The irony has not escaped me. Today is Valentine’s Day. A day for chocolate hearts, red roses, silly cards and balloons. What am I doing on this day made for lovers? I’m keeping an appointment with Helga at 10am. No, it isn’t a secret romantic tryst. Not today. Though I’m not at all opposed to that sort of thing. Helga sells lingerie. She advertises herself as ‘The Mobile Bra Lady’ and she’s coming to our home with her special collection of satin and lace. I’m choosing my first breast prosthesis and though I haven’t seen one, I rather fancy it will be balloon like in shape. Not red of course, but a Valentines gift anyway. From me, to me, for me.
Was it only this morning that my lover had run her fingers over my newly acquired thin pink mastectomy scar and said, ‘You don’t have to do this for me, you know, I love you just the way you are, breast or no breast. You certainly don’t need silicone to be a real woman, or to make believe nothing happened and it’s okay to carry the scars of battle; warriors do, you know. They don’t cover them up either.’ She was sounding defensive on my behalf and we’d been down this road before.
‘I do know and I do feel good about myself,’ I pipe up. She knows this. She’s just being bloody stubborn. I’m not sure why she’s so adamant on this point. Perhaps it’s a case of overprotection? After all we’d been through, I couldn’t be angry. I rewind to my side of the morning’s conversation. ‘Look, I’m sick of wearing big sloppy tops and shirts with pockets and I’m up to here with being a patient. I just want to get back to normal now that the chemo is finished and get on with our life together. Can’t you understand that? I start back at work in a fortnight and this is something I really want to do.’ I’d rolled over, stretching luxuriously, feeling confident and content with my decision. ‘I know you don’t mind my new look, but I can’t wear the slinky tops you buy me, looking like this.’ I’d sat up then and wiggled myself playfully in her face and I’d laughed trying to dispel the emotionally charged build up between us. ‘A girl has to look her best when she goes out on the town with you as her date,’ I teased. Everyone stares. You’re so s.e.x.y.’ I’d leant over and kissed her. That always worked. ‘Don’t worry, I’m okay, really.’ With a light smack to her bare bottom I’d headed for the shower.
Right on ten, Helga walks up the front steps and into my life, weighed down with two large suitcases and a bulging shoulder bag. She projects a warmth and great confidence with her open friendly manner and I respond to her immediately.
Now I am staring at our double bed and there, nestled like so many pale pink jellies freshly tipped out of their moulds, are prostheses. Left breast prostheses to be exact. At least ten of them in varying shapes and sizes. So that’s what a breast form looks like, I muse. Not balloons, but jellies. How wonderful; they don’t look at all unattractive … just vulnerable, lying there, all alone.
I stand, casually leaning against the wardrobe door, with hands thrust deeply in my short’s pocket. Hopefully I am giving an air of studied nonchalance to the occasion, while quietly studying the unfamiliar spectacle before me with growing interest and curiosity.
Helga’s voice, with its rich Dutch accent, cuts through my reverie. ‘It is time,’ she says, ‘to measure.’ I wonder what for. Noticing my odd look, she explains, ‘For the new bra. Come now dear. Then we get on with selecting correct prosthesis for you and your type of surgery.’ I slowly raise my arms and remove the loose ‘T’ I am wearing, exposing my soft bare breast and the pink scar, which boldly makes a statement across my left side.
I don’t expect such a variety of pretty bras to choose from. I had imagined they’d be practical, plain and ugly. After much difficulty, I decide on a little pink lacy number and one in white broderie englaise. To my surprise, they both have pockets. ‘To hold the prosthesis,’ said Helga, laughing at the look on my face, ‘you don’t want to lose it when you bend over, do you?’ This was a whole new angle. ‘Do women ever lose them Helga?’ I ask innocently. ‘Wait until you hear some of the stories I can tell you.’ She puts on a look of horror for my benefit. I laugh too. I feel relaxed.
Now for the big moment. I excitedly hold the first prosthesis in my hands, a flesh coloured oval, surprisingly heavier than it looks. It even has a nipple! I tuck it in my new lacy bra and as I turn to face the mirror, I’m delighted with my reflection. How very natural looking and so very comfortable on the freshly healed scar tissue. I twirl and pose, turn this way and that. Not bad!! What an emotional experience. I now have a better silhouette than before the operation, when I rarely wore a bra! I like what I see and hope my partner will too.
Tonight I feel a million dollars in a daring red scoop necked sleeveless top, decorated with sequins. V.e.r.y ritzy. It is a surprise gift from my lover. The Valentine’s Party at the restaurant is really jumping and the room is all decorated in red hearts, with red balloons bobbing across the ceiling. I smile when I think of balloons. Everyone is gooey-eyed and the music is the romantic ‘up close’ stuff. We sip our champagne, link hands and toast cupid. When we get up to dance, she whispers into my ear. I blush. ‘Hey beautiful, who said you couldn’t have a cleavage?’
I want to hug Helga. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ I whisper back.
Judy, age 64, Qld
aka Phoenix Breast Feather
Helga's valentine jellies 
