Merci and Riley and me

"I'm experimenting with a stuffing boob. Riley thinks its a toy." Probably one of the stranger texts Bob has seen from me in a while.

For whatever reason, I think it's important to show up every day. Unless I feel so bad, like migraine day, that I just can't do it, I like to get up, have my coffee, do my Scripture reading, reflections, and Examen, and then my ADLs, including a change of clothes. It makes me feel like a human, even if I do spend a good portion of the day under a blanket on the couch. And, even if the clothes include leggings, yoga pants, or like today, joggers. Let's call it post-mastectomy "athleisure," okay?

Anyway, today I had made up my mind to wear a cute pair of Gap joggers that are a black and gray marl (guys, don't worry, just ask a woman what that means). I picked a cute, slouchy heather gray tee that has "Merci" across the front in these black bead-type things. Merci, because "thank you" for another day, right? S'cute.

So I got the tee on and I liked the look. This is the cutest I've looked post mastectomy, I thought.

Except.

Except there is something missing. You know, human beings are programmed to look for what's missing. The gaps. We notice the empty sleeve even before our minds make sense of the fact that there is no arm inside it.

I turned sideways. The "Mer" part of Merci was very flat. Very, very flat. The "ci" part, well, even though wrapped in an ace bandage, there is still something there. It was more like merCI if you get my meaning.

Riley, always beside me, was looking in the mirror, too. Let's try it, I told him. He did not disagree.

The day after I came home from the hospital I stuck one of the pillow thingys into the now-temporarily-retired cami. Shuddering, I yanked it out fast and shoved it back in the bag. Too soon. Way too soon. But today, I took one out and looked at it. It is a vaguely breast-shaped pillow. Inside is polyfill stuffing. The idea is, you add or subtract to mimic your other side.

So I started big, and kept pulling stuffing out. What size are these things made for, I thought, double ZZ? I pulled more than half the stuffing out, then shaped and molded, and checked the mirror. Close.

I looked down and there was Riley, sitting up, begging. "What? What do you want, Riley?"

Riley is the "toyminator." Nothing, nothing in the world makes him as happy as a new stuffed toy. A new one may make it 30 minutes before the stuffing starts coming out of the arms or body. Easily within an hour the head comes off and the stuffing is out of that, too. The empty fabric carcass becomes his baby, and he carries it around until it's so gross I can't take it any more and it gets tossed when he isn't looking.

He was eyeing the stuffing boob. "This is not for you," I told him. It's not for me, either, I thought. I pulled the almost Polly-sized thing out and threw it back in the closet. I walked in circles. Isn't this all part of it? Isn't this something I have to at least try?

Yes. It is. 

Riley kept begging. And I started laughing. It was like a fizzy notion that started in my stomach and the carbonation of that funny thought just came bubbling out. Me and my dog, experimenting with a stuffing boob.

Merci.