Thursday, 30 December 2010

Sexy Lacey Bra's :-(

25th November 2009

Went into London today on my own and did some window shopping. My new breast is annoying me like hell the sharp pain I keep feeling is not nice. I’ll be walking normally then I get a sharp shock which stops me in my tracks. I feel so depressed because of it and I know nothing can be done. It is just settlement pains, but it is annoying.
I pass by a shop window in oxford circus with frilly underwear on display. The specialists say you can’t wear wired bra’s they have to be properly fitted bra’s for mastectomies. I remember how I loved to buy Lepel all matching sets. It made me feel good and sexy. Now I look at underwear like it is my enemy not a sexy friend. I know there are places out there that specialise in bra’s I can wear and look good, but I don’t have the money. Even though people don’t see your underwear it is important to feel sexy. I don’t dress up on the outside. I’m simple and plain nothing special. I barely wear make-up just a little eye shadow, but underwear is my thing. I like a matching sets especially when you make that extra effort to look good on the outside. Instead I wear cotton bra’s which a child would wear.
The look of a nice black frilly set catches my eye and I want to cry. I need time for my poor breast to calm and maybe I will wear those nice sets again. Find the old Sarah that has got lost somewhere, but I think I got lost well before the cancer. 
When people talk about breast cancer. They talk about the surgery and the medication. The little things like underwear seem superficial and insignificant. Yet they are the things that keep you sane especially when all is heading south with age. The fact that breast cancer clashes with middle age. Compacts on already a stressful time in most women’s life’s. I’m forty years old soon and my mum started her menopause at thirty six. Where does this disease leave me? Am I less of a women? Or just another statistic on a piece of paper that will easily be forgotten. I’ve had my treatment. Now what is next?
I place my hands against the shop window trying to imagine I was nineteen again. Christmas is around the corner and a mannequin looks sexier than me.

I text Carolyn to see how she is fairing with her treatment. She said she starts chemotherapy soon. Part of me feels guilty because I don’t have to have further treatment. Only the reconstruction of the nipple once all has settled.

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