There’s an assorted collection of clutter on my chest of drawers.

First is the stack of removable bra pads, rising above the fray like the Tower of Babel.

I can’t stand removable pads. I have learned not to purchase anything that requires the flimsy foam inserts, even swimsuits, because they’d get folded up or battered in the washer when I’d forget to remove them. Upon attempting to refit them into their pockets, I’d end up molding and rotating and twisting, only to end up looking like I’ve got two pointy cannon muzzles or worse, like I’d stuffed with crumpled-up potato chip bags.

I have thrown away errant pads collected over the years. They are more obnoxious to me than oddball socks.

But I can’t do that anymore. 

Fast-forward to post-mastectomy, reconstructed me. Those expensive surgical bras that popped up on my social media ads were not what I needed. Turns out, a multi-pack of cotton Fruit of the Loom works perfectly, as do cheap nylon and spandex fabric blends, except for the stupid pads, which I now protect like a dragon hoarding its golden cups.

So don’t wear them, you might say.

I’ll not go into any graphic descriptions, but I’ve got one sister who looks like Dooneese from SNL. She needs a little help. I’m not to the five-week point yet, and things are still settling.

To the right, you’ll see a gelatinous object, also known as a silicone breast implant. It’s a souvenir from my first trip to the plastic surgeon’s office, and it found its way home with me because I asked for it.

After all, aren’t you supposed to be your own advocate at the doctor’s office?

Everyone needs their own implant, for first aid purposes. The nurse advised that it makes the very best cold pack for contusions, sprains, and other maladies. 

I had never seen one, and if we were going to discuss putting a couple of them in my body, I wanted to get an up close, personal view.

“Sure,” the surgeon said, “I’ve got a whole bag of them,” and just like that, I had one of my very own, and so did my sister who had accompanied me. 

I have tried since then to imagine what an entire bag of implants would look like. I envision a big, black garbage bag full of them, as if they’ve been collected from the side of the road on a spring clean-up day. The whole lot of them look like something you’d get off the cheap grab-bag toy aisle at Wal-Mart to use for party favors. They’d probably make great throws in a Mardi Gras parade, except you could knock out a dog with one as they have quite a substantial heft.

A weak throw is all I’ve got going these days. I’m not totally cleared for all physical activity just yet. 

While cleaning the kitchen, I found a dried-up, moldy lime hiding in a dark corner of the countertop, and I gave it an awkward sidearm baseball pitch that didn’t even make it halfway to the woods.

Side note: I had strongly considered becoming a “flattie,” as there are a good many women out there who live quite happily without breasts. I’d still do it, if something should go awry with my implants. But I thought, “Hey, give peace a chance,” and so here I am today, feeling like I’ve got a permanent, internal bra.

Each day gets a little more normal, but I promise you this: you don’t want to win the breast cancer lottery just so you can get new boobs.

Other treasured items in my collection include a small galvanized bucket of scrunchies, a Valentine’s card from Sweet Husband, and the spirometer that came home with me from the hospital. I’ve thought about donating it to the local high school band program. It might help those kids learn to put some air in their horns.

I’ve got my distance glasses case, and two sets of reading glasses, which I only need when I wear my contacts.

There are some random papers and lonely keys, an unidentified piece of gray clothing, and a lamp, which should truly be the only thing on the chest, that is, if I lived in a boring, clean house.

And my beloved blood pressure cuff. Ah, how I hate having my blood pressure checked. I’ve tried to desensitize myself with my home cuff. I’ve got a bad case of white coat syndrome, which might also be tied to perfectionist tendencies. If everything is not just quite all right and perfectly rosy, I can get cranked up. 

You’d never know it. I can play poker with the best of them. 

But I’ve found it’s better to let your feelings show sometimes. That blood pressure tends to drop a few points, and believe it or not, nurses and doctors and family and friends and even people that you think really don’t like you that much can be quite sweet.

Hiding behind my stack of pads is a book that I’ve had for years now. Power Prayers to Start Your Day: A Journal. It was given to me by a friend along with a note that said, “I love your writing. Please keep it up.”

Maybe I will this time. I’ve amassed a small collection of words over the last few days.

I know one thing. It sure does help the blood pressure.