Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Wednesday ~

I was hoping to get my Oncoytpe DX test results back by now, but I have not yet heard back from Dr. Ryan's office. I called Tuesday morning to check in, and they said they would try to track down the results. Mass General is a big place. I am assuming everything is JUST FINE. But boy, it would be nice to hear once and for all, especially before I leave for the weekend, that the pathologists and the oncologist were right: that I do NOT have to have chemo, that Tamoxifen will do the job, that I can move forward into the next phase of reconstruction, and begin unearthing and sorting out the creative self that would like to live its life...

I don't like waiting. It's such a big part of life, that the key is to keep living while waiting so the waiting doesn't feel like anything at all. It's the same as worrying. Why worry? Where is it going to get you? I am hoping to have my next surgery done in early June, about three weeks after my final expansion on the second Wednesday in May, and am waiting to hear from Dr. Pitts' office as to when it might be. As much as I'm looking forward to having the time in between to do whatever the heck I want to, activity wise, I am looking forward to having the surgery done, completing my next four weeks of quiet puppy restricted activities, and then moving forward into a more permanent state of regular vigorous activity: jumping out of airplanes, dancing with the stars, and spinning into space with Richard Branson. Summertime is a tough time of year not to be able to play. I'm already missing playing catch with the boys, riding bikes, and running amok, and soon, it'll be time to swim, play tennis, badminton, frisbee, hike. You name it, the boys play it. And while Scrabble is fun to play with them, it's just not the same as getting out there and giving ourselves to the moment--the cascading laughter, the competitive fire, the sense of connection, family, and fun (not to mention the yelling and screaming, the hurt feelings, the wounded egos, the trounced on toes...)

If not for the waiting, I'd most likely forget most of the time that I have breast cancer. I wonder, too, at what point can I say I HAD breast cancer? At what point can I say I am a breast cancer survivor? What's next, anyway?

Yesterday, on my way to taking Luke down to West Springfield for his soccer game, I stopped in Northampton at Gazebo, a lovely little lingerie boutique on a side street right next to the famed Iron Horse. The boutique was filled with beautiful bras and panties and other underthings--though I saw none of the thread bare tank tops that I wear--and art that made me walk right up close and really look. The sales woman asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I lost one of my girls, I said. I'm growing a new one, but so far, she's pretty lopsided, so I'm looking for something to help me feel, and look, a little more symmetrical. Can you help? I'm hoping for red and white polkadots. 36C.

Uh-huh.

Actually, I did tell her my story--briefly, and with humor. Luke (and his friends Kanye, Lupe and Jay-Z) were waiting for me in the car, and I wanted this to be as painless and quick as possible. I had a mastectomy about four weeks ago. I'm undergoing reconstruction, have an expander in, but am a little lopsided. See? (and here, I put my hands on my breasts, smooth out my shirt, and show her where each sits) This one is higher, bigger, wider. I need a bra that can help even things up. But no underwire. It has to be soft. Any ideas?

She's great, doesn't miss a beat. Shows me four bras, all soft, lovely, with a comfortable shape. She takes me to the dressing room so that I can try them on. I close the curtain, slip off my shirt, my tank, and put the first bra on. It's pink. And it fits. But when I put my shirt on over it, I am struck by the perkiness of my bra-breasts. Boing! Hmmm, this is unexpected. And not entirely welcome. I try another one on. Straps don't fit around me, too tight, strange fit. I am reminded of the only other two times that I have actually gone bra-shopping, both failed excursions that left me feeling pretty dismal about my girls. Much like with my initial mammogram experiences, when I was too tall, too skinny, and too small-chested for the machine, my bra-fitting adventures have run a similar route: my rib cage is too big, my breasts too small, my shoulders too tall. They just don't make bras to fit women your size, sorry, honey. Ah, the indignity.

And then, I try on the last bra. It is lilac in color, with a beautiful v-curve that frames each breast in a silken smooth shape that is really quite lovely. And I am not the bras are really quite lovely kind of person, but this one is. It is so soft, comfortable, and it fits perfectly. Hurrah. I try my shirt on over it, and to my relief, there's much less of a Boing! factor with this one. It feels, and looks, a little bit more like me. Like me in a bra, of course, which isn't very often, but me, nonetheless.

I buy two in the same size and style, lilac and a minty green. They are out of nude. I'll just have to not care if anyone can see the color of my bra under my white shirt. Yes, that is my bra you see under my shirt. Isn't it lovely?

I thank the sales woman for all her help. I am happy to have had such a positive experience with something that could have been difficult. I'll be back after my exchange surgery, I tell her. Who knows what I'll look like then...

Today, I did not wear my new bra. I have decided it is for special occasions. But tomorrow, I will wear it. Tomorrow, we head out to visit a school where Jim is eyeing a job, and where it is probably better that they not eye my lopsidedness. We'll take two cars. After our visit, Jim and the boys will return home. I'll continue to Exeter, where my 25th reunion awaits. I am so excited that it has arrived...that soon I will see dear old friends and classmates who have known me for more than 25 years, since I was a mere 14-yearling, and my girls had just begun to bud, old friends who have pulled me up by the bootstraps, guided me through this most recent tunnel, shone the light on those parts of myself that I thought had long gone withered up and died, and reminded me to find myself, be myself, laugh at myself, love myself. All good lessons.

I am looking forward to getting away for awhile, being on my own some, reacquainting myself with a school and a community that have meant so much to me over the years, and especially, spending time with friends in that ongoing, continuous loop of instantaneous hilarity, connection, and understanding. And then there's the dancing...the real test will be how much can I dance without crossing over into vigorous territory. I'll never know until I try...