Blessings

It is inevitable in this cancer journey, that at some stage I will take stock and seek to count my blessings.

In fact, in my world, it's essential to the daily experience of living.

I've mentioned it before: how my mother has been a staunch advocate of 'gratitude', something that was drummed into my sisters and me from around the time we arrived in Australia.

I think that my Mum, in her efforts to acclimatise to the alien lifestyle we discovered here, always focussed on the fact that, despite our trials and tribulations, we should be grateful that they gave up the known for the unknown for the better life we had.

From this then, it has not been hard for me to become a person that continually checks herself. I routinely count my blessings, I really do. But cancer has truly brought it home.

In fact, it's made me somewhat sensitive to the fact that, for too many people I know, life is not about blessings but a string of apparently unending curses.

Sometimes I think that we are a species of whingers who never run out of reasons to complain or whine about something that is unsatisfactory, that doesn't meet a standard.

For many of us it seems, things are never good enough and we exist in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction: not young enough; not pretty enough; not fit enough; not rich enough; not successful enough; not free enough; not happy enough; not loved enough; not validated enough ... and so the list goes on.

I don't know how, when or why self acceptance became difficult. Was it the day man first saw his reflection in a pond of water? (Admittedly,the Neanderthals were no works of art but really, who cares if your forehead juts out a bit?) Did it begin the day the mother-in-law was invented?

I don't know what pleasure there is from an unrelenting focus on what is JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

It's amazing what a small shift in perspective will do, a shift that cancer has brought.

Thanks to cancer, here is one thing I now know for certain. The greatest blessing of all is life, and we can begin the chain of gratitude from this one simple fact: that we are all lucky simply to be alive.

I have lost count of the moments in which I have gazed of late, at simple things like a changing sky, a bird resting on a telephone line or the mesmerising sight of a full moon and been grateful to be alive.

Yesterday, during my routine late afternoon walk it started to rain so I took off my hat, just so I could feel the rain on my (bald) head. It just felt good, to hear the way it splashed on my skin, to feel the wetness of it, to be part of the living earth.

The smell of the heat off the tarmac, the sound of laughter, or even just a breeze on a hot summer's day makes me glad to still be here, walking this planet and breathing.

From this starting point, I can rattle off my blessings without a second guess: The country I now call home where we should have little to whinge about when you look at the crap that the rest of the world seems to be enduring; the access I have had to such wonderful medical care; my family, my friends, my home and all the support I have received; my interests that have so far stopped me going completely mad with boredom; my mental stamina that has helped me stay positive; the flexibility afforded by my profession that has allowed me to be sick in bed without fretting about obligations; even the love of my dog that has motivated me to get up and walk (I covered over 300 km throughout my chemo). There are so many worse lives I could be living with or without cancer. And I'm deeply grateful for that.

On top of this, as I will detail later, cancer in itself has been a blessing in disguise, providing a lens through which I have been able to gain a new clarity about people and things around me.

The one thing I have learned up front is that there's a universality about the way we humans think and feel. So instead of judging each other, we should be embracing each other as sisters and brothers, all co-travellers on the same, long, hard road.

In fact, I feel teary when I think about it: how human beings are generally good and we are all of us, just a little too hard on ourselves.

Although I am nowhere near the end of my journey, already I know that if anything, cancer has expanded my blessings.

So the problem isn't counting them.

It's keeping track of them.

Prosthesis

If my friend Chrissy hadn't sent me her own prosthesis (I've nicknamed it 'Dolly') for my use, it's likely I will never have got around to it. I've been making do with Dolly and, when lazy, I have to admit to making do with a rolled up bedrock - or a bunch of tissues as I did when caught short recently.

But today, I take myself to the Women's Wellbeing Centre in Greenslopes where I have an appointment with a lady called Carol Martin.

A former Occupational Therapist, Carol specialises in post-mastectomy fittings of prostheses and bras.

Having lost any real interest in the shape or presentation of my tits of late, the truth is I wouldn't have bothered except for the fact that I have a voucher from the Chicks in Pink entitling me to two bras up to the value of $160. Who can walk past a freebie I ask you?

There's also the fact that Chrissy's bras have done some heavy duty boulder holding, so they're a little the worse for wear. That, and I'm not sure if they're the right size. (From an overhead point of view, it's difficult to gauge).

