When I moved the first time, I moved over 40 sized-38D bras. Forty bras, I would never wear again. They were in the third drawer of my dresser. Everything in the dresser went into a box. At the new place, after the dresser was placed, all the stuff in the box went back into the dresser, including the 40 bras.
If you are wondering about the rationale behind this, let me save you some time. There was no rationale. Arguably there was anti-rationale. I just couldn’t think about it.
I would like to wear those bras again or one for the first time, the one I bought just days before my recurrence which still today has the tag on it, or the one which I got for a special occasion, or the one for that sweater with the funky neckline or the really nice purple one which I just really like.
I will never wear them again because I will never be a 38D again. (When I say this statement, people often say “Implants.” Forgive the sarcasm but, “Thanks people, because that is an option that had never occurred to me.” Trust me when I tell you, what multiple reputable post-mastectomy plastic surgeons told me, current medical science cannot make me a 38D again.)
And then there was the analytical, quantitative side of me, in complete denial of my post-cancer PTSD. I would say to myself quantitatively, I can’t really throw away those bras. I mean, my average bra costs $30. Do the math, we are talking about a $1200 multi-year investment. That is real value. (I had been told, erroneously, charities do not take bras.)
I move in two days. I have decided not to move the dresser.
And since I am not moving the dresser, I kind of have to confront the contents, specifically the contents of the third drawer, the lacy, the functional, the sporty, the playful, the comfy, the push up, the minimize, the pretty….
And in a whoosh, they went into a bag, labeled 38D; they were marched down to the Post Office where they were send to Bras for a Cause, P.O. Box 5011, Parker, AZ 85344.
Drawer empty.
Drawer empty.
And let me tell you what that empty drawer means.
Yes, my double mastectomy really happened.
Stupid: Cancer PTSD.
Cool: The firm hope that the bra that made feel special, will make someone else feel special; the one that made me feel pretty, will make some other woman feel pretty; the one that was super comfy, will make some other woman super comfy….
(In case you are wondering why this is entry is called 21 bras and not 40 bras, it is because over the last couple of years I manage to whittle down to 21 bras, by donating, throwing out, or giving away. Today, 21 bras went in the mail.)
