Sports bra from hell

Ten days have passed since my surgery, most spent horizontal. Two tumors were removed, both benign. A sign of relief was heard ‘round the world but I am still measuring the days in 4 hour increments as directed by the pain medication. The hazy days of the opiate Lortab have been replaced by my new pal Advil. My head is clear but my Mind is still mending.

The sports bra from hell I was sheathed in by the surgical nurse has become my constant companion. Under other circumstances the zipper, hooks, Velcro and rubberized synthetic construction might be considered a torture device or, better still, a prop for the evil nurse/patient S and M porn flick. But for now, it has become my security blanket. Gravity and breasts are not friends under the best of circumstances, as any woman over 40 will tell you. For me, with cut muscles and ligaments, it keeps me safe from the inevitable jostling but, more importantly, from my own roaming eyes. I’m not yet ready to look. Not ready to survey the damage. I know there are many who have faced far worse, but I am here now with myself, not ready to look. Not yet.

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