151. The Dolly Parton option

Tomorrow is mastectomy day.

The thought occurs that today is the last day of my life when I need to wear a bra.

Loss or liberation? Will I mourn the loss of a cleavage and try to emulate the suggestion of a shapely front, or celebrate the ability to do naked star jumps without a complaining chest? I have no idea, and I'm intrigued to find out. It could go either way, but my money is on Liberation.

What I'm wondering is (a) what I'll look like flat-chested, (b) how noticeable it is, and (c) whether I'll mind if it's noticeable. I am making no assumptions here.  So far, my attitude has firmly been of the This Is Me variety, love me or leave me. Grey hair, wrinkles, mastecomy scar? They speak of a life lived long enough to have earned them, of challenges overcome, like badges I've earned.

But every woman has to find her own comfort zone.

I am not making any firm predictions. Since my first mastectomy-without-reconstruction, I have always worn a prosthesis to match the remaining breast, contrary to my general au naturel approach in life. The lob-sided look is not great, even with my modest A-cup.

Wearing a relatively small prosthesis is not a problem. Who knows, I may have been less keen on the unreconstructed look if I had been blessed (or burdened) with a more generous cleavage. When I was fitted for a proper prosthesis (there is a special clinic for such things), I picked up the largest specimen when Prosthesis Lady wasn't looking, and found it unexpectedly heavy. Choices are perhaps harder and less straightforward when your breasts are quite literally a bigger part of you.             

There are times when I couldn't care less. Swimming with a softie just feels ridiculous and unnecessary, so in the pool or on the beach I no longer bother with a matching pair. The communcal changing room is no longer the challenge it once was. In all these past seven years, no woman sharing the lido experience has ever batted an eyelid at my scarred chest - although it still strikes me as odd that I have never, ever, seen another woman there with any sign of having had breast surgery. Not sure where they all are.

I have found that doctors and nurses DO make assumptions.

When the surgeon told me I needed a mastectomy all those years ago, she described the operation: "First I do the mastectomy, then I get the plastic surgeon to do the reconstruction on the same day." She launched into a detailed description of what that was like, taking bits of shoulder muscle to mould into a nice shape, or failing that (as I protested that surely I'd want my shoulder muscle to do muscly things in my shoulder) taking a bit of fat from... from where exactly? Not much of that to spare, so I might end up with half a buttock. That smacks decidedly of robbing Peter to pay Paul. I had to be very firm about my refusal of such options ("Are you sure? You can think about it!").

I found the thought of walking around with a permanent implant of some sort equally alarming. It's a deeply personal choice, and oh, I do understand why many women choose differently.

What I don't understand is why I always had to work quite hard at convincing the hospital staff of my choices. Once convinced, though, they applauded me. "You're so right!" they'd say. "Having a reconstuction is not an easy option." (Why do you only hear about the drawbacks AFTER you've refused? Same with the Cold Cap, which is meant to stop your hair falling out. I had to keep telling the nurses that I didn't want it, after which they conceded that not only was it indeed highly uncomfortable, it often didn't work anyway).

This time round, though, there was the Chief, who took one look at my flat right side, felt the lumpy left side, pronouncd that surgery was needed, and happily assumed that I wouldn't want a reconstruction this time either. Which makes the surgery so much easier - I'm predicted to be back home the following day. (With a reconstruction, I'd be in hospital for a good week).

"You can just wear two prostheses," he said. 

"I don't think I'll bother," I told him. "Now that my flat front will be nicely matched."

He looked at me and pondered, "Well, you might want to wear it when you're going out. You could have a Dolly Parton."

My husband and the breast nurse (new to the job and looking somewhat taken aback by this conversation) probably didn't dare laugh until I did. I thought it was genuinely funny.

There's a thought, though. If you're going to pretend that you have a frontage, why copy the old building? If there's nothing to match, I can be the architect and the world's my oyster.

When it came to the follow-up discussion with the nurse - they take you into a room with tissues after you've heard the surgeon's verdict, to talk through some of the detail - she opened the drawer to give me a new softie. (That's breast cancer jargon. If you don't speak Breastish, see here.) What size did I want?

I made the rash decision not to go for the Dolly Parton option, so I reached into my bra to pull out the current pretender. Something to match this one. In the end, she gave me two of the same size, which is more generous than last time, when I begged in vain for a second softie.

Later, I passed the Dolly Parton option by my daughters. Hm, perhaps not quite your style, was the verdict. Looking at this photofit of my possible future self, I think they may be right. So, whilst keeping my options open, you'll be relieved to know that Dolly Parton is crossed off the list.

 

143. The communal changing room

I used to quite like communal changing rooms in swimming pools.

Rooms marked Women. Put a bunch of naked females together and that's what they are, WOMEN, simple and straightforward. Ladies is for places where females can be discreet, like toilets and one-person shower cubicles. 

