I found some suitable items, but I've come to the conclusion that I'm not a huge button-front shirt fan. Too frumpy, too preppy, too boho, to BIG (although at first, big's gonna be my friend, so I've gotten a couple "boyfriend" shirts for that. Why not use an old shirt of DI's, you ask? 'Cause good ol' DI is nearly a foot taller than me and much broader chested. I look like a preschooler at dress-up time wearing his clothes. I'm already going to feel freakish immediately post-surgery, I don't want to add to it.)
What else have I gotten? Well, two camis that you can step into. They exist - and these are super-soft all-cotton and have pockets to hold your drains. Thow on a cute hoodie or an oversized shirt and shazam! you're presentable. I have gotten a velcro belt w/little pockets that attach for those times when I want to tote drains w/o a cami. In yesterday's mail arrived my "pink pockets" - adhesive-backed fabric pockets to put into garments to hold drains, and also my custom-made hospital gown (a thoughtful gift from a friend). I've also invested in a "shower shirt" so that I can bathe more comfortably in those weeks while I still have the drains. That thing is pure genius. And now DI won't have to fashion me a getup out of a trash bag and duct tape . . . the man is amazing at covering incision sites (Lord knows, he's had practice), but he's going to have enough on his plate, don't you think?
It's all so odd, running around town and traveling the interweb for tools to use when your breasts are removed . . . and then there's the more weirdness in the interaction with people that are more tangential to your life at a time like this. Or lack thereof. I haven't broached the subject with certain people - how to bring this up with your housekeeper? My painter? The carpenter who's building us a new bookcase - I wonder what he thought when I told him he wouldn't be allowed in my house for the last 2 weeks of September after I had "major surgery?" What'd the woman at J.Jill think when I bought 5 button-front shirts? Did she even notice? What did the librarian suppose when I checked out 4 mastectomy "mammoirs" this morning? And let's not ignore the fact that I flat-out lied to my former neighbor earlier today when I stopped to say hello: he asked me how everything was and I said "fine!" and smiled. Somehow, getting into the specifics of what's about to happen with a 65-year-old Greek undertaker just wasn't for me today. I'll burn for that one, I'm sure.
I'm in a funky netherworld . . . the pre-treatment netherworld that all cancer patients understand. You've got the blueprint for what's going to go down, but the specifics are sketchy. You're continuing about your business, and no one outside the inner circle is any the wiser. But you know what? It also feels kinda good in a way, and that's even weirder. For now, I'm "normal," and by getting my ducks in a row, I'm calming some of those pre-surgical fears . . . and that, my friends, is a very good thing.