Unsupervised, Unstitched, and Wigless in Public

Unsupervised, Unstitched, and Wigless in Public

🌼 Date: Friday, January 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Determined. Unsupervised. Mildly unhinged.

💔 Status: Stitches ripped out. Dignity questionable. Adaptability undefeated.

🌞 Outlook: Calling plastics, wearing a pink wig, and laughing anyway.

Yesterday ended with a plot twist no one asked for.

After a day that included Christmas tree takedown, vacuuming, sweeping, and a full-scale dog shit hazmat operation, I went to change my bandage and—surprise—my stitches had torn out.

Again.

Back to the gaping hole club. Membership renewed.
I’ll be calling the plastics hotline this morning to see if they want me in today or if Monday is soon enough. (Spoiler: I already know the answer is “send a picture.”)

And friends… that’s where things got stupid.

Casey wasn’t home.
Which meant I had to take the picture.

Picture me alone, unsupervised, trying to:

• remove my own bandage (usually Casey’s department),
• hold up my compression tank top that I cannot take off by myself,
• balance my phone,
• and somehow photograph my own boob.

This was never going to end well.

Plan A failed immediately.
Plan B involved me going back to the kitchen and grabbing:

• the stick-on grip-it thing Santa put in my stocking,
• and the remote for the handheld selfie grip doo-hickey Santa also brought me
  (because obviously if you’re blogging through chemo, you need equipment).

Back in the bathroom, I stuck my phone to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, pulled my tank top up with one hand (which was also holding the remote), lifted the bandage with the other, and tried to angle my boob into the frame like this was a totally normal activity.

Just as I went to take the picture, the phone started sliding down the mirror.

So, what did I do?

I crouched down to follow it.

I managed to:

• descend at the same speed as the falling phone,
• keep the tank top and bandage lifted,
• and snap multiple usable photos on the way down.

I was honestly impressed with myself.
The coordination.
The problem-solving.
The commitment.

So yes. You can now officially add Medical Boob Photographer to my ever-evolving résumé.

And because this day clearly wasn’t done with me yet, let’s talk about Candy.

Candy is my pink wig.
Named after the song Sex & Candy.
She was supposed to make her public debut at dinner.

What Candy did instead was attempt an escape.

Her hair is apparently so slippery that the hat I wore over her slid clean off my head the second I sat down at the table. And with the hat went the decorative bobby pins that had been bravely holding her untrimmed, wildly overgrown bangs out of my face.

So there I was.
In the middle of a restaurant.
Wig sliding.
Hat falling.
Pins abandoning ship.

And I did what any reasonable person would do.

I took her off. Right there.

Candy did not get dinner pictures.
Candy spent the rest of the evening in time out on the chair next to me while I finished my meal as myself, bald, unbothered, and slightly amused by the attention.

Once her bangs are trimmed and she learns how to behave in public, I’ll take her out for another spin. And yes — there will be pictures.

Tonight just wasn’t her night.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time