Women can shower with abandon, but should ladies leave their dress on...?

Stripped of the clothing that could have given you clues about who they aim to be, women in communal showers are sisters. The older they are, the more sisterly they become. It's the young and sleek ones with the skimpy bottom-baring bikinis who are the most anxious to cover their nakedness beneath complicated towel arrangements whilst trying to get their pants back on. They keep themselves to themselves. But once the flesh expands and wrinkles and heads southward, most women (at least the ones that get up in the early morning to clock up a few lanes in the pool) seem happy enough to let it all hang out whilst merrily chatting about this and that.

Such acceptance of women's bodies, whatever their shape or size, has always appealed to me.

But my local swimming pool doesn't have communal changing rooms, and I had got used to being a lady.

Female patients are ladies.

I've got a stack of correspondence to prove it, as nowadays you get copied in when doctors send each other letters about you. I'm quite a nice lady, apparently.

"Dear GP, I reviewed this very pleasant 50 year old lady today in clinic..."
"Thank you for referring this nice lady..."
"Dear GP, I saw this lovely lady..."

Etc etc. (Would they ever write, "I wish you hadn't referred this grumpy gentleman"?)

I have sometimes wondered to what extent my theoretical embracing of the we-all-accept-our-bodies-and-let-it-all-hang-out philosophy would hold up. It's all good and well in the privacy of my own home, but baring my non-breast in public is yet another hurdle. You'd have thought that two years post-mastectomy, most hurdles have been taken, but this was one I had yet to jump. 

I jumped yesterday, when I went to Brockwell Lido in Brixton.

There they were, the showering women, merrily displaying the effects of childbearing and decades worth of gravity. I've seen most things in such changing rooms. Old, not-so-old, wobbly, large, skinny, missing limb. But come to think of it, never a missing breast, or even a fake breast. Do women not swim in lidos after breast cancer? Is it against the etiquette?

It took a bit of deep breathing and talking to myself, but in the end, I just stripped off like everyone else. For many reasons.

Practicality. (I mean, who keeps on their pants when showering at home? Exactly.)
Not drawing attention to myself. (Trying to wriggle beneath a towel would do precisely that.)
Principle. (Repeat after me: I. ACCEPT. MYSELF. THE. WAY. I. AM.)
Setting an example to other women, who might one day face these issues themselves. (Don't worry! There is life after a mastectomy!)

And, fundamentally, freedom. Who cares, and all that.

The thing is, after all that emotional effort, I don't think anybody noticed.

I dressed my bottom half first and left my bra till last, just to make the point. Come on sisters, I'm making a statement here! But it seemed that I was making the point to myself and myself alone.

It was almost disappointing.

142. In a tight spot

With my growing enthusiasm for sea swimming comes the thought that perhaps a thicker layer would be a good idea.

I've got gloves and socks to stop my extremities falling off, but some extra core warmth might allow me to stay in the water a little longer. At least, it might stop my kidneys from shriveling with cold and me shriveling with them.

An internet search leads to the arrival of a kind of sleeveless costume made of wetsuit material. I like the idea of sleeveless. I've got a long-legs-long-arms affair for winter months, but the joy of summer swimming is the feeling of flowing water.

It's no good. Too baggy around the crotch; too tight across the shoulder. Another make perhaps, or another size? I puzzle over the "check your size" charts. Nothing measures up to my measurements, so I ring up one of the wetsuit suppliers who claim to be able to advise customers with non-standard shapes.

The woman on the phone is equally puzzled.

Her computer tells her that with my height, I need a size 16. I almost laugh. "SIXTEEN?! Are you sure? I usually take a size 12, or 14 at the most."

Hips? Hm. Waist? Hm. Chest? Hmmm.... Yes, she agrees that the size 16 expects rather more filling in those areas.

"What bra cup size are you?" she asks, perhaps hoping for the DD cup that would satisfy her charts.

Well, there's a question. "Uhm..." I mumble something about A and B cups, adding "but I've only got one of those."

Sometimes, you stumble across unexpected hazards like this. She is as taken aback by my answer as I am by her question. Soon, she gives up.

"It's probably best," she decides, "to go to a shop and try them on."

I locate a wetsuit shop in central London and hop on my bike.

The shop's sale assistants are all young, fit-looking and male. I explain my quest. Short legs, no sleeves, like to feel the water but must keep my core warm, etc. They don't have such a garment, but perhaps I could try on a vest and shorts? Good idea.

"They should be as tight as possible," young Mr Fitness instructs. "Try a size 10 or 12. I'll just be round the corner if you need any help."

I can just about squeeze my way into the size 12 vest. It feels quite nice, but Mr Fitness is not impressed. "I can see some room at the back!" he says. Yes, he's right. (I can also see some room on the right side of my chest, but he just points out the roomy back. Perhaps he hasn't noticed.) Why not try a size 10?

