Scan any well-stocked newsstand, and you'll no doubt find a bounty of women's magazines touting tips for achieving bouncy hair, kissable lips and a cellulite-free derriere.
What you won't see are headlines hyping haute insulin pumps, artful colostomy pouches or flirty tracheostomy covers. Meanwhile, there are countless women dealing with the daily challenge of feeling beautiful while tethered to a device that's necessary to stay alive, but often unlovely to look at.
In decades past, people with external medical appliances were sentenced to life of voluminous "clown clothes" (as one ileostomy wearer puts it) and counseled to hide their conditions as best they could. But in this golden age of Internet community, designers and patients are taking matters into their own hands to create clothing and accessories that help women feel gorgeous in their own skin -- and spark conversation about a previously taboo topic.
The secret surgery
In 1990, Leah Humphries went to sleep as a carefree young woman and woke up with a hole punched in her gut and a pouch strapped to it. The 22-year-old art student had been diagnosed with Crohn's disease 20 months earlier and checked into the hospital for colon surgery she hoped would bring some relief. The disease ended up being more severe than anyone had anticipated, and the surgeons re-routed her small intestine out through an angry red opening -- a permanent "stoma" -- on her abdomen. While the ileostomy may have saved her body, it crushed her soul.
For a year, Humphries spiraled into sadness. She'd always been a free-spirited, active, pretty girl, yet she suddenly found herself keeping company with other ostomy patients many decades her senior. They were content to while away afternoons shooting the breeze, tented in loose, flowing clothes calculated to conceal the existence of a pouch full of their waste and never talking about the more private aspects of their condition.
It was called the "secret surgery" for a reason. Many ostomates at the time were unwilling to discuss the social issues surrounding the mechanics of their device (which have improved radically since then), and the prevailing image was, as Humphries said, "Grandpa had the bag, and you kept him in the corner, and he smelled."
"I was so appalled at the way I looked, and I didn't want anyone else feeling sorry for me," she recalled. Humphries hid the fact of her surgery from most of the people around her, until one day she received a call from her ostomy nurse. There was another young patient having a rough time with her transition, and she needed to know that her life as a woman wasn't over.
Humphries shared the tricks she had picked up -- including wearing control-top stockings to minimize the outline of the pouch in form-fitting clothes -- and found a little something for herself: a purpose.
Now 44, as a mentor and public speaker, Humphries works to dispel myths about life with an ostomy ("A lot of people think they can't even go swimming in the pool!") and instill a message of positive body image to women struggling to feel whole again.
After her first marriage (an "ostomy-based decision," she says, that kept her in an unhappy relationship because she feared that no one else would want her) ended, Humphries faced the awkward possibility of having to bare her medical appliance to a new partner. But rather than shrouding herself in a full-length nightgown or relying on high-waisted, split-crotch underwear preferred by many female ostomates, she came up with an innovative solution: a heart-shaped pouch cover that looks like a piece of lingerie rather than camouflage.
Humphries, who married again and now has a 14-year-old son, works as a designer and branding expert and markets My Heart Ties as "The world's most beautiful ostomy cover." She encourages wearers to regain their "dignity, freedom and femininity" rather than thinking of their body as something for which they should apologize.
Fashion vs. function
At 21, Jessica Floeh had been dealing with type 1 diabetes for 17 years and finally gave in to wearing an insulin pump. She'd resisted in part because of potential social awkwardness and inconvenience, a fear reaffirmed by all of the professional guidance she received.
"All of the advice was about how to hide it," she said, and for a while, she internalized the shame and stigma. Floeh broke up with her boyfriend, unable to deal with her own body issues and "cyborg anxiety," and took to stuffing the pump out of sight in her bra or somewhere else it couldn't be seen.
As a student of sociology, technology and design, Floeh quickly realized that there was a huge gap between function and everyday reality for wearers of devices like hers. The pump wasn't always easy to keep in place, occasionally malfunctioned because of that, and was just plain dull to look at. "I need to be a part of making that better," she decided.
Her 2010 masters thesis project at Parsons The New School for Design evolved into the Hanky Pancreas fashion line. Items like scarves, necklaces and slip-on bands made with protective fabric can hide the pump or glucose monitor in elegant draping, behind a fabric flower or in a discreet pocket, or it can be used to spark a conversation.
"It's a huge part of your identity," Floeh said. "And these designs allow you to share your story in a non-medical space if you want to."
But still, she wondered, why did a device that essentially functions as an external body part almost entirely neglect the aesthetics of the body? An opportunity to meet with the makers of one of the leading pump brands shed some light on the disconnect.
"They were all men! With phones and pagers clipped to their belts," she realized. "Of course they weren't thinking about this thing looking pretty."