Forewarning: I’m going to talk a lot about bras in this post. If your sensibilities are too gentle to read such, then pass this one by.

Three months ago today, I was in the operating room, undergoing a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction, after a diagnosis of breast cancer back in November.

I spent the night in the hospital and had some of the best nurses there could ever be. 

I then came home, with Sweet Husband for a nurse, and we learned what marriage vows are really all about. 

I’ve healed well. I suppose I should have a little celebration today.

And yet . . .

The Hibiclens bottle from the days before surgery is still at the edge of my shower.

There are recovery instructions cluttering my dresser.

I’ve got follow-up appointments coming in June.

Reminders that I am merely almost normal still surround me. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a permanent reminder. Reconstruction can only do so much to restore what God created.

There’s a little piece of me that will always be numb and unnatural, both physically and emotionally.

Diseases do that to a person. Most days I feel appreciative, blessed, fortunate, happy, and joyful, but there are times I’m downright pissed off. I’d just as soon take my journal of thoughts from that time, leading up to surgery, and burn it, along with all the new bras I’ve been forced to use.

In fact, I had bought some special mastectomy bras, thanks to various marketing schemes employed by business, industry, and social media, the algorithms doing their job, only to find that there was no way on Earth that those bras would fit me right after surgery. The time I had spent researching, reading the reviews, and considering what might make me feel a little more beautiful, a little more “normal,” was all just a big waste.

I didn’t even feel like going through the trouble of returning them, and there was one I wouldn’t have been able to return anyway. The package’s special red seal made sure I knew what I was signing up for, because once opened, there was no sending it back.

It was about like a cancer diagnosis, or else, pick your favorite chronic disease or condition. There’s no declining the order, no returning the plate to the kitchen. This is something that will always be a part of you now, and like it or not, you must deal with it.

But there are moments you forget. There are dreams, and in them you are as you used to be. Or you get comfortable, and everything feels normal again. Or you keep your hands and your body busy, and you grow into a new normal, and you begin not to mourn what you used to be as much.

More than once I’ve reached around behind my back, as if to undo the hooks of my bra, as I used to do, and I’m surprised to find them absent. Then I remind myself, you can’t do it like that with your new brassieres. 

But then I think: you know, the new ones are really not that bad. They’re softer, made with 100% cotton. They don’t itch. They’re much better for working outside, hiking in the woods, and, in general, living. They’re cheaper too. You’ll never see them in a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, but they get the job done. In fact, I can now wear my old bras again, but truth be told, I’d rather wear my new ones.

And I also remember: Hibiclens has such a nice scent. If I ever need a good scrubbing and know for sure that I’m clean, I’ve got some pleasant industrial-strength disinfectant. 

My appointments are few and far between now, and I remind myself that, so far, the medical technology and professional care have worked as they’re supposed to. My cancer was found and removed.

And if I ever need to be anesthetized for future procedures or surgeries, I’ve discovered I like being put to sleep. I wake up completely and totally at peace, chill and easy, a nervous system reset.

I’ve been back to real exercise for a while now: running, doing push-ups, lifting weights, and stretching, the muscles of my chest limber again. I’m adding more intensity every week. I’ve lifted plywood with Sweet Husband, hoed weeds in the garden, and wrestled large, hyperactive dogs.

I’m to the point of breaking out my old sports bras, and while I was digging through some items I’d put in storage, I found those mastectomy bras. 

It was like a scene out of The Lion King, but instead of Simba returning to reclaim the throne at  Pride Rock, Rafiki might as well have been twirling one of my new, special mastectomy bras round and round that old staff of his, while proclaiming, “It is time!”

And it was indeed time, for they fit, far better than I could have dreamed. My new favorite sports bra is the one that I would have been unable to return due to its “medical grade” quality.

So I think I know how I’ll celebrate today:

I’ll wash my hands with Hibiclens for old time’s sake and inhale its medicinal tang, its lovely, minty pinkness. I’ll call the doctors and make my appointments for next month as I’ve been instructed to do. I’ll exercise and increase my weight load.

And while I do it, I’ll finally wear a new mastectomy bra and be thankful for God’s perfect timing.

It’s not too bad being almost normal.