There are no zips or other fastenings. I need to take my glasses off in order to get in. Once I've peeled down the waist, I admire the vest's breast-banishing tightness. No cold water slopping around empty spaces in this thing. 

I emerge from the changing room to show Mr Fitness. "Yes," he approves, "that's better."

But oh dear. How to get out of the wretched thing?

There I am, quite literally helpless in the changing cubicle. I've managed to pull the vest up above my winking wonky chest, but no further. In the mirror, I can just see my red face looking anxiously over the rim of the inside-out garment that is now wrapped around my neck, holding me tight, trapping my arms against my ears. No amount of tugging or contortions will release me from its grip. I can't pull it back down either. Several minutes later, my chest is weeping tears of sweat. If keeping you warm is this garment's main purpose, it is Mission Accomplished.

But what to do? Can I ask Mr Fitness to help pull, hoping he'll ignore my somewhat unconventional appearance? There's not quite the same ambiance here as in the Mastectomy Bra Shop, where an understanding woman shop assistant remained within discreet earshot of the changing cubicles. In this large wetsuit shop, I'll have to wander out of the cubicle and into the racks of sporty clothing to catch Mr Fitness' attention. My current bare-chested hands-up appearance would not do much for sales.

Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Finally, with a desperate tug, I manage to free half an arm. Then a whole arm. Then my head. Then, easier at last, another arm.

I go home with a proper shortie. And just in case you're interested: size 10 was OK, but in order to banish all empty spaces, I have ended up with an unprecedented size 8. Perhaps I should ring that woman back and tell her.

Yes, it has sleeves. But gloriously, it also has a zip.

141. Breastless on the beach

I try to stick to the principle that this blog is about breast cancer. Which is why I haven't blogged for months. After all, cancer no longer affects my life. At all. Does it?

Doesn't it?

I suppose I've got used to being a cancer patient, or, as I should probably say now, a cancer survivor (although that makes it sound a bit like I've been in a nuclear war). It is two years since we sat in the doctor's office, listening with trepidation as she displayed her chemical weapons of cell destruction. Since then, almost imperceptibly, cancer has been normalised.

I nod my head knowingly when I read articles or books about the debilitating impact of chemotherapy. Yep. Been there.

I put novel items on my holiday packing list. Pills. Swimming softie.

Ah, yes, the swimming softie. Trying to cool down from the heat of southern France earlier this month, dashing in and out of the Mediterranean Sea, it did strike me that perhaps my lack of concern about a missing breast is worth noting. In answer to the questions I asked myself in July 2014 (should I wear a softie in the pool? should I wear a swimming cap when I'm bald?): Yes, I do wear the softie, in the same way as I wear a fake breast in my bra, to balance my outfit. It's just part of what my bras and swimming costumes are like these days, top-heavy on one side. Who cares. Perhaps my tops are not as low cut as they used to be, but I don't feel limited by this, and feel no less comfortable in the heat.

I thought I'd tell you this, just in case there is someone out there, reading this blog, facing a mastectomy and worrying about future scar-filled summers. Of course we are all different in the way we cope and live with what life throws at us, but I am truly unbothered by my single-breast status.

So, thankfully, is my family. I don't hide anything when dashing in and out of the shower. (Not much left to hide! Ha!)

One day, when playing Ticket To Ride and placing my train carriages in Eastern France, one daughter exclaimed: "I know which route mum has! Brest to Petrograd! She only has one brest, that's why she wants to go there!" We all howled with laughter. I thought it was genuinely funny, but I was also rather moved, because when your children can joke about your mastectomy, then you know that life is back to normal.

There was one other moment, during those few weeks in France, that I felt the aftermath of cancer treatment. There we were, in one of those huge supermarché's that seem to be designed for a family day out. I had been hot and bothered by my hair. It was too long, too outgrown, and inconvenient if you're swimming three times a day. It had (alas) started to grow straight again, and my attempts to hang on to my lovely curls were increasingly futile. I mean, look at it. Too much like a regretted perm.

June 2016

So, when the others were stocking up on sirop de pamplemousse, I spotted a scissor-wielding man idling in a place that had the word COIFFURE on it. I ran in and whipped out my iPhone to show him a picture on my blog. (Useful things, blogs.)

July 2014: Comme ça

"Comme ça!" I said, stabbing at the picture. And, for good measure, making snip-snipping movements close to my skull, "Très très courte!", in case le coiffeur was in any doubt about my desire for a complete change of image.

It was the first time I was aware that I actually missed something about my cancer treatments. The convenience, ease and summer comfort of very short hair. And if that dreadful year of treatment has taught me anything, it's that none of it really matters. Not the number of breasts you have, nor the length of your hair.

So, here we are. Happy holidays.

July 2016: Voilà

75. The bra shop

Buoyed by a half-forgotten feeling of wellness, I decided that today, Saturday, was the perfect day for filling up the emptied bra drawer.

