I had decided that I needed to go back to the store to get what I referred to as a "sporty boob." A lighter weight prosthesis that I could wear at home on nights and weekends. Something to basically shove down a sports bra instead of the stuffing boob.
The sales person at the bra-and-prosthesis store, let's call her Michelle, was friendly but matter-of fact, so I couldn't be a sissy about it. I slipped out of my tee shirt and stood there in the things I had bought at that same store last fall.
She frowned. She circled me, tugged on the straps, and pushed on the silicone boob. She turned away to look at the paperwork she had printed out. She shook her head. Something wasn't right.
She took the prosthetic out of the mastectomy bra I was wearing, and said, "This is not at all what I would have put you in." I died a little inside.
My first trip to this store was on a Saturday morning in between AC treatments. It was the one day I had set aside to go get a prosthesis. I was the first customer in the door that morning, and I went straight to the counter and told the woman what I was there for. She let me know that they don't file for insurance any more. "This is the one day I have to do this," I told her. "I am in chemo, and don't have the energy or the time to drive to another store. Let's do this and I'll pay for it and take my chances."
There was some fumbling and whispering between the woman I was talking to and another store employee. Apparently there was another person who typically dealt with prosthetic fittings and she wasn't there. Didn't they all deal with this? (Uh, no, they don't all.)
I was shown to a private room for the fitting. After a brief discussion about what my goals were (isn't it obvious? To look like I have two breasts), what size bra I wore, and what style of prosthetic I was interested in (I had absolutely no idea), the sales person went out the back door of the room and I was left alone. Standing there newly bald, in torn jeans and a long sleeve tee, I never felt less feminine -- especially surrounded by all this brocade, lace, feathers, leopard print, ornate mirrors, and PINK. So much pink.
I paced around the room waiting for this young 30-something to help me feel or at least look like a whole woman again. No pressure, right? She brought several bras and boxes, and she helped me into and out of the possibilities.There was measuring, note taking, and swap-outs. When she seemed pleased with the symmetry and measurements, I put my sweater back on and we looked in the mirror together. I teared up. I looked like a woman again.
I wore it every day from then on. But. It was not ideal. I had to spend time fussing with the doodad every morning to get it in the right place. It was heavy. I was uncomfortable a lot of the time. I had pinchy places. I took it off as soon as I could after work. I thought this must just be part of the bargain.
So when Michelle told me exactly why this was not the correct setup for me, it all made sense. All she could say was how sorry she was. It was not possible this many months later to make any kind of return or refund. I told her that I was still trying to file the original items with insurance to hopefully get reimbursed, and there was no possible way I could justify paying that unbelievable amount of money a second time. She understood. The goals of this shopping trip changed. She sold me something to use with the original prosthesis that would take care of part of the problem. Then she fitted me with a prosthetic that is right for my size and shape, but more importantly, something that works with what's left of my body post-mastectomy.
"You're just so nice," she said, as we were wrapping up. I gave her the "huh?" look. She said I was too nice to not have come in and complained. The truth is I didn't know it wasn't right. I took for granted that I was sold what I needed. I had put the original sales person in an awkward position. I hadn't educated myself. It was just a whole lot of human-being-messiness going on, and even now when I think about it I just shrug and say, "OH WELL."
I am pleased to report that the rig Michelle sold me is working well. My hair is growing back. I'm less self-conscious about my eyebrows and eyelashes -- they'll come back. I am dealing with the few extra pounds from the chemo and trying to stay positive that they will come off when it's all done. I have faith there's a day coming soon when I'll feel feminine again.
From yesterday's readings: Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)
I paced around the room waiting for this young 30-something to help me feel or at least look like a whole woman again. No pressure, right? She brought several bras and boxes, and she helped me into and out of the possibilities.There was measuring, note taking, and swap-outs. When she seemed pleased with the symmetry and measurements, I put my sweater back on and we looked in the mirror together. I teared up. I looked like a woman again.
I wore it every day from then on. But. It was not ideal. I had to spend time fussing with the doodad every morning to get it in the right place. It was heavy. I was uncomfortable a lot of the time. I had pinchy places. I took it off as soon as I could after work. I thought this must just be part of the bargain.
So when Michelle told me exactly why this was not the correct setup for me, it all made sense. All she could say was how sorry she was. It was not possible this many months later to make any kind of return or refund. I told her that I was still trying to file the original items with insurance to hopefully get reimbursed, and there was no possible way I could justify paying that unbelievable amount of money a second time. She understood. The goals of this shopping trip changed. She sold me something to use with the original prosthesis that would take care of part of the problem. Then she fitted me with a prosthetic that is right for my size and shape, but more importantly, something that works with what's left of my body post-mastectomy.
"You're just so nice," she said, as we were wrapping up. I gave her the "huh?" look. She said I was too nice to not have come in and complained. The truth is I didn't know it wasn't right. I took for granted that I was sold what I needed. I had put the original sales person in an awkward position. I hadn't educated myself. It was just a whole lot of human-being-messiness going on, and even now when I think about it I just shrug and say, "OH WELL."
I am pleased to report that the rig Michelle sold me is working well. My hair is growing back. I'm less self-conscious about my eyebrows and eyelashes -- they'll come back. I am dealing with the few extra pounds from the chemo and trying to stay positive that they will come off when it's all done. I have faith there's a day coming soon when I'll feel feminine again.
From yesterday's readings: Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)