The Dress I Didn't Buy: Navigating Identity When Your Body Betrays You

I only took five steps into the store before I spotted the dress. It was deep blue, with an A-line past the knees, and crafted by a designer I love who knows how to embrace curves with graceful precision. The subtle black floral pattern added dimension and a touch of elegance. It was a quintessential Shawna dress. I love dresses, particularly when I've pulled them from a rack where I paid a fraction of what anyone else did, and especially when they are still so captivating that strangers stop me on the street to comment on them. It's kinda my thing.

I'm good at knowing exactly what will look great on my body. I know where it can be fitted and where I want it to flow. I’m not a size 6 - I’m a size 12. Depending on the day and the designer a size 14. Not a size our society easily equates with being comfortable in your skin. It’s taken time to love and accept this body. It’s taken time to embrace my body just the way it is. I’ve found the clothes that flatter it versus begrudging the fact my body didn’t fit them. I figured out how to find the clothes that complement this body.

The body that's somehow turned on itself. A body where malignant cells are growing and threatening my well-being. A body that doctors will soon hack up, shuffle about, and will suddenly be foreign to me.

It wasn't enough just to spot the dress—I had to take it off the rack and feel the soft texture and sturdy weight. This dress was what I wanted to be shopping for. It was what I wanted to buy.

The clothes that a double mastectomy would necessitate were not the things I owned, or longed to purchase. Being unable to lift my arms over my head for three months, had the most limitations to my attire. The additional constraints of assuring there was no weight on the reconstructed tissue, while keeping in mind adequate space for drains and healing wounds added to the complexity.

I carried the dress around the entire store with me as I looked for stretchy loose t-shirts with extra wide necks and spacious arm holes (I’d been practicing at home to see if I could maneuver these on). Robes that zip up or button down—ones that would always remind me of my mom's housecoats, but couldn't look anything like my mom's housecoats. Button-down short-sleeved shirts—I was always too busty for button-down shirts. They would strain against me and gape open in the wrong places. I needed adjustable thin strap or otherwise baggy tank tops that would only brush the skin, with high necklines… all the clothes I don't normally buy, and don't want to buy.

My husband didn't question the dress that I carried. The one we weren't there for, the one that wouldn't look the same on me a month from now. Maybe he also wanted to remember the times when all I would carry were the things that brought me joy. As I turned to walk it back to its rack, deciding this store I usually enjoyed had nothing for me, I released a deep sigh. My husband reached for me and sweetly mentioned, “You can buy it if you want to.”

I felt his love and deep support in that moment. He’d give anything to bring me sparks of happiness and take away the heavy sighs. I still put it back. It wasn't meant for me, even if it was hard to set down. I wanted to go back to the thrift stores where I'd managed to limit myself to things that cost $3-$5 and satisfied myself with what an accomplishment those deals were, for the clothes that would serve a purpose. It’s important to me to feel good in what I'm wearing for the three months post surgery, but it aches to think of spending money on things that might get ruined by the residue of my wounds, things I wouldn't otherwise buy, things I will probably never wear again.

It's ironic that I can recall the soft purple robe I once owned and rarely wore. The extremely baggy and unflattering pink tank top, the button-down dress… all things I got rid of because they didn't fit me well, didn't bring me "joy." They were the clothes I didn't look or feel good in, and they were the clothes I now needed.

In time, I'll get used to the new body. The body with scars and a slightly altered shape. A body that will look and feel different. Eventually, I'll find the clothes that flatter it. I'll learn where things should flow and where I’ll want them fitted.

It took many years to love and appreciate the body I have, but for the past decade or so I’ve been very happy in my skin, fine with my weight, decided the clothes needed to change, I didn’t. It was more important that I felt healthy and good about myself. I have. So, it's strange to be facing this change and needing to start that journey anew.

My husband has been to many stores with me and remains patient as I weed through rack after rack to find a few gems. I'm sure I seem ridiculous as I don't seem to like anything. Today some tank tops arrived that snapped down the sides. When I started looking, they were the ones I was excited about. Who wants buttons, snaps, and zippers weighing on fresh wounds? I was thrilled there was another option. Unfortunately, they are unisex so the arm holes are huge and they're fitted at the hips where my largest incision will be. I won't keep them.

I found something I do like that is soft and fits loose where I need it, but it is more of a wrap than a robe, so I’m sewing ribbons on it so it'll close properly.

I once had a giant red muumuu—I think it may have been a hand-me-down from my mom, though I can’t think of why she had it. It’s flow and vibrant color brought me joy, though I rarely wore it. I long for things vibrant, soft, loose, and comfortable. I think I'm worrying less about finding things that zip and button and trying to find things I can get over my head without lifting my arms, things that will flow.I’m trying to embrace the search and not get overwhelmed and burnt out. I am constantly challenging myself to see how little I can spend, makes it bite a little less when these aren’t clothes I’ll wear for long.

My husband deserves recognition for going to at least seven stores with me by now. He's a saint.

I've started dreaming of September, when I'll be cancer free and closing this chapter. A time to clean out my closet, get rid of the surgery wear and everything else that doesn't look right on or fit my new body. And then perhaps a trip somewhere with great shopping, no sales tax on clothes, and friends who love the hunt. Who knows what rebuilding my wardrobe might look like then?

Perhaps by that time, I'll find another perfect blue dress—one that fits the new me.