainly good cholesterol). The doctor checked my reason for not taking them and it was muscle pain so I thought Sod it, I probably won’t even notice it this time. Oh, and I have a real, physical, fact to face appointment with Rheumatology. I have no idea why but Dr U (favoured oncologist) thought it important.
Things are beginning to move forward just as Leeds hovers on the brink of Tier 3 measures and no hospital appointments again. Aaarrgh.
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