Ep.45: Underwired
I need to throw away my old bras. I’ve known this for some time but maybe that turn of the year, spring clean thing, is kicking in. It suddenly feels pressing. But it’s a spikey, gnarly, tear stain of a decision. I’ve never been one for fancy, expensive underwear but maybe that means the few nice bras I do have carry more significance. I need to throw away my old bras because they don’t fit, they won’t ever fit again and the thought of an underwire, albeit encased in fabric, insistent, pushing and rubbing against the creased flesh beneath my reconstructed breast makes my teeth want to unseat themselves in horror. I’d go ten rounds with nails and a blackboard before I could go ten seconds with wires and bad boob.
I open the drawer to start acclimatising to the idea, touch my hand to some pretty peacock blue flowers. I can’t quite get my head round why it feels so bitterly, gut-wrenchingly awful to scoop up this flimsy material and bin it, but it does. The pragmatist in me argues that the bras are just taking up space, they’re annoying. The therapist in me argues that every time I’m trying to find a bra I can actually wear, and have to rifle through and reject all this lace and underwire, push up and plunge, I’m only serving to press psychological pins deeper into my wounds. I know the pragmatist and therapist are right, but it doesn’t make consigning this part of my past to the past any easier. It hurts.
Shortly before I got my mastectomy, I floated round the shops, dazed. I’m not sure why I put myself through the pain of slowly walking through the underwear department at M&S, perhaps I was already grieving for what I was about to lose. I ran my fingers over the lace trims and satin bows. There was a green silk bra set I was particularly drawn to, I kept going back to touch it, loving the light, slippery feel between finger and thumb. I fantasized briefly with the idea of buying the beautiful bra and matching french knickers to wear once I’d recovered. It would be a sign that I still thought myself deserving of dressing up in such gorgeous, flimsy, feminine things, evidence of my determination to feel sexy and appealing irrespective of my scars. I went so far as to start searching for my size, knowing that David wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the cost, knowing he’d agree it was important to feel good, whatever the price. But as I searched, I quietly realised that I’d no idea what size and shape I would end up, that I was flirting with a cancer-induced madness once more. I reluctantly straightened the rail of beautiful bras and went in search of the post-op underwear I was supposed to be here to find, horrible, clip down the front, stretchy, ugly, shapeless things, lurking with the maternity and sports bras. I left empty handed, not ready to commit.
9 months on, I still sometimes forget. When I’m in the midst of an idle thumb through social media and the algorithm repeatedly throws underwear adverts across my feed. I pause to imagine the snug support of ‘the most comfortable and feminine bra ever’ wrapping round my body with its enviable, ‘innovative new technology’. As a result, the algorithm is encouraged to push more bra adverts my way and suddenly each dive into facebook becomes a psychological minefield for the breast cancer battle weary. Never have I been so aware of the female form, never so heightened to the smooth plump double curve and plunge being used to sell everything from paint to perfume to panty liners, never so seduced by the idea that unless you have two perfectly pert breasts you can never aspire to being sexually attractive or desirable ever again. You disappear.
No wonder B longs to outgrow her 12 years to become a curvy hourglass, while I long to regress. For once we find common ground, both be-sieged by images of the breasts we wish we had.
I can’t escape the irony that although I tell B that she is utterly beautiful the way she is (and she is, breathtakingly so) and explain that attraction is far more nuanced and subtle than the purely physical, that charisma, character, humour, intelligence, body confidence are all just as essential ingredients in the mix, in truth I struggle to believe any of this when I look in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at all (more often than not now I don’t) I still flinch at the horror of my scarred, battered and brutally changed body. How on earth do I ever feel attractive ever again? Maybe this is all a bit ridiculous anyway in a 50 year old woman, maybe my desire to be desirable is laughable. As one ill-chosen ex-boyfriend once told me, ‘you’re no oil painting’, although I’m tempted to track him down just to prove him wrong by declaring I’ve turned into the perfect Picasso.
Before my operation my surgeon gave me a questionnaire to fill in for some research they were doing. I completed a long tick box list of questions about how I felt about my body, did I feel comfortable naked, was I at ease in front of my partner, was I satisfied with my sex life? At the time we laughed and I ticked away, unconcerned. It was the intention that I should fill out the same questionnaire again, post-op, but the questionnaire, along with so much of life, has been buried beneath the crush of Covid cases and concerns, so I remain unchallenged. And it would be a challenge to re-visit those questions now. I’m not so sure words like ‘comfort’ and ‘ease’ exist for me anymore. I think the me who filled out that first questionnaire would have been astounded at how far I’ve slipped down the slope of self-worth. I think I’d have been gutted to know that surgery would destroy so much more than the cancer, and now I feel I’ve let myself down somehow.
I search through the useless bras, pairing them up with the matching pants. Should I throw out those too? I’ve no idea. I’m at a loss. Why does it feel like throwing these things away means I’m giving up?
I’m not sure how to square this, whatever it is I’m reaching for remains out of reach. I gently tuck the neatly paired pants and bras away at the back, behind the socks, then slowly shut the drawer.
The great bra throwaway will have to wait.