Writing Prompt: Sizing Things Up

 Writing Prompt: Pick a day this past week and write about it.

Sizing Things Up

Prominently located on the first floor of Ohio State’s Stefanie Spielman Breast Center is Hope’s Boutique. It sells assorted gifts, but more importantly, bras and wigs designed specifically for cancer patients.

I made an appointment at Hope’s for Monday afternoon to be fitted for new bras. Since my breast cancer surgery and subsequent reconstruction, my chest is entirely different from what it used to be. Still, I walked in thinking the appointment wouldn't be that big of a deal.

Damn, was I wrong.

Cassie was the fitter assigned to me. An older woman with a nice face, she handed me a soft robe and gently told me to take off my shirt and bra. When she stepped back in, she produced a cloth measuring tape, wrapped it around my ribs and across my chest, and pronounced me a 42B—maybe even an A cup. Then she slipped out of the fitting room to find some bra styles for me to try.

I was left standing there, completely dumbfounded.

What happened to my D-cup breasts? How had I shrunk three full cup sizes down to an A? It hit me all at once, like a ton of bricks. I am a breast cancer survivor. I endured the grueling path of a mastectomy on one side, followed by an implant, and a lumpectomy with a reduction on the right side just to make the breasts match. My plastic surgeon did a wonderful job, but damn, I lost so much of myself to cancer. Why me?

The doctors prepare you for the surgeries, the incisions, and the physical healing, but no one prepares you for the sudden ambush of grief. My husband looks at me and insists I’m beautiful, but standing in that fitting room mirror, I struggled to believe him. On the outside, I stayed polite and stoic, but inside, I was sobbing. My body is forever changed, and I had no idea how to begin getting comfortable in this new skin.

I ended up leaving Hope’s in a daze, carrying a pretty boutique bag holding two new bras I wasn't sure I’d ever have the heart to wear. All this week, I’ve stayed in that funk—carrying the quiet weight of what was taken, trying to give myself permission to mourn what’s gone, and wondering how long it takes for a survivor to finally feel whole again.

Writing Prompt: Under My Thumb

 Prompt: Write about an object you became emotionally attached to.

Under My Thumb

This week’s prompt to write about an object I became emotionally attached to was a little more challenging than what I first thought it would be when I selected it for our group. I had to really think about it, and walk around the house looking at things in bookshelves and on the fireplace mantle for inspiration. 

I ultimately decided to reflect back upon my youth, reaching back in the dusty archives of my memory bank to find something intriguing to discuss. Then I hit upon it: Let me tell you the story of my trusty right thumb, and the years I spent sucking it! Yes, I was a voracious thumb sucker, all the way up to 6th grade. This forced me into wearing awful metal braces on my teeth to correct the damage that innocent thumb caused.

My mom says I loved my thumb so because it was a handy replacement for the rather active breastfeeding habit I had as a newborn. I don’t remember that far back, but I do remember my thumb and what comfort it brought me all throughout my Elementary school years. I was very open about my habit in my younger years, but as I aged I learned to conceal it. I was embarrassed I think for others to see me sucking away. I think too I remember my parents lecturing me a bit about stopping the sucking, and me being defiant and resistant.

How do I describe how comforting it was to have that thumb of mine nestled within my mouth? I guess it was like the pleasure I got from having a cigarette there, or maybe how it feels to have a tobacco pouch or whatever those things are called resting between your cheek and gums.