Dr. Cavanaugh doesn’t want me to have breast reconstruction at all.
“That’s a survivor issue,” she tells me. “We’re not there yet. And I don’t want your immune system focused on anything except fighting cancer.”
It makes sense, but I really miss being symmetrical sometimes. I stuff my bra with a little breast-shaped hand-sewn cushion that Benny dubs the Pink Critter when he sees it sitting on my dresser.
Pink Critter is lumpy and prone to awkward bulging, though. And then one day MacDuff hops up on our bed illicitly, finds Pink Critter there, and devours it—just a few pieces of wet batting left in the hallway as evidence.
Benny is devastated: “Poor Critter! He was so soft and useful! I’ll never forgive that dog!”
John calls a dog trainer and I call Dr. Cavanaugh’s nurse to ask for a more permanent solution—maybe something MacDuff will be less inclined to eat. Dr. Cavanaugh writes me a prescription for a breast prosthetic and tells me to go talk to Alethia in the gift shop down on Level 0 of the cancer center.
* * *
Tita comes with me. We find Alethia not so much in the gift shop, but in a windowless room behind the gift shop—a room of her own stacked with boxes, file cabinets, racks of specialty bras of all shapes and sizes and materials, and drawers upon drawers of breast “forms.” All the bras have sewn-in pockets where you can insert a breast form on either or both sides.
Alethia greets us like she’s been expecting us for a lifetime, hugging us both to her own bosom—by far the most impressive breast-related item in the room.
“Welcome!” she says. “Let’s find you a breast!”
She tells me that according to my insurance, I get to pick out six bras and a breast form. Black, white, beige—easy. A strapless. A sports bra.
“Do you want something lacy and sexy?” Tita asks. I think about John’s gaze falling on me, undressed. My body. My carved up, asymmetrical body.
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
I choose a second black bra, with a small bow and the slightest sheen.
For the breast forms, we poke our fingers into different degrees of density, different shapes. They all feel like something between a memory foam pillow and a balloon.
“The new ones are waterproof,” says Alethia as we browse. “And really keep their shape nicely.”
We are giggling and cupping them in our hands. We have no idea what to pick, what the best option is to get the right curve. I ask Alethia to choose for me. The one she picks comes in a fancy square box with gold embossed writing: Nearly Me.
“That one is made by the lady who invented Barbie,” Alethia tells us.
“Well, then that’s a done deal,” says Tita.
* * *
At home I model my new breast and bras under a tight T-shirt for John.
“What do you think of my optical illusion?” I ask. “The Amazing Appearing Woman.”
“Lovely,” he says. “But I still prefer you topless, even when you’re lopsided.”
“Aww,” I say. “Liar.”
I agree with him though. I appreciate having the ability to suggest symmetry, but sometimes I prefer the one-sidedness, the wrongness of it—the gap and the scar. It’s a truth, an artifact—a way to put my hands on my losses and take stock.