Amazing how much difference a few extra days off the chemo makes. I can ignore the tiredness and keep going if I put my mind to it; even the aching leg muscles give in after a few streets.

There is strong evidence that exercise helps with cancer-related fatigue, I have heard from several authoritative sources. (I thought I'd throw that in, to stop you from wagging a concerned finger at me, telling me to take it easy.)

Having only the one bra is workable but not desirable. Now that I've got my long-term Bosom Buddy (let's call her Buddy for short, as Droopy sounds somewhat unkind, and it's not that bad), I resolved to get myself some proper mastectomy bras. And if I didn't do that today, I wouldn't have another chance for several weeks.

Chemo on Thursday. Scotland on Wednesday and Tuesday. And Monday is filled with hospital appointments: not only the usual pre-chemo chat with my consultant at St George's Hospital, but also a trip to the Royal Marsden Hospital (a specialist cancer centre) to discuss radiotherapy.

That appointment with the radiotherapy consultant came in the post yesterday, at long last.

Don't get me started. You wait for months, you chase it up several times, you get more and more frustrated that you still don't know whether the impending last shot of chemo spells the end of cancer treatment - and then when the appointment finally comes, they give you all of three days' notice. Never mind, I should have remembered Rule Number One Of Being A Patient: BE PATIENT. I have nothing else to do but sit and wait and wait and spring to attention when summoned. I don't have work to do, or a family to run, or a Christmas to plan. 

But at least the appointment doesn't clash with Scotland. I am desperate to find out whether (and if so when) I will need radiotherapy after the chemo.

So today is the day for shopping.

There are some excellent mail order companies for mastectomy wear. I'm discovering a whole new world out there.

But one of the perks of living in London is that you can visit the actual shop. So, feeling sprightly and grinning like a Cheshire cat, I walked to the tube this morning. I haven't been shopping for months, apart from the occasional impulse buy that would qualify as Truitje Kopen, also known as Top Shopping. I actually need the new clothes.

I got off the tube in an unfamiliar part of London. The long road didn't promise the glamour I was hoping for, with dirty-grey-or-brown buildings, the odd tattoo parlour and a suspiciously dark shop with a flashy red sign.

But once I found the mastectomy fashion shop, with its discreet window display, it was brilliant (and yes, glamorous).

I could hear one other customer chatting to a shop assistant in a cubicle. Her friend was chatting to the other shop assistant as if they were old mates. I know she was a friend, because I asked her: was she a customer, or the customer's friend? ("Both," she said after a bit of thought. "I've brought my friend here." This woman and her friend had got up early this morning, coming all the way from Cambridge.) 

This was the kind of shop, I felt, where you do ask fellow-customers that kind of thing. I can't think of any other shop where I'd be this chatty. But if you are going to discuss your personal requirements in a small and quiet place like this, you might as well involve the one or two other customers, because what else are they going to do? Pretend not to overhear, and not to be watching you? Best to behave as if you are, well, bosom buddies. Which, I suppose, we are. 

The shop assistant couldn't have been more helpful.

She let me browse (I wasn't just after bras, I wanted to try some tops and swimming costumes as well). She settled me in the changing cubicle. Plenty of space; fluffy dressing gown on a hook; tight-fitting T-shirt in a basket, presumable to see if your bra looks good under clothes (I didn't need it, having come prepared wearing my own tight T-shirt). She measured me, got me what I needed, fetched a glass of water when I was there for ages trying on almost all the swimming costumes in the shop.

The bras were great. I bought three, including one with a lacy modesty panel that will look good peeping out of my too-low-cut dresses. I also got a couple of swimming costumes, plus a foam prosthesis that weighs nothing and can be easily rinsed. It's fine wearing my current costume without Buddy, but I'll use the new costumes for lounging around a pool or on a beach, when I don't want to embarrass the children (and, let's be honest, I'll feel more at ease without the lopsided look).

A good hour later, I was outside again with my bulging bag.

Why stop at bras? Miraculously, I still had some leftover energy, so I got on the bus to Oxford Street.

Trousers! Jackets! Shirts! Scarves! I need some of these, I told myself; and even if I didn't, well, there's the old cancer excuse that always works well. I deserve it! I've got cancer!

The bus journey delivered one of those small rites of passage that might pass unnoticed. Every double seat was taken by a single passenger. When a young woman came up the stairs, appraising the situation, she walked to the back of the bus, past all the other passengers flanking an empty seat, and chose to sit down next to me. Clearly, I have now entered a stage of life where I am considered Harmless, with my old and tired looks, my wrinkles and raincoat and scarf. (This is in sharp contrast with my harmless son, who finds that women - it's mostly women - cross the road when they see him coming. Even when he's wearing his smart school jacket and tie. Tall teenage boys are scary; tired-looking middle-aged women are safe.)

