The Abercrombie Bag and A Modest Hope

An Abercrombie bag. A wholesome young model. A pie. A friend. The sum of these ingredients comprised a recipe that lead to my restoration . You could say, I suppose, that from that day forward, my hopes for a renewed life after breast cancer were "in the bag".

It was Easter of 2007. I graciously offered to host my entire immediate family, all 17 of us, at our home for Easter dinner. My husband and I enjoy these occasions, our house filled with good food and love. It is times like this that I cannot contain my deep appreciation for being so very much alive. The beautiful sight, the cacophony of chatter around the table, magnified my post-cancer joy, dampening my cheeks with silent, salty rivulets of escaping happy tears. Generations of our Italian ancestors before us lived for days like this, when family and good food fostered love. This was a good day. Never mind that I had spent 30 minutes that morning pondering my closet in hopes of locating a single blouse or sweater that would look normal on my post-mastectomy body. Forget that most of my tops, purchased when I enjoyed being an "A" kind of girl, now gathered dust. (I imagined my tops complaining about not ever being chosen and accusing me of neglect.) Our son and daughter, nieces and nephews, and extended family deserved a holiday where wonderful memories would be made. There was work to be done, food to prepare. No time for a personal pity party for one.

Fortunately, my mom and husband make up for my domestic deficits. Our collaboration in the kitchen that Easter added to the holiday fun. My mom brought some side dishes I do not remember, and an apple pie I recall being exceptional, all delivered to me in a recycled Abercrombie bag, pictured above. The annual InDelicato Easter Egg hunt commenced, the hungry hunters counting retrieved eggs, receiving their prizes, and joining the table for our feast. And feast we did. When the binging was over and the last coffee served, hugs were exchanged and the guests departed. I traded my masquerading ruffle-front blouse for an old sweatshirt, and got down to the pleasing task of returning our home to order. The aforementioned bag, still in good shape, got filed away with other recyclable totes.

A few weeks later, our daughter's Montessori school held their annual end-of-year picnic. The bittersweet commemoration of another school year was held outdoors at a local park, "pot-luck" style. I brought my "famous" chocolate chip cookies in...the saved Abercrombie bag. After depositing the cookies in the "dessert buffet", I grabbed a piece of lawn near my friend Lynn, the mother of my then five-year-old daughter's "best friend ever". I adore and respect Lynn. We laughed and talked, enjoyed each other's company as best we could while vigilantly keeping track of our children in a crowded public place. As older and oh-so-appreciative moms, Lynn and I tend to be extremely (okay, overly) protective of our precious progeny. As was typical at such public events, my concave post-mastectomy chest elicited unwanted sympathy, shading my interpersonal interactions. "So, how are you feeling?" people would inquire. "How are YOU feeling?" I felt like snipping back.

You see, despite having completed my cancer treatment over three years prior, despite being entirely cancer free, having my long hair grown back, being extremely healthy and active.....in spite of all that, when people saw my concave, breastless profile they continued to define me as "suffering" from cancer. I suppose in some ways, they were right - I was still suffering emotionally from the physical scars my mastectomies left behind. Still, sympathy was the very LAST thing I ever wanted.

Anyway, at the picnic, the subject turned to the upcoming bathing suit season, and my struggles with finding a suit that worked. Our "swimsuit season" here in New England being especially short, I wondered out loud if the shopping would be worth the trauma. My dear sympathetic friend conferred. Then it happened. The image of the Abercrombie model on the now-empty bag looked at me. Or so it seemed. I picked the bag up for a closer look. "Why can't I have THAT," I said out loud to my friend. "That's all I want to be happy," I added while deep in thought. "Yeah, don't we all!" came the response. "What?" "Oh!" We both laughed a good cleansing laugh. The image on the opposite side of the bag, the one facing her, was pure beef - a topless young stud of a twenty-something man! I laid the bag down. The young woman pictured was lovely. The model's barely-there "AA" contour, the minimal curve in her shirt, seemed so wonderfully feminine to me. Bumps.....that's all I really wanted.

