Part of preparing for this next lot of lopping and trimming involves buying yet more underwear. Before cancer came to play, I used to thoroughly enjoy any excuse for a spot of lingering in the lingerie department. Not so much since. I am in possession of three mastectomy bras that bizarrely seem to hide my lopsidedness whether or not I wear my prosthesis so despite much research, I generally do not bother with it. I do not understand why my size B cup and size F cup look relatively balanced while wearing them. I think it is the magic of the Mastectomy Fairy. That can be the only reason for having to wear such hideous and ugly garments. I will, of course, have to buy a whole new set of bras in a new size but just at the moment, my brain is fusing at this prospect and it cannot compute that yet. Which is just as well as it is too soon. To begin with, my delightful Asda Soft & Comfy bras will be pressed once more into service. Mm mmm!
So no, it is not bras I am after. My latest venture into underwear consumerism is for big pants. Think Bridget Jones. Think Trinny & Susannah. You see, this latest op involves a spot of hoovering. Surgical Spice is going to connect a Henry Hoover to my stomach, suck out some fat (I have suggested she may like to leave it running longer than is strictly necessary. She seemed less than keen), then use it to fill in the pot holes in my newbie. As techniques go, it maybe one the council should consider as the potholes round our way are dreadful and I bet there are many who would queue up to have their fat hoovered out. Anyway, anyway, anyway. Once this has happened I have to wear compression pants for sometime. That’s shape wear. Control knickers. The sort of thing one dons to look incredibly svelte on a posh night out. No one has told me how long I have to wear them for yet. My record for such garments is about two hours. Usually I last until the first trip to the bathroom. And then I am undone. Literally. Flapping in the breeze if you will. Or alternatively, totally removed and shoved in my handbag. I will have to be more disciplined. Tunnels may result if I am not. And while that sounds curious, I think it is better not to find about them first hand.
I am now in possession of several pairs of the aforementioned constricting garments. All of them come with popper openings to make the bathroom trips less of a struggle. I foresee much wailing and gnashing of teeth as I have never been a girl for restrictions but needs must.