Tag Archives: clothes

Separates

You know that feeling when you wake up knowing exactly what you are going to wear that day and said outfit is going to be the best outfit you have ever worn in your life and not only that, it will be the best outfit anybody else has ever seen? Well, that is exactly how I felt up opening my eyes this morning. I was going to wear a dress and I was going to look hot. H-O-T hot. I was very excited and pleased to be giving this gift to the world.

And then I remembered…

Today was a day I had to wear separates. The Medically Trained People made it so. Not only did I have to wear separates, but I also had to wear something with an elasticated waist. It was at that point I knew the day was going to be a let down.* I had not planned for this when my eyes were closed. I was going to have to look daggy. I was also going to have to have a bone marrow biopsy. My outfit upset me more.

I know it is a price one has to pay on Biopsy Day, at least on Velcade Days I do not have to lower my being to elasticated and ‘comfy’, I just begrudge it.

Nobody warns you when they tell you everything else about it, that myeloma dictates your dress, even, occasionally, forcing one to become sartorially challenged. At least once a fortnight, I dress for myeloma and not for me. Imagine that. It has been 17 months, and still, every time it happens, the few times it happens you understand, it smarts. It really smarts.

Oh, and I really cannot believe that it has been six months and four days since my transplant.

EJB x

* except for the fact that I was accompanied to my biopsy by two fine ladies and a foetus, and had a scone, I love scones.

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Fattypuffs and Thinifers

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Retail Therapy

Cancer does not make you wise. That’s a secret we don’t like to admit to, but it’s true. Cancer does not mean that you stop making mistakes or the occasional error in judgement. I am fortunate, that I am practically perfect in everyday, but that does still leave some room for, you know, the occasional lapse in judgement.

It would be fair to say that I had a lapse in judgement last week. I knew it was coming. I had shaved off my hair and I was feeling weak. All so very weak. I needed a pick me up. I could feel it clawing away at my psyche, telling me that I needed to look better, but more crucially, that I could easily look better if only I invested a bit of time and money. The problem here however, is that I have no money. I do however have a credit card and my, do I know how it use it. It is also apparent that I have absolutely no self control. The excellent part about whatever came over me last Saturday afternoon, is that I did it all from the comfort of Mamma Jones’ sofa. No walking around shops for me. I can’t do that anyway. I have myeloma.

To be clear, ‘all’ means quite a lot of purchases with fake money. It is people like me who make this economy work. Cancer patients. Well, maybe not, I think there is a hole in my logic. We buy on credit and then have no hope of ever paying it back. In your face Barclays. In your face. Hello new stuff.

This week, there has been a steady flow of parcels coming to my front door. It has been lovely. Fake money and immense guilt aside, I have received, two pairs of shoes, two dresses, two skirts, a top, four pairs of earrings, two necklaces and a wig. There may well be the odd thing that is still outstanding, but only time will tell. Or Royal Mail.

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Just look how pretty it all is.

I know it is wrong, but I feel so much better. I know that all this stuff will vastly improve my quality of life. It makes me hotter than I was before, and I know that I have the ability to be hot, even with my current, generous display of scalp. This new stuff, is going to make you tell me that you are in love with me, because you are. I can sense it.

In short, the retail therapy worked. It worked in Pretty Woman didn’t it? She may have been a prostitute, but I have myeloma. I deserved it more than she did, but I only had a credit card to hand. The spree made me stronger. I have new stuff. And as my six year old niece told me today, I am so ‘fash-ON’. She is wise, all so very wise. Probably wiser than me, but I can be forgiven. I have cancer don’t you know.

And that is my cancer card played for the week. Or maybe month, if something else does not come along to upset me.

EJB x

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Loose Fitting Clothes

In the last week I have been advised twice to wear ‘loose fitting clothes’ for my forthcoming outpatient procedures. My response to this has been simple, I do not own any.

Given my build, the fact that I do not own any loose fitting clothes may be surprising, but it is true. The loosest things I own are pyjamas and I will not be wearing these to the hospital. It is bad enough that I have to wear them for a month when I am in hospital. The receptionist kindly suggested that for my bone marrow biopsy, I wore jogging bottoms. My response to this was simple, it was, “do I look like I own jogging bottoms?”

Now, I am wise enough to know that I need to be comfortable for these procedures and I understand that the jogging bottom is considered to be a comfortable garment. I know myself well enough to know that I would not be comfortable wearing a jogging bottom or any overly baggy trouser with an elasticated waist in public.

People, by people, I mean the public are not going to judge an overweight cancer patient for dressing like a slob. For I would look like a slob; I definitely would not look like I was about to partake in some vigorous exercise. I would judge myself.

You can say what you want to say about my fashion sense, but it is mine. It is my amour. I realised early on into my journey, that my clothes are the one part of me that oozes my personality, when the drugs send my actual personality to sleep. My appearance has already been compromised because of My Myeloma and I will not compromise anymore.

It sounds ridiculous but I know that I can handle a Medically Trained Person sucking out my bone juices and then removing a bit of bone with what I imagine to be a smaller version of an apple corer, if I am confident. I will feel more confident if I have my slap on and I am wearing my tight clothes. I need my armour.

The jogging bottom does not my armour make.

If I have to do these things, I am doing them looking like one foxy hot mama. Albeit, potentially, with a cannula sticking out my groin. Suggestive.

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