Why was this very modest wish not possible? I had been told by three well-established plastic surgeons that my small frame, the amount of tissue taken during my life-saving mastectomy surgery, and the radiation treatment damage precluded me from any kind of breast reconstruction. Each time I was told this it was harder to take. With all the advances in medicine, wound repair, and science, this lack of possibility was difficult for me, a highly educated and tenacious person, to accept.

The bag's place was elevated from the recyclable totes heap to a place in my closet, where the Abercrombie model continued to look through a camera lens right at me.

A Rude Sales Clerk Saved My Life

Yes, a rude salesperson at a Marshall's store unwittingly helped save my life.

For the four years following my mastectomies, one of my greatest challenges involved shopping for bathing suits. Let's face it, no woman really enjoys this affair. For, we are at our most exposed point, most vulnerable in terms of our self-image, when staring at ourselves under the harsh fluorescent lighting in bare fitting room cells. What I saw reflected back to me in that mirror reminded me of my cancer, and made me feel more than physically reduced.

Over the years after the removal of my cancer (and my breasts) I had the pleasure of numerous strange and unsuccessful trips to department stores, attempting to find a bathing suit that "worked" for my "two-dimensional" post-mastectomy body. My beloved mom and daughter normally accompanied me on these annual, dreaded trips to the bathing suit sections of various retail establishments. We would start in the juniors department, and inevitably end up in the little girls area, searching for a suit that would fit my flat chest. You see, my concave chest gave new meaning to the term "pear shaped body", with normal adult-woman hips and an abnormal "blank" chest. At 5'2 and 105 lbs., I was lucky. The girls size 16 suits I often ended up with assumed the wearer had a pre-pubescent body, but also reflected the color and fabric choices enjoyed by little girls. (Picture multi-colored hearts and cheesy plastic trims).

These trips would begin with a deep inhale of resolve before entering the store, and exchanged "here we go" glances between the three generations of women. We would take armfuls of bathing suits into the fitting room, where I would put on a pathetic (sometimes comically theatrical) fashion show to my hopeful loving audience. Other fitting room comrades would lend quick sideways glances; their expressions, though fleeting, would ask more than they would reveal. Often, the absurdity of these sessions would evoke a range of emotions, exploding into laughter or ending with me fighting back tears.

I had tried prosthetic bathing suits. Companies like Lands End do offer women some suits that accommodate a breast prosthetic. (Thank you Lands End!) Unfortunately, most of these have an "older" or "larger" woman in mind. I'd rather the bows and hearts than the matronly cruisewear-style swimsuit. Also, the prosthetics have a tendency to "escape" from the suit at exactly the wrong time. (Picture my coyly chasing my bobbing fake boob floating in a public pool.) Additionally, the shifting wet prosthetic, coupled with the wet suit rubbed horribly against my scarred chest. The chafing was, well, certainly not worth the contour.

Well, in the summer of year four I had finally, I thought, found a woman's bathing suit that would work! Of course, this suit had been settled on after another emotional outing. When I got it home, and modeled it for my equally hopeful husband, we both realized that the "empty" spots on the top just would not do. I also realized that, with no breast contour to hold the suit in place, it rose up my chest every time I lifted my arms up. Hmm. Too bad...I liked it.

Two weeks later the three girls (me, my mom, and my young daughter) returned to the Marshall's store from where I purchased that suit. The plan was to exchange it, but there were no other viable choices. There was a long line at the return desk. This is where the rude clerk saved my life! I had removed the tag from the garment, and she absolutely refused to take it back. I quietly explained the circumstances, still no effect. Well, this was a watershed moment for me, I guess. Four years of suppressed emotion came pouring out. I burst into tears, left the store (followed by my consoling child), and realized at that moment how very much (despite my convincing myself otherwise) I really missed my breasts.

You see, my life had been saved by a year of cancer treatments. But, my "life", had been sorely affected. The scars ripping across my chest healed, but had left much deeper emotional ones.

Two other things happened within weeks of that incident that set me on the path to my reconstruction and "resurrection." I will explain more in my next post.