When I came home again some hours later, my wallet was a few hundred pounds lighter, but so was my spirit.

And I've caught the clearing-out bug. That dustbin-full of bras has inspired me. (It's not just me: a blog-reading friend told me that she, too, has been inspired to throw out her old bras.)

Here is the drawer that always took such a lot of rummaging before finding the right things - and let's be honest, the right things are always the same things. It now even has space for those swimming costumes.

The blissfully clear spacious drawer

I'm not even stopping at drawers. This evening, I took all my clothes out of my wardrobe and only put back in what I might actually wear. I tried on all the tops and dresses I feared I could never wear again, and found that with my excellent new bras, they not only look fine, but they've got a different lease of life. Worth every penny, today's acquisitions.

But all those trousers that don't quite fit, the tops I've had for decades (not joking) and always liked, but honestly, will I ever give them another outing? The things that are lovely, but they've got holes. Out with them. The bin is full, and there's a teetering pile of rejects waiting to be taken to the charity shop.

Now I've got a plan. Once I'm better (and I'll need to be quite a lot better for this plan), I am going to move beyond wardrobes and do exactly the same thing with the entire house. New breathing space, new start. I can't wait.

The charity shop pile

74. Bosom Buddies

Remember Wig Lady? Well, it's her, running the Breast Prostheses Clinic.

Wig Lady, as it turns out, is Wig-and-Bosom Lady.

I fear as much, waiting among the proper patients, the ones with slings and crutches. The receptionist has waved me to the corner outside Wig Lady's cupboard-sized room: "Go and sit somewhere over there."

So it isn't next door to Wish You Were Hair at all. It's in the very same space, although it does feel somewhat roomier without two daughters, a friend, a bear, a pig and an owl in tow. For this particular appointment, I thought I'd rather be on my own. I haven't even brought Owl. (He doesn't need Bosom Buddies, he needs Wonder Wings. I doubt they do wings here.)

I did discuss with the friend whether that ghastly name (Breast Prostheses Clinic) could be improved on, à la Hair Today. We didn't get much further than False Friends and settled on Bosom Buddies.  

Like myself, Wig-and-Bosom Lady is without assistance today, which is a shame, because the assistant was lovely. But, thankfully, she is also without her efficient let's-type-your-choice-into-the-computer manner.

Will she remember me? Yes! she smiles. I remember you! (I suppose it's hard to forget a Bear in a wig.) Oh dear, will she ask me what on earth has happened to Denise? I can't very well tell her that Denise has never been worn and now makes herself useful as a doorstop.

Doorstop Owl and Denise

Actually, it turns out that I can. (Telling her the not wearing my wig part, that is. I don't own up to the doorstop part, and fingers crossed that she doesn't read this blog.) "Well, that's OK," she says. "Some people don't want to wear it. You just never know how you'll feel, do you? It's good to have it anyway, just in case you suddenly feel you want it when you go out."

So that's settled: we are on friendly, smiley terms, and I can relax. Which is just as well, because if you can't relax and smile about choosing a breast prosthesis, it would be a bit grim.

I know for sure that unlike Denise, my False Friend will get daily outings.

I have been getting increasingly frustrated with my Softie. It served its purpose, creating a fairly comfortable mound whilst my scar healed. But it has gradually morphed into a Lumpie, despite various re-fillings with the invaluable Brain Fluff. Breast Care Nurse number 1 was quite wrong when she said it could be easily washed and dried in a jiffy. I have resorted to Sock Bra on numerous occasions, which doesn't do much for one's feelings of dignity.

It's not just the dubious shape of either Softie or Sock. It's also their tendency to migrate to the wrong corner (upwards, preferably), despite being tethered with a safety pin, creating an effect that is more Picasso than Botticelli.

No matter. Breast Care Nurse number 1 had said that after a month or two, when the scar had healed, I'd be given a proper prosthesis. A nicely shaped one, fitted to match her sister.

But where was that appointment? Month after month went by, and I was too busy feeling sick and tired to remember asking. Finally, I did; by now, I had been passed on (thankfully) to Breast Care Nurse number 2, who was more efficient with referrals.

An appointment arrived in the post. It coincided with Chemo number 4. I rang Bosom Lady (not realising I was speaking to Wig Lady).

"I'm only here on Wednesday afternoons," she said. "Tell them to give you the chemo after this appointment."

I didn't (I knew where my priorities lay), which was just as well, as I ended up staying in the chemo lounge for over five hours. So a new appointment was made for Bosom Buddies. Again, it coincided with Chemo Day, but that was OK because the chemo has been postponed.

It's a waste of energy to get annoyed about little things, but it does annoy me that I had to chase this up.

I need help with this kind of thing.

