160. No breasts, no bra, no-brainer

I now feel that I've taken up position at the luckier end of the cup size spectrum.

I may have wondered about the Dolly Parton option, and such options may be right for some women, but after three months of living flat, my own verdict is final. No reconstruction for me, no prosthesis. No breasts: no bra.

It seems such a no-brainer now. Dear fellow women, let me give you just one word to explain why going bra-free is so fabulous, and you will understand: HEATWAVE.

It's a revelation. Of course many of us have gone without our bra at times (whether your reasons are for fashion, freedom or politics - for lounging, sunning, relaxing, not wanting to be restricted, wanting to go your own way). But unless you have an AA cup (and even then), as soon as you start to run or sweat, you realise that a bra is not just for looks.

I still marvel at just throwing on a shirt and nothing else. I feel as if I'm only half dressed, or ready for bed, and still need to tell myself that yes, I really can go out like this.

As a nurse, I have seen thousands of women and their breasts. In this heatwave, I think of the many women I've looked after (especially those on the generous end of the cup size spectrum) who struggled with painful redness and rashes where skin meets skin, sometimes to the point of inflammation.

But whatever your size (mine was always modest), you will know the discomfort of sweaty bra straps or jiggling to fit your seat belt comfortably. I'm explaining all this for the benefit of the men reading this.

Chaps, you don't half know how lucky you have it.

But now I know it, too. It's not just the ease of dressing. It's also the ease of movement, being able to lie on your front without shifting into the least pressurised position. Stretching and turning and swimming and cycling with the unexpected joy of physical freedom.

So for me, the no breast & no bra option really is the only option. I'm not looking back. I'm off on my bike, into the sunshine, unencumbered. Given the choice, of course I would have chosen never to have had cancer, never to have lost my breasts. But we don't have a choice, and here's a silver lining, so why not focus on that rather than on the cloud?

The outside thermometer now shows 26°C, down considerably from yesterday's record-breaking heat, so I'm off.

159. Now and then

Let's start with THEN.

April Fool's Day was Mastectomy Day. It's exactly three months since I went under the knife (as I write this, it's even exactly the same time, 11.15am on a Friday morning).

Then: Shaken up and exhausted from the emotional Here We Go Again prospect of seemingly never-ending rounds of hospital appointments, chopping bits off, being poisoned and blasted with nuclear power. The chopping/poisoning/blasting I can just about cope with. It's the uncertainty, the loss of control, and the loss of my self-pretence of being SuperWoman that was so hard. Plus the possibility (always lurking in the corner of the room, ready to jump on me) of dying before I get the chance to collect my pension or, more to the point, hold my grandchildren.

But there was grace in how I managed to let go of that SuperWoman, relinquishing all responsibilities without losing my sense of self. That was thanks, in great part, to my family - husband and children who couldn't care less how few words or meals they got out of me, how many hours they found me lying down with the curtains closed, nor how little there was left of my cleavage.

Thanks, in great part, to my colleagues who caught all the balls I dropped and gave each other crash courses in juggling.

Thanks, in great part, to all of you, sending your wishes and prayers and cards and gifts and thoughts.

Then: The utter relief of being told that no, I don't need to be poisoned or blasted. Recover from the surgery and the shock and the exhaustion, and I'll be done. Better, in fact, than before, because if you have no breasts, there's just less of a chance that this wretched cancer comes back to haunt me. (That's what I tell myself, anyway.)

The ups and downs of recovery, the infection, the knock-back, the surprising level of exhaustion. And through all that, the discovery that there is no end to the love and care of my family, the understanding of my neglected friends, and the juggling skills (and yes, also the love and care) of my colleagues.

Moving on to NOW.

I'm emerging. Not quite as dramatic as a phoenix or a butterfly, but definitely a sense of having pressed a RESTART button. I won't quite go as far as saying that I can highly recommend stepping out of your daily life for three months of cancer treatment, but it does feel a little as if I'm returning from a sabattical. That it was possible to switch off completely from work, not looking at a single email (see the above jugglers) and family (grown-up children who can make me tea) - that was a gift. 

Now that I have returned to work, I realise how much the exhaustion stems not only from the physical onslaught but also the emotional and spiritual space needed to cope with life events. It's completely wonderful to pick up my work projects again, but it takes time to emerge from my cocoon.

If you read this and think "Aha, she's back, let's send and email to ask her to do X or Y or Z", I'll have to disappoint you. My GP sat me down, listened, and decided that yes, I can go back to work, but it has to be on reduced hours. So I'm only catching a few balls back from my jugglers. Two weeks into my return, have only made a tiny dent in hundreds of emails waving at me from the screen.

Here they are, one of my teams of jugglers. I gave them all a sunflower to thank them for their growth and the way they have turned to the light.

NOW and THEN

It is only just dawning on me just how much SEWING has been, and still is, my way to recovery, acceptance and even celebration of my new-found sense of self. We all have our own ways of coping with life and life events. I think it's helpful to have something that grounds you in the moment - whether that's being in nature, listening to (or making) music, finding time for prayer or meditation or reading poetry, being with animals or children, creating art, dance or exercise... you find ways that help you come home to yourself.

Having a project always helps me. My project has been to think about the implications for my wardrobe and my future sewing projects, learn how to draft my own clothes patterns, how to remove those superfluous chest darts, and most of all (once I'd watched 55 hours of The Great British Sewing Bee and was able to get up from the sofa) to sit down and sew. Thoughts can wander, but never too far. I've made my daughter a ball gown. I've made myself trousers, tops and a dress. And in the process, I have learnt not just to accept, but to LOVE my new shape.

The 2022 series of Sewing Bee has been my weekly tonic for the past 10 weeks. After this week's final episode, I am somewhat bereft. Perhaps I should apply to take part in some future series, just for the joy of spending time in that sewing room. Or perhaps I should just book myself an annual sewing retreat, going nowhere, just upstairs to my room full of fabrics.

And THEN...??

You will hear less from me and Otus (my owl). There may still be musings and developments to share with you. One day, I'd like to tell you about my discoveries of online groups of flat-chested women and their stories (I even found, gloriously and happily, a Facebook group called Sewing Flat and Asymmetrical, full of women sharing their sewing efforts and tips for adapting clothes to fit one breast or none).

But most of my writing will now not be with my Owl Hat, but my Professor Hat. Lots of stories in my head that may find a home on my other blog. See you there, if you're interested. Here, where Owl Had Cancer, I hope never to need a third owl.

But every now and then, I hope to return to the sense of peace and well-being that I feel right now, the gratitude for life with all its ups and downs. The sense that life is at its most beautiful when we accept each other, and ourselves, with all our imperfections.

If this feels like an end, it also feels like a beginning.