Evelyn Francis Louise Hall

Evelyn Frances Louise Hall stood in front of the mirror after getting out of the shower, staring at her almost thin frame. This was because she noticed that her rounded belly hung loosely like an apron from her midsection and gently rested on what she perceived as swollen thighs. The extra skin that hung freely from the back of her arms lay quiet and still until she moved them, and a slight flapping sound would remind her of the weight she’d lost and gained and now lost again. Only this time, she’d managed to keep it off an entire year even to her own amazement and astonishment. She wasn’t skinny by any means, but she wasn’t fat anymore either. It was what she liked to refer to as the more hopeful place in between the fat and the skinny. That place where she wasn’t quite the hot girl but not the chubby bridesmaid who kept company with great uncle Charles at the wedding because no one asked her to dance.

She stared into the mirror and noted the long strands of gray that invaded large sections of her once dark and thick head of hair.

She’d always considered herself somewhat attractive, especially in her younger years, even calling herself pretty in a moderately conservative kind of way. And beyond her beauty, she was one smart cookie. Not only was she smart, but also, she had learned to be most resilient. She graduated from college having majored in social services and married her college sweetheart. They were not rich but did well. They lived a modest but comfortable life in the suburbs. She and her husband had juggled two mortgages, five children, a mastectomy, and then a second and third bout with cancer. She noticed the open space where her breasts used to be. She studied the thick scar that ran wide and deep. Her fingers traced it until they came to rest on her shoulder.

A knock at the door.

She answered but did not move. “Yes?”

It was her husband. He was concerned that she’d been so long. There were times when she had trouble navigating the tub. She’d been cancer-free for more than five years now, but the effects of the chemo had taken a toll on her body. Along with the gray and thinning hair, she had developed mobility issues and joint pain. Getting in and out of the tub was more than daunting. She’d fallen several times and required assistance. Recently, her husband installed a walk-in tub and shower to help her. Even though she could more easily get in and out, he was insistent on helping her or, at minimum, knocking on the door several times during her bath.

She brushed her hair. “I’m ok.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, just give me a minute. I’m getting dressed now.”

She could tell that he hesitated before finally making his way down the hallway. He had always taken good care of her and had been nothing short of amazing with their children. With the first cancer diagnosis, he immediately took charge, using his scientific background to study all the treatments available. He questioned doctors relentlessly about the medications and therapies. With the first mastectomy, he learned how to dress the wound and what to do for the stiffness. With the second, he worked with a physical therapist and researched herbal remedies to help with nausea. The third round of treatment was the most aggressive and the most difficult - the thinning hair and blistering skin. Her loss of appetite and fatigue was almost unbearable. Yet, he stood with her every step of the way, and five years later, he was still standing.

She pulled on her clothes and sat on the side of the tub. Just getting dressed some days was a chore, but manageable. Her gaze was drawn to the mastectomy bra and the prosthesis cups laying on the sink counter. Today, she left them off. They felt heavy and hot to her. She pulled herself up and placed them into the drawer where she mostly kept them. The decision not to wear the prosthetic was not a decision taken lightly. It was one that she wrestled with off and on for years. When she lost her first breast, she struggled with her identity. It was difficult for her to allow anyone including her husband to see her. With or without clothes, she felt humiliated and certainly not pretty - not even in a moderately conservative kind of way. It would take months before she allowed her husband to touch her, and even then, she was apprehensive. But by the second breast removal, she had come to terms with it and the adjustment was easier.

Another knock at the door.

“Honey?”

“I’m almost out.”

“I made breakfast.”

“I smell the coffee. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Again, he paused for a moment then continued down the hallway.

She stood up and turned to the side. Her flat chest is a drastic comparison to her broad hips and flabby arms. Being at home without the prosthetic bra was one thing-family and friends she was fine with-but in public? She could feel the stares, the judgment, the pity. She tried to imagine what she looked like before. It had been so long ago. She closed the drawer and grabbed a tube of lipstick from her makeup bag. She applied it and smiled. “Lipstick always makes things better,” she thought.

A third knock.

"Honey," she said, "you're doing too much." Her words were gentle yet firm.

“No, babe,” he said, “I just wanted to know if you wanted to head over to the Farmer’s Market after we eat. David and the kids called and wanted to know if we would meet them later.”

“That’s fine.”

This time he didn’t hesitate but scurried away. She could hear him speaking to their son on the phone. She reached for the drawer handle and stopped. She didn’t really want to wear the bra. It was hot out and her shoulder already ached. But what would people think? A flat-chested woman with wide hips and flabby arms. How would she look? Her husband never made her feel less than beautiful. Her children supported her either way, and her friends encouraged her to be free and toss the thing altogether. But what did she think? How did she feel?

She held the bra in her hands and looked down at her bare chest. At one point, having the bra had been a lifesaver. In the beginning, it helped her feel pretty, yet she realized that it no longer defined her beauty. It helped her, but it was not the thing that made her beautiful. She recognized that because of the expense, some women had never had one at all. The thought was not one she took lightly. She placed the bra back into the drawer and closed it.

She heard her husband coming towards the door and before he could knock, she spoke. “Almost done.”

He said nothing but shuffled off.

She smiled to herself. She often wondered how many times he would come to the door if she stayed in there. Once she pushed the envelope, and he made five trips before she finally came out. Though she knew he meant well, she sometimes wondered if he wasn't the one who needed her.

“I love my body.” She spoke the words confidently as she looked eye to eye in the mirror. It was an affirmation she’d picked up in her cancer survivor support group. She turned to the side, grabbed the bra, held it to her chest, and marched in place like a soldier. Bursting into laughter, she quickly lowered her voice. She held the bra up again. “I am pretty.” She held it down. “I love my body. I am pretty.” She repeated the words, affirming to herself that bra or no bra, she was just as good either way.

She planned to attend an event for her granddaughter's music class tomorrow. She would dress up and wear the bra, but today she would not. Tossing the bra into the drawer for the last time, she pulled out her tube of lipstick once more and dotted the corner of her mouth. She noticed that the gray actually wasn’t half bad, and her hips now didn’t seem as wide. And today she looked pretty and not just in a moderately conservative kind of way. She smiled as she dropped the last of her makeup in her purse. As she opened the door, she greeted her husband, “I’m ready.”