It was the same with getting a mastectomy bra. I was making do with the safety-pin-and-softie-and-old-bra technique. I knew there was such a thing as a special bra, but I didn't have the energy to source one and see how much it would help. Then my sister turned up, who happened to have one ("I found it in a department store and it's so comfortable, I thought, why reserve it for women who've had a mastectomy?"). It fitted me perfectly, so she gave it to me. Daily bliss. The lining has been turned into a pocket. Pop in the Softie (or the Sock) and bingo. There's still the Picasso effect, but less so.

So here I am, in Bosom Buddies, keen on a more realistic replacement.

Will I be given a catalogue again, I wondered? But no. The boxes of wigs that had been stacked up on a trolley have been replaced by boxes of boobs. Wig-and-Bosom Lady glances at my cleavage and fishes one out. "Try this, I think that's the right size."

It looks the right size, but when I pop it into the bra pocket, I am not so sure. Is it not slightly bigger than the real thing? We both ponder the matter carefully. I put my T-shirt back on for further contemplation. I should have brought a friend after all, the kind of friend who is good at the Does my bum look big in this question.

"Perhaps you do need a smaller one," says Wig-and-Bosom Lady. "I don't have one here though, so I'll have to order it. Or maybe you just need one that is..." She pats the top of my breasts, "Look here, it starts filling out a bit higher up than on the other side. Take it out and try this one."

She shows me the two models together. "See? This one is just a bit less rounded at the top."

Ah, yes, I see. "I need the droopy one," I say. "That first one was a younger model."

She laughs apologetically. "Well, you're quite young," she says kindly.

But you can't fool me. No matter how tactful Wig-and-Bosom Lady tries to be, 35 years of gravity and three years of baby-feeding have taken its toll. Now I see what caused the Picasso effect: it wasn't so much migration as the fact that the Softie, unlike the real thing, defies gravity. I have, effectively, been wearing a one-sided push-up bra.

Once Perky is replaced by Droopy, I look fine.

I'm told I must keep Droopy in her box, to keep her shape.
Don't want her to perk up, I suppose. I'll need a new cupboard to house the thing.

Done and dusted within 20 minutes. Droopy feels lovely, soft and squishy and gloriously lump-free. She can be washed and dried like normal skin. No need for patience and a washing line. Exit Sock Bra.

There's a nice bit of weight to her. I can't resist: when Wig-and-Bosom Lady briefly leaves the room to answer her mobile, I open one of the largest boxes and pick up an enormous Falsie. Blimey, it's heavy. Is this what well-endowed women have to carry around? 

(Are these weights realistic? Scientifically minded as usual, I take out the kitchen scales once I get home. Droopy weighs 179 grams. How to weigh the real one? Ah, I know. After my mastectomy, I asked for a copy of my pathology report... where is it... here we are. My lost breast, or rather the "specimen", weighed 410 grams - more than twice the Falsie! Well-endowed ladies, if that is the case, how on earth do you keep your shoulders straight? I look at you with renewed respect.)

Now that I've been to Bosom Buddies, my annoyance about having to chase things up is forgotten.

In fact I am rather amazed, once again, by what the NHS provides. I can come back any time, Wig-and-Bosom Lady tells me. They will happily give me another one, an extra one, a different one. I might buy a different bra and find that this shape isn't quite right for it. Or I myself might change shape.

"Get droopier, you mean," I say.

Well, yes, that is what she means, but she is trying not to say it. When asked, she tells me that my Falsie isn't the droopiest on offer, so another 35 years of gravity needn't upset the balance. You learn something new every day.

On my way out, Wig-and-Bosom Lady hands me a brand new Softie. She is appalled at the state of my old one.

More generous, clearly, than Breast Care Nurse number 1, who (when I asked if I could have a spare one for washing days) said no: "To be honest, we don't have that many of them." 

But now I hope I won't need them anymore. Owl can have the full set.

Spot the difference: the old Lumpie and the new Softie

This morning, I finally did what I have been avoiding for months, as I just couldn't bring myself to it.

I emptied my drawer of all my old bras and binned them.

You change your life in small steps, and this was one of them. It was a close shave, but I didn't cry. The dustbin lorry is coming tomorrow morning.

19. Sock Bra

Those of you who know me will probably agree that I don't do anger. I might get upset, I might get annoyed, I might get frustrated, but I rarely get angry about things.

"If you ever want to scream and shout..." people say, valiantly offering themselves as targets for what is widely assumed to be my inevitable anger outbursts. But their services have not been needed. Until today.

So here I am, writing again despite my promise I wouldn't do cancer at the weekend. Shouting via my blog.

Thankfully, my anger is not directed at the cat or the children, but at the Softie. Or rather, at the nurse who gave it to me. No, perhaps not even her. At the NHS itself, no less.

In the sweltering heat, having a Softie is not good news. Brain Fluff (as well as the original filling) is, after all, made if the same stuff that is used to fill duvets and quilts. I do not recommend wearing a quilt in 30 degrees Celsius. After various outings this morning, and before attending a 60th birthday celebration this evening, Softie could definitely do with a wash.

