Life With Jabba

When I’m at home, I never wear my prosthesis. I’m more comfortable without it.

I try to remember to put Jabba away in the bathroom, to avoid any more cat attacks, but when I’m tired I usually just slip him under my pillow.

Tucking Jabba into my bra is usually one of the last things I do as I am leaving the house, just before grabbing my cell phone and keys, which has led to some funny all-alerts when I can’t find him. If one of the boys and I are late, we’ll be running around the house, checking all the places I might have left Jabba.

Even funnier, I have sometimes gotten in the car and driven off without realizing that I’m not wearing my boob. Since Jabba is a D-cup, there is no way that this is going to pass unnoticed at the grocery store, so I just turn around and head back home without getting out of the car.

A final thought: A prosthesis, like Jabba, can be a boob. It can never be a breast.

@ Jeanne Sather 2007.