Scarvage, Ash Man and a Bagpiping Angel

So, into Week Three of life with no breasts and all remains well. Much of the bruising and swelling has gone, so Pickle is no longer saying, 'At least you've got little breasts Mama' and the dressings are off. That was more of a Thing than I had anticipated. Although I knew what to expect, actually seeing my scars made me feel much more vulnerable and I didn't dare do my physio exercises for two days until a midwife friend explained the obvious - that the stitching of the muscle is much more robust than the tiny, pretty stitches they do on the skin. So, Pickle and I are doing my silly exercises and, although I have more mobility every day, she still delights in being the best.

I can feel (enough to make me gasp) the moment when a nerve ending pings back into supersensitive life. They seem to come in clusters and may be encouraged by acupuncture. It's a good thing, of course, but if I get a lot at once it's hard to hold a conversation. My body continues to astound my mind. The other day Pickle was industriously cutting things out and sticking them to other things so I could dance and dance and dance for hours. I could feel my limitations, but I had enough scope to express the music and that made for a very happy day afterwards.

I am feeling less inclined to even have back-up foobs. In a few weeks I'll be photographed because it is such a very rare choice not to reconstruct that the photos used by the breast care nurses are of old surgical styles (much straighter lines; I'm glad I got the new flowing kind). At the same appointment I'm supposed to be fitted for falsies in a pocket bra but I can't imagine wearing that now. I imagine I'd be so embarrassed to suddenly have breasts for the day and I can't think of an occassion when I would want to disguise my true shape. Sometimes I feel angry that there is such a strong supposition that I would want to at least pretend to have breasts. Pretend for whom? It feels like part of the narrative of shame around women's bodies. Reconstruction - in all the various wonderful ways it can be achieved - is fine. Wearing foobs is fine. And doing neither is fine. These choices are, in fact, no-one else's business (she blogged). So, I have experimented with exposing a bit of scarvage (scar cleavage). It was kind of an accident because I hadn't realised my v-neck dress would pull down further when I tied my jumper round my waist, but when I noticed I decided to carry on as I was. I wouldn't hide that piece of skin if it had breasts either side and I wouldn't hide the ends of those scars if they were elsewhere. And guess what? No-one swooned, vomited or even particularly noticed. Another Thing relegated to a mere thing. I do, however, have a tattoo planned, but that's a while off and I'm not telling until it's done.

Meanwhile, back at the screenface, two more of Thomas's drawings are up for sale in my Etsy shop.
Ash Man:

 

and Bagpiping Angel:

 

I am enjoying my new metallic artist pens and it won't be long before I can show you the results of my play. I mean work. And I was shortlisted in a poetry competition, which was pleasing and reassuring. I can feel my need to write in a more serious way gathering momentum. Watch this space...

 

Ink Tree and Chagblood

I sounded so sure yesterday, didn't I? Last night long hours of fear chased me around and through and away from dreams and I find myself wobbling again. Reconstruction would mean so much more recovery and set my eventual hysterectomy back at least six months more than having a simple mastectomy. What, said my frightened mind, if I get ovarian cancer in that six months? What if I died because I didn't want to wait a few years to have foobs? What if my girl lost both her parents before she was five? How could she recover from that, ever?

And I know, I know, now that it is light (ish) and I have had a couple of coffees, that the chances are so very small... but my love is so very big and the fear changes size and shape too fast for me to keep abreast. (But not enough to stop me sneaking wordplay into otherwise serious sentences.) It is a very unmerry-go-round.

Nonetheless, it has created a wonderful thing. When I put the link to yesterday's post on Facebook, my friends started commenting with offers of help and, due to a misremembering of my blood weirdness (I have ITP which means my platelets are low), one even offered me her rhesus negative blood to have on standby while I have my surgery! Which, amazingly, prompted other people to list their blood type in case they could do the same! This has become known as Chagblood - the latest in a long, successful run of community ventures. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of my people and feel the gratitude running through my veins.

Meanwhile, my last few evenings have been spent doing this, which I recommend for stilling the mind.