I'd asked the breast care nurse about the logistics of putting Softie in the wash. She correctly took this as a hint that I wanted a spare one.

"To be honest, Irene," she said, "I can't give you another one because we don't have that many of them."

"But don't worry," she added. "They dry really quickly."

Well, of course I could fling my Softie in a bowl of soapy water at the end of each sweaty day, ready for the morning. But I don't want to stand at the sink at midnight. I want to put it in the washing machine when it is time to put things in the washing machine, and I don't want to plan my washing loads around the times when I won't scare anyone away with my flat chest.

Thus I fumed this afternoon, putting on a quick load of washing. I'd figured that in this hot weather, Softie would be dry in time for the birthday party.

I put it out to dry in the warmest spot in the garden, and went to hide in my bedroom for a good old weep. (Won't go into that. Let's just say that I failed miserably at my cancer-free weekend. I suppose it's anxiety about tomorrow's appointment with the oncologist, which has been looming for weeks.)

I hadn't anticipated the sudden thunderstorm, sending Softie back to Start in terms of drying out. It would have to be either Damp Chest, or Flat Chest, or Improvised Chest.

So here was a convenient target for my anger.

For heaven's sake, I thought (well, I actually thought a different set of words, but I don't know whether my children read this blog so I am paraphrasing here). I've spared the NHS a day-long operation to create a fancy new breast, which my surgeon kept assuring me I am entitled to. And that's not counting the months of spared follow-up appointments to beautify it, tweaking a new nipple in place, tattooing it in the right colour...

By declining such handiwork, I am saving the NHS thousands and thousands of pounds. In return, couldn't they just spare me another little fluff-filled fabric pouch, so that I don't have to scramble around for a solution when their singular offering is rained out of action?

Of course my anger is not really about the Softie.

It is really about my lack of control, about this unfamiliar person I have become, someone who is vulnerable and fragile. It is distress about not being able to enjoy the gradual return of my physical strength, and about having to accept that I am nowhere near the capable, multi-tasking, fit, strong woman I was a mere four months ago.

In the end, I went for the Improvised Chest solution. It took the shape of a cut-off children's sock filled with (what else) Brain Fluff.

When Pig heard about Sock Bra, he was rather alarmed.

"Oh no!" he said. "Be careful! You don't want a sock to fall out of your dress!"

Being a helpful sort of pig of more or less the right size, he added: "I volunteer!" But in the end, his owner and I decided that a pig falling out of your dress was not much better than a sock, and in any case, the sock was safely pinned down.

So here is my alternative to the all-singing, all-dancing multi-thousand pound reconstructive surgery solution that I was offered on the NHS.

Under my dress, would you be able to tell the difference?

Clearly, I could solve the NHS financial crisis with a basketful of old socks. Financial managers, please form an orderly queue.

One worry remains, though... Is my top half now in danger of reeking of smelly socks?

12. Scars in the swimming pool

Hurray! I’ve been swimming!

A mere 15 minutes and a gentle 20 lengths, but still, this is progress.

I am well aware that July is going to be my best month this side of 2015, physically. I have no idea how chemotherapy will affect me. It’s completely different for each person, apparently – hence my determination not to read any more grim first-person-accounts of fellow patients, lest my courage fails me.

But I cannot imagine it being a walk in the park. Or a swim in the pool, for that matter. So I’ll be trying to clock up as many walks and swims as possible before the avalanche of chemo side effects.

In an attempt to answer your How are you? question, here is the physical update.

I am still very tired, but I am also beginning to make an effort to rise from the sofa and do things. I plan them carefully, because I know I cannot do more than a few things each day. These things have recently included cooking evening meals, walking to the school gate and the supermarket, a 20 minute bike ride to the hospital (although cycling, I have always felt, doesn’t really count as exercise, because you can sit down whilst you’re doing it), playing the guitar and singing into the church microphone (I was rather pleased with that effort yesterday) and, having failed to attend any rehearsals, being an appreciative audience of my choir’s concert on Saturday night.

I can do these things again. I can pretend to be normal, at least for an hour or two. That’s a lovely feeling. It tires me out and I have to rest a lot before and after, but it is nice to feel that I am building up some slow strength.

Swimming was missing from this list. In recent years, I have established a habit of going to the pool several times a week (as well as starting Pilates classes) in order to cope with a sedentary job and a dodgy back.

I defied my breast care nurse’s advice following the lumpectomy (“Better not do swimming yet, that’s far too strenuous. Stick with walking”) and was back in the pool two weeks after the operation. My energy levels were boosted instantly.

So I was rather disappointed when I was visited by a hospital physiotherapist, the day after the mastectomy, who told me that my right arm should avoid any weight bearing exercise for at least six weeks. (“Oops”, I said, as I’d just pulled the heavy bedside table towards me. Well, what else could I do? It was on that side of the bed, it had my tea on it, and turning over to use my other arm was too painful.)

