THE LINGERIE SHOP | Colleen Cavanaugh
When I was in middle school, I saw my mother quietly leave home and climb into her little Fiat. She drove alone to a neighboring town to shop at Ruth’s. I was never invited, but then I really wasn’t interested; I didn’t know where she was going or what she was shopping for. When she returned home, she furtively hid her shopping bag in her bedroom. Sometimes when she was at work I slipped into her room. My ritual included gazing at my ten-year-old self in the mirror, painting my lips with her pale, pink lipstick and wearing her favorite clip on earrings. As I rummaged through her dresser drawers, I came upon my mother’s special bras. There was a pocket on the right side of her bras. There were also small cotton oval shaped clumps of fabric that were made to slip into the pocket. My mother wore these bras to hide the concavity in her chest from her mastectomy.
Today, as a gynecologist, I care for many women with breast cancer. I may have been the doctor who first told them they had breast cancer. When I see them again, after their surgery and or radiation and chemotherapy, most openly share their experiences with me. They pull up their gown and show me their reconstruction, their scars and the effects of radiation on their breasts. Some also show me their flat chest wall after a mastectomy. I listen and examine them. I am relieved to see them and grateful that they can share their journey with me.
Those who have chosen not to undergo reconstruction or who have had post-op cosmetic complications sometimes visit a small lingerie shop in Cranston, Rhode Island. I recognize the shop’s name. It is the shop my mother drove to in the late 1960s. Last year, I visited Ruth’s Shop out of curiosity, eager to learn more about my mother’s secret.
This shop, tucked in a strip mall, is now part of a legacy for many women in their journey of healing. Half of Ruth’s Lingerie shop has elegant lingerie and bathing suits. The other half is devoted solely to breast cancer survivors. There are two small dressing rooms and many organized racks of bras and camisoles. As I enter the quiet shop, Laurie and Denise, the ‘certified fitters’ graciously invite me to join them at a table in the back room. The two fitters are in their late 50’s dressed in casual clothes without much makeup. There is no pretense of glamour or affect. I’m not sure what to think of them until we sit down together. I am overcome with appreciation and awe at their obvious generosity and passion for what they do.
They have devotedly worked at Ruth’s for many years. Over time, they have gotten to know their customers well. They share their stories with me. Some of their clients wish to hide their physical changes and ease their embarrassment. Some women have had disfiguring radical mastectomies years ago. There may be scarring or notable defects. Some hope to hide their diagnosis and surgeries from others. Some hope they can wear dresses and blouses and look beautiful again. Some hope to look and feel sexy again and some hope to reclaim their femininity and identity as a woman.
“They share everything with us. We get to know their families. They tell us about their surgery, their office visits and their chemotherapy,” Denise tells me. As she describes the sadness, shame and anger her patients share with her, she wipes a tear from her eye.
Laurie continues. “They describe their pain and they sometimes mourn the lost sensitivity in their breast tissue after surgery and radiation.”
Denise and Laurie then take turns describing the fittings.
“This is one of the final steps in their acceptance of the loss of a breast,” Denise shares with me.
“Some of the women are happy with their new appearance. They hug us and leave the shop feeling a little prettier,” Laurie adds.
“But many have come to us unwillingly, unable to admit that this loss is final.” Denise adds.
Both women nod, acknowledging this tragedy.
Measurements are gently and meticulously taken and then Laurie and Denise help the women select different bra styles. They chaperone their often timid clients, combing the racks which line the walls and pulling out different styles. In one of two dressing rooms, the women try on their new bras.
As I follow Laurie around the store, she opens drawer after drawer, showing the different samples. Many of the bras have pockets on the side where a synthetic soft breast prosthesis can be slipped in to mimic the shape of the other breast. The prosthesis are all shapes, sizes and textures.
“Here, feel these,” she directs me.
I carefully touch the samples, holding them in my hand. They are flesh colored, soft and yielding. My mother’s prosthesis was a white lump of cotton shaped into a triangle. Laurie is clearly proud of the collection.
For a woman who has had a lumpectomy which may have left them with an obvious asymmetry, there are small, soft prosthetic triangles that can be tucked inside their bra. This matches the shape of the defect so that both breasts seem symmetrical. Laurie eagerly shows these off also. There are also compression sleeves for women who have a common complication of lymphedema.
Laurie and Denise also describe their sadness when a client passes away. Sometimes the client’s family members call them. Sometimes they see names in the obituaries. Sometimes, a partner will bring in the prosthesis so it can be donated to those without insurance coverage. Laurie and Denise feel like they have lost a friend or family member.
Shopping at Ruth’s was my mother’s secret outing. She hid her bras from us, but perhaps this was a place she could go and not feel like an outcast. As Laurie sadly describes women who are unable to look at themselves in the mirror, I imagine my mother, trembling and hunched over in embarrassment, naked from the waist up, avoiding the mirror and facing a wall in a small dressing room, struggling to try on her new bra with its prosthesis. I hope she had a compassionate fitter who tried to ease her embarrassment. I hope the fitter took her measurements gently, and complimented her as she exited the dressing room. I wonder if she felt a little prettier as she drove home in her little Fiat to our family.
Colleen Cavanaugh, MD has taken care of women in Rhode Island in her Gynecology practice for over thirty years. Before returning to R.I. to attend Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University, Cavanaugh performed ballet and modern dance in NYC professionally. Her initial BA degree was in Art History from Wheaton College. She continues to integrate her clinical experience and lifelong artistic calling in her writing. Cavanaugh resides in Rhode Island with her husband, her dog and two cats.