I lost my boob. And it was awful.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hasn’t she complained about her mastectomy enough?” But I’m not talking about losing my breast. I came to terms with that months ago. And reconstruction remains on my horizon, but is not in my immediate future.

With reconstruction still several months away, I purchased a fake boob shortly after my surgery. Being someone with an overabundance of breasts, I needed something quite large. Imagine my giggling when I realized that most of the products in my size were not exclusively marketed to mastectomy patients, but rather to transgender folks and cross-dressers.

So I have a fake boob. I’ve worn it for months now, but over the weekend, I lost it and couldn’t find it for about a day and a half.

I was lopsided. I was unbalanced. And, more importantly, I was mortified.

I have, quite obviously, no problem talking about my cancer. I’ll happily talk mastectomy scars, radiation tattoos and chemo side effects with almost no filter to anyone who’ll stand still long enough to listen to me. I love to talk and what better subject? I can vent my frustrations, educate others and maybe get a laugh, all at the same time.

But I’m apparently feeling that the physical evidence of my experience is something to be hidden or disguised. I never go out in public without my boob. It’s like the old American Express commercial. “Don’t leave home without it.”

Because while everyone knows, not everyone needs to see.

I’ve seen the eyes dart towards my chest when someone looks at me. Whenever I encounter a stranger, I see first the recognition that something must be wrong because, lovely though my headscarves and baseball hats are, clearly I’ve lost my hair. Then their eyes sink lower to try to figure out what kind of cancer I must be fighting. When I’m wearing my boob, it is not readily apparent what my battle is. When I’m not, everyone knows, leaving me looking funny and feeling exposed.

The problem is, I hate wearing that damn thing. In the winter and spring it wasn’t so bad. It would get a little damp on warm days, and I had to be careful what “foundation garments” I was wearing; the stupid bugger likes to poke its head out above my neckline occasionally and see what’s going on in the world. But other than that, it wasn’t so bad.

Now that it’s summer, it’s like having a soggy sponge stuck in my bra. If you’ve ever thought that underboob sweat was gross, simply magnify that feeling by, oh, infinity, and you’ll get an idea of just how gross it is. It soaks up sweat and makes me sweat and, perhaps most disgusting of all, reeks of sweat by the end of each day.

Say it with me. Ewwwwwwww.

On Sunday, we came home from church with our Dunkin’ Donuts and I whipped it out and threw it on the couch. When it came time to leave the house again, I couldn’t find it. I didn’t know if the kids hid it from each other, the cat hid it because he’s a pain in my ass, or my husband hid it to be funny. I couldn’t find it. And I had to leave the house.

I put on my blousiest blouse, sucked it up and went out. I don’t know whether anyone noticed or not. I was certainly a great deal more comfortable physically than I normally am when I wear it. But I found myself holding my arm at a certain angle to try and hide my deformity. My daughter was with me and she was worried whether I would feel sad without my boob. I was worried that she would be embarrassed.

At the end of the day, she wasn’t embarrassed and I wasn’t sad. I’m not trying to draw a philosophical conclusion or make an empowering statement about going out in public with only one boob. I just eventually stopped thinking about the fact that I didn’t have it. Just like I’ve usually don’t think about the fact that I don’t have my real breast anymore. No one pays much attention to their normal.

I did find my boob. It was under a pile of laundry. And I’ve been wearing it. But it was really, really hot yesterday and after wearing it all day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I made the command decision to not wear it. I sat at my kids’ football and cheerleading practices sans fake boob, without holding my arm at a funny angle and fighting off the little voice in my head telling me I should be mortified without it. By midway through practice, I wasn’t even thinking about it anymore.