“Swimming?” I asked hopefully.

“No swimming,” she warned. “That puts far too much strain on the arm.”

The issue, apparently, is the avoidance of lymphoedema.

I have had many patients with lymphoedema during my hospice days, and it is not to be envied. This harmless but extremely uncomfortable arm swelling can happen to women who, like me, have had the lymph nodes under their arm removed. The lymphatic fluid in the arm can navigate its way around this problem, but if there is too much of it, the system becomes overloaded and the arm swells alarmingly. Once this starts, you’re scuppered for life.

It has been my biggest fear (well, apart from the minor matter of finding more cancer cells in my body, and dying as a result). I am worried about living a future with a swollen arm and hand, which would interfere with my ability to play the cello, sew more owls and wag a finger at my children.

So I’ve been very careful to exercise my right arm gently, encouraging the lymphatic fluid to be pumped back nicely. I have also been very careful not to overload the arm, not to get any cuts or grazes or insect stings or sunburn (which would send extra quantities of lymphatic fluid rushing to the scene, with its infection-busting properties). I hadn’t realised that strenuous exercise also increases the load of lymphatic fluid.

Thankfully, I have friends and colleagues who are either experts in cancer, or who can beat a quick path to such experts. One of my work contacts asked a nurse consultant in the lymphoedema clinic of a major cancer centre, who sent a reassuring email:

"It is absolutely fine for Irene to go for a gentle swim as long as the wound has fully healed. [It has.] Swimming and any movement in the water is not weight bearing and will encourage lymph drainage, but I would advise against anything too exertive and to 'listen' to her body."

I am not looking for a third opinion. I tend to stop looking once I've found the advice that suits me. A gently swim will suit me nicely.

So here is the next question: What to wear in the swimming pool?

I had pondered this before. Apparently there is a whole world out there, titled “mastectomy swimwear”, but I had already decided that I wouldn't bother with it.

This dismissal is possible because I am not blessed (or burdened, as the case may be) with anything more than an A-cup, so I won’t have vast quantities of redundant fabric flapping around my chest. Furthermore, my swimming costume is made for swimming, not for sauntering along the sea shore. It tends to streamline any A-cup into oblivion, so my thinking was that the difference between left and right would be a mere blip on the surface.

Still, I hadn’t tested this theory, so I put on the swimming costume last night and went in search of an opinion. I found my husband and my older daughter hanging out the washing and groped my way through the wet sheets, emerging on the other side: “What do you think?”

My older daughter was puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked, in a way that said “What’s so new about that costume? You’ve had it for years.” Which was promising. I think we are all getting used to my new shape, and are already beginning to be blind to it. Or perhaps it was due to the disguising properties of swirly patterns?

Once the issue was explained (“Well, look, it’s flat here”) they both thought that it was definitely noticeable but people were unlikely to stop and stare.

“Except children,” my older daughter thought. “They will notice.”

I thought about this, and asked: “Well, so what?”

My older daughter shrugged her shoulders. “They’ll just look at it, that’s all.”

For completeness, I checked with my younger daughter before setting off to the pool this morning. She clearly belongs to the above-mentioned “children” category, because she did indeed notice.

“Mum, you can see the scars,” she said disapprovingly.

(You can. I'm sure you've spotted them too. There are two: a long one from the mastectomy-and-lymph-node-clearance-surgery, and a short one above it, courtesy of the initial lymph node testing.)

“Yes, well, never mind about those. What if I didn’t have any scars?”

“It looks flat,” she pronounced.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! It looks weird.”

For all of three seconds, I considered bringing my Softie along. Then I remembered the story of a friend, about someone whose breast inserts floated away from her in the pool. Given the expert’s warning that I shouldn’t swim with too much exertion, I decided that racing to catch up with an errant fake breast was probably inadvisable.

Quite apart from the untested properties of wet Brain Fluff, which could, I feared, mimic those of the gravity-sensitive, hand-knitted swimming trunks of my toddler years. (Whenever Bear has a bath, his fluff gets so heavy that it needs two of us to haul him out. I might sink, swimming with my Brain Fluff Softie.)

I also remembered how upset this very same daughter had been when (a) I had braces put onto my teeth (I don’t want an ugly mother!) and (b) the braces were removed from my teeth 18 months later (You don’t look like mummy anymore!).

So off I went to the pool, breastless.

It was bliss. I couldn't see properly without my glasses, but I don't think anybody stared. If they had, I wouldn't have cared.

Well, for the sake of honesty: I probably I would have cared, but I think it would also have made me even more determined to get used to it. I made a point of using the public rather than the private showers. In at the deep end. I am planning to go swimming every morning from now on.

Now all I have left to ponder is whether I will need my swimming cap when I’m bald.

I’ll get back to you on that one.