My appointment's at 12.30 pm and right on time, I overshoot Carol's shop on my first attempt as it's located on Logan Road, so close to the intersection with a side street that it's easy to overlook.

In the end, a little hot and bothered, I do get there and find her office is located in a small centre.

I'm not really sure what to expect and find myself sitting in a nicely appointed professional suite.

I thumb vaguely through a 'Madison' magazine but have forgotten my glasses so that's useless. I wonder around the small space flicking through some brochures. (Hmm, 'Exercises for Arthritis'. I wonder if that's the next fabulous thing on my future health agenda).

A short while later, Carol comes out to greet me and I am met by a voluptuous lady dressed in a hot pink dress and with lovely shoulder-length blonde hair. (Any hair is lovely to me these days. Even Donald Trump's rug).

I follow her into a small room where I see a range of boxes containing prostheses I realise, and some bras displayed on a small rack.

When Carol asks me to take off my top, I somewhat embarrassedly confess that I have been using a second-hand prosthesis as I reveal one of Chris's old bras.

(As it turns out, I will walk out of here with the same bra but in my size and doing a better job of containing Paris who seems intent on popping out of nearly all the bras I try on. Ooh, she's a wild one alright).

First up, Carol attempts to find a matching prosthesis and part of my brain realises this was not on my agenda. Dolly's been doing me fine and these bastards are not exactly cheap.

Still, in Australia, Medicare provides a rebate of $400 for a breast prosthesis which means I will be out of pocket by only a few dollars (relatively speaking) if at all. So why not! (Besides, I'm too ashamed to admit I'm a cheapskate. It's that hair. It's so damn glamorous.)

Then Carol gets to work. She puts a lovely cream-coloured bra on me then produces a prosthesis that is, she says, very pert and sticks up a little. However, it seems smaller an a bit too perky next to Paris. Not a great match.

I am allowed to handle a couple of different varieties and note that they are substantially lighter than Dolly. (She's climate-controlling but so heavy I'm sure she'd be a rather fine bludgeoning tool).

Throughout this process, Carol comments on my buxom shape enough times so I gather it's noteworthy. (Inwardly, I sigh. How many times have I heard these kinds of comments. Okay, I get it. I have BIG BOOBS).

In the end, I select a Size 8 which is lighter than Dolly (a size 7) although it doesn't have her thermal properties.

Next it's onto the bras.

I can report that the process of fitting a bra onto a lopsided chest is an onerous task, requiring substantial wiggling as it is so important to properly centre the garment.

At some stage, one is also required to grab the remaining boob and kind of shake it, much as, say, a dog might worry a bone, so that it sits correctly inside the bra cup.

I can also report that on insertion of a prosthesis, the remaining breast is thrown into relief, its oozing fattiness emphasised. My cup really does overfloweth.

As well, it's a trap for the unwary that a missing breast can create an unsightly 'cleavage' that most post-mastectomy women strive desperately to hide. So some bras are quite unsuitable because when you bend over, it's not exactly your 'Swimsuit Illustrated' look.

That's why, we mastectomised mummas rely on the overall sizzle of the bra to divert one's eyes away from the all too obvious thing that stares you in the eye - this girl is titless.

And so, after parting with $435 of which $400 will be returned, courtesy of the exorbitant taxes I pay, I leave Carol Martin with a new breast in place.

To the untrained eye, to all intents and purpose, I am a whole, not a half where the Boobsie Twins are concerned.

The ghost of Nicky has risen in a triangle of silicon that's shoved inside my bra and sits tamed as the real Nicky would not have allowed herself to be tamed.

This one sits where it's put and refuses to budge. It comes out when I require it too. It does not sag or wobble. There is nothing 'come hither' about this baby. At least, I don't think so.

I should be glad but a bit part of me is missing Nicky.

She may have made an unsightly boob of herself from time to time but really, that girl had personality.

I don't get it you know. Why so many women seek that silicone enhancement.

Who could possibly want plastic, this dead and lifeless shape, when you have the real thing?

Love what you have, ladies. You might think it's not much but from here, even your pancakes are looking pretty fine to me.

Remember, a beautiful chest is a cancer-free chest.