shall we?’
It’s a simple equation, really. General anaesthetic + loads of drugs = an arse that’s as tough to crack as the Enigma Code. And so, on my penultimate afternoon in hospital, I put a nurse through the unenviable task of shoving a suppository up my jacksie (at the end of her shift, poor cow!), and later watched P’s best man wince as he was uncomfortably sandwiched in the middle of a mid-visit medical conversation about the softness of my stools. (Vanity? What vanity?) It’s a good job P and I had married already, or that could have been some serious ammunition for his speech.
But after hardship, of course, comes relief. And later that evening, to the televised sound of 15,000 Wimbledon tennis fans on my hospital TV (and a coach-like husband willing me on from the other side of the toilet door), I produced my own Murray-esque fightback. ‘Thank you, Wimbledon,’ I said to myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. ‘You were a wonderful crowd. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
CHAPTER 7
Save Ferris
July 2008
Nobody ever enjoyed ill health (in particular the attention it brings) quite like my grandad. After having heart surgery, he spent the subsequent few years sitting in his chair breathing loudly, with a hand placed purposefully over his heart, just itching for someone to acknowledge it.
After my diagnosis, I joked that perhaps I could attract the same kind of attention by walking about with my hand constantly on my left tit. And ta-dah! Here I am, sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed, typing with my right hand while grabbing my prosthetic boob with my left. My left arm remains pretty screwed – to the point of not being able to tie my hair back and needing someone to dress me – so holding onto my prosthetic tit is as good a use as any for it, eh? Call it physiotherapy.
But yes, the falsie. Cancer really does get more glamorous by the day, I tells ya. Just as I was enjoying the joyful moment of being unplugged from my various wound drains before being discharged from my five-day hospital stay, in comes my very lovely (and always-bloody-right-about-everything) breast nurse to fit me for the bra that I must wear, day and night, until someone tells me otherwise. Believe me, this brassiere is no Agent Provocateur contender. But more of that later.
What the bra does have, however, is a handy little pocket to house the prosthetic boob that I’m currently sporting (keep an eye out for them next Fashion Week). It’s round and foamy and stuffed with lambswool, and it feels a bit like a novelty clown’s nose (honk honk). And while I’m thankful for it in the meantime so I don’t have to look all wonky-chested in my high-necked clothes, I’ll be more enthusiastic when we can eventually get round to the fun of inflating my currently flat saline implant. (That said, it’ll be limited fun – it’s only got my usual B-cup level to imitate, so we’ll hardly be putting it to the Dolly Parton test.)
Speaking of inflation, there’s been a weird side-effect on that front that I hadn’t really bargained for. You’ve seen
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, right? (The kinda crap ’70s one, not the trippy Johnny Depp one.) Well, think of Violet Beauregarde filling with blueberry juice after eating that dodgy chewing-gum, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of how my left side has felt since my wound drains were taken out. Always-Right Breast Nurse warned that my skin ‘might begin to feel like a filled-up hot-water bottle’ and, true to form, she’s not wrong. Fortunately Smiley Surgeon has got the Oompa Loompas on hand to drain me next week. And hopefully after that, this damn bra will become a bit more comfortable. Not that my newly deflated left side will make my cancer-patient lingerie look any more passable in the fashion stakes, you understand.
From a distance (the other side of a football field, let’s say) it looks a bit like a training bra, or a cropped gym top (the
It’s a simple equation, really. General anaesthetic + loads of drugs = an arse that’s as tough to crack as the Enigma Code. And so, on my penultimate afternoon in hospital, I put a nurse through the unenviable task of shoving a suppository up my jacksie (at the end of her shift, poor cow!), and later watched P’s best man wince as he was uncomfortably sandwiched in the middle of a mid-visit medical conversation about the softness of my stools. (Vanity? What vanity?) It’s a good job P and I had married already, or that could have been some serious ammunition for his speech.
But after hardship, of course, comes relief. And later that evening, to the televised sound of 15,000 Wimbledon tennis fans on my hospital TV (and a coach-like husband willing me on from the other side of the toilet door), I produced my own Murray-esque fightback. ‘Thank you, Wimbledon,’ I said to myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. ‘You were a wonderful crowd. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
CHAPTER 7
Save Ferris
July 2008
Nobody ever enjoyed ill health (in particular the attention it brings) quite like my grandad. After having heart surgery, he spent the subsequent few years sitting in his chair breathing loudly, with a hand placed purposefully over his heart, just itching for someone to acknowledge it.
After my diagnosis, I joked that perhaps I could attract the same kind of attention by walking about with my hand constantly on my left tit. And ta-dah! Here I am, sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed, typing with my right hand while grabbing my prosthetic boob with my left. My left arm remains pretty screwed – to the point of not being able to tie my hair back and needing someone to dress me – so holding onto my prosthetic tit is as good a use as any for it, eh? Call it physiotherapy.
But yes, the falsie. Cancer really does get more glamorous by the day, I tells ya. Just as I was enjoying the joyful moment of being unplugged from my various wound drains before being discharged from my five-day hospital stay, in comes my very lovely (and always-bloody-right-about-everything) breast nurse to fit me for the bra that I must wear, day and night, until someone tells me otherwise. Believe me, this brassiere is no Agent Provocateur contender. But more of that later.
What the bra does have, however, is a handy little pocket to house the prosthetic boob that I’m currently sporting (keep an eye out for them next Fashion Week). It’s round and foamy and stuffed with lambswool, and it feels a bit like a novelty clown’s nose (honk honk). And while I’m thankful for it in the meantime so I don’t have to look all wonky-chested in my high-necked clothes, I’ll be more enthusiastic when we can eventually get round to the fun of inflating my currently flat saline implant. (That said, it’ll be limited fun – it’s only got my usual B-cup level to imitate, so we’ll hardly be putting it to the Dolly Parton test.)
Speaking of inflation, there’s been a weird side-effect on that front that I hadn’t really bargained for. You’ve seen
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, right? (The kinda crap ’70s one, not the trippy Johnny Depp one.) Well, think of Violet Beauregarde filling with blueberry juice after eating that dodgy chewing-gum, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of how my left side has felt since my wound drains were taken out. Always-Right Breast Nurse warned that my skin ‘might begin to feel like a filled-up hot-water bottle’ and, true to form, she’s not wrong. Fortunately Smiley Surgeon has got the Oompa Loompas on hand to drain me next week. And hopefully after that, this damn bra will become a bit more comfortable. Not that my newly deflated left side will make my cancer-patient lingerie look any more passable in the fashion stakes, you understand.
From a distance (the other side of a football field, let’s say) it looks a bit like a training bra, or a cropped gym top (the
Similar Books
