my brother swallowed his gum

When I suggested that I would post a photo at some point of the full frontal monty, one of my beloved brothers just about swallowed his gum and begged me to reconsider. I won't say which one, but it's the one who looks put together when he is in his jeans or is riding around on his lawn mower. He can't help it -- he just can't do mussed or casual. I mean no offense to him, or to my other beloved brother, for whom looking "put together" is, well, a different thing, a funny thing. Like I try not to laugh when I see the other brother in a suit. Hey, beloved other brother, I'll say. Ha ha, you're in a SUIT! Where did you get that? 

I can say these things because I can't dress up either. Now and then I will try, kind of like testing out petting a cat after a lifetime of allergies, just in case it works this time. I still feel bad about the lovely invitation from a couple of friends, maybe two years ago, to a gala evening (this should have been a warning, but we had the allergy-to-gala-evenings experiment going, and hoped we might be able to pull it off) at the Wadsworth Atheneum. Laura and I dressed up, I think; I don't entirely trust my judgment on that, but I'm pretty sure we were dressed up the way you're supposed to for a gala event. Yani put a little bit of makeup on me, kind of like you help your friend zip up their Halloween costume. So we arrive at the Atheneum, and someone wants to take our coats. Oh! Ha ha! Sure! You may "take our coats!" we say, laughing, assuming we are all playing dress up. The entire evening I felt out of place. We were all dressed up, but I felt like the one with footie pajamas underneath my long black skirt.

Dressing me up has never worked. It occurs to me that adding a photo of myself as a child in my native dress and habitat may convince those who think this is an exaggeration. On the right I will put a picture of me dressed up. In which photo do I look more at peace?

 Even in my therapy practice, I notice that I am gradually working
my way toward jeans and a jacket (a nod, just barely, to convention)
as my customary garb. When I try to look more "professional," I
dash back upstairs as soon as I can to get back to what feel like my own clothes. I figure very soon, with just a few more gray hairs, I will let myself be me. Oh, paula. Yes, She's that nice therapist with
                                     no breasts who wears jeans.

If I do post a picture of my mastectomy scars, beloved brothers, sister, and other readers, it will be because there is nothing to see. Without breasts, it's not sensational, or revealing, or even particularly intimate. That is one of the interesting and sad parts about all this, and I think a picture on this little blog would demonstrate that. Look, ma, nothing to see.

(Brief medical update in closing: When the VNA nurse came yesterday and swallowed her gum upon seeing the blister and fluid accumulation, we were sent straightaway to the doctor. They pulled out another two cups of fluid from the left side. The spectacular blister is still there, and our instructions are to guard it like a little egg in an incubator of gauze. The surgeon had to tell Laura repeatedly that, no, no matter how gratifying if would be to take a pin to the blister, she is not allowed. Though for some reason I am producing all this fluid with no signs of stopping any time soon, it was a great relief to flatten out again and start anew. We'll repeat the procedure on Tuesday.)