Life is full of choices.
Plain milk, or chocolate milk.
Oreos, or chocolate chips.
Vanilla ice cream, or chocolate.
Laugh about unfortunate circumstances, or cry over them.
I choose to laugh. (I also choose chocolate, but that's irrelevant at the moment.)
There are a hundred little aspects to this journey that kind of (or really) suck, but in the spirit of choosing to laugh, I'm going to share them with you. Today's installment:
The Miniskirt.
This surgery and recovery comes with a lot of gear. Special garments, helpful devices, that sort of thing. One of these is the belly band.
My abdomen has taken a beating. A section of fat and skin was removed, and they also had to poke around my ab muscles to find the right arteries to disconnect and reconnect up top. Oh, and my belly button also had to be relocated, but that's a story for another day.
So after all that trauma, they want me to wear a belly band all day to provide support for my poor abused belly.
I'm not taking a picture to model this thing, so let me help you understand. This garment is made of elastic that puts Spanx to shame. I'm fairly certain it came from NASA, and was possibly rejected for being too rigid. It even has these little squiggly ribs inside to give it more rigidity, so that when I peel it off at the end of the day, my skin resembles a Wavy Lays potato chip. You ever need to fit into your little black dress, after choosing chocolate a few too many times, you call me, I can hook you up.
The top and bottom edges have a wide band of flat elastic to attempt to keep the garment in place. The top edge starts at my ribs and slowly works its way down all day. The bottom edge, in a perfect world, would sit below my butt and stay put. Sadly, we live in a fallen world.
Additionally, the garment is sized for a 9 year old. Something about a snug fit provides better support, but they underestimated the circumference of my torso, especially my butt, as well as the length of my torso. So o spend my days fighting to keep stuffing in the sausage wrap, so to speak.
A super fun part of the cancer/recovery thing is that pretty much all of your dignity is stripped away as you give up all autonomy for caring for your own body. I'm not allowed to push, pull or lift more than 5-7 pounds. This belly band requires approximately 847 pounds of pull force to get into its designated location. Which means... I can't put it there by myself. Or even help with the process. The best I can do is stand very still, with my legs as close together as I can get them, think tiny-hiney thoughts, and try my best not to fall over as a loved one hoists this garment into place. So, the first day I'm putting this thing on, James jokes, "Hey, it's like a miniskirt." Have I mentioned that it's maybe harder to be the Loved One than the Patient?
So, remember how I told you the band comes down below my butt? And remember how I told you that I can't get it on by myself? You see any issues with this setup? Underwear. Underwear are an issue. Because if I were able to squeeze anything between myself and the band, then it'd be stuck there until someone was ready to help me take it off for the day. I may have given up a lot of my autonomy, but at least I'm able to go pee on my own.
Oh, and one more thing about this wonderful garment. Actually, two. One, it's HOT. Did you know I live in Texas, and it's August, and I'm on hormone blockers than cause hot flashes? So let's add another layer of fabric that absolutely does not BREATHE, and enjoy! Two, I'm the tiniest bit claustrophobic. It's not quite tight enough to restrict my breathing, but I spend the entire day just noticing its faithful presence. So by the end of the day all I can think is GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF.
And now, my friends, you have a thorough appreciation of the belly band, and hopefully you've had a good laugh, as well!
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