I had the week away this week, which was probably a bad call given Lynn's state of health. I wanted to take a second to thank the people who took care of her in my absence. Knowing that people are available when I cannot be is a good thing.
With our appointment with Dr L this week, we are almost ready to close this chapter in our lives and move on with the future. If all goes as planned I would expect us to have our last posting after the walk. For now we have a few follow-up appointments planned which we hope are the last of their kind.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
On Shirts
I'm grappling with the new truth about my physical self: I don't have breasts anymore. I can put my hands against my chest and feel all of my ribs. When I looked down at my toes in the shower, the ends of my rib cage stuck out farther than any other part of me. It is too strange to be shocking, and too shocking to be scary, and too scary to be sad. I keep finding my hands stealing along my ribs, as if I could find my breasts there by accident. I look incredibly tiny now, with my little pixie hair and just my narrow ribcage. The woman who altered my wedding dress decided I must be English, because I have such big boobs and a narrow little ribcage. Had. My shirts hang straight down, now.
Even after everything I've been through this year, I never hated my breasts. Lots of women with breast cancer say they want them chopped off, or call them the evil twins, or just pour hate into them. I couldn't hate them, because they were a part of me - a visible, tangible, obvious part. Not terribly useful, and with a rotten set of instructions, but mine.
I wore my favorite shirt of all time to the hospital on Thursday. That shirt has been dancing in Chicago and New York, on summer dates with Zack, worn under jackets to work and over tight jeans to parties. It fit my curves just so, and I always felt beautiful when I wore it. It is missing a button, and the edges are frayed, and it doesn't have the same give that it used to. In fact, it has gotten pretty worn out. So, really, no-one would know but me that I look beautiful in that shirt.
I know that in a few days I'll be feeling better, and it will be time to change out of my jammies and into regular clothes. That will probably be when the strangeness starts to creep into the everyday. When nothing fits right, and my reflection in the mirror doesn't match what I imagine it should be. When I look around at other women and see curves in all the right places but don't have them myself.
I just have to remember that I know I am beautiful, even if what everyone else sees is just a ratty old shirt.
Even after everything I've been through this year, I never hated my breasts. Lots of women with breast cancer say they want them chopped off, or call them the evil twins, or just pour hate into them. I couldn't hate them, because they were a part of me - a visible, tangible, obvious part. Not terribly useful, and with a rotten set of instructions, but mine.
I wore my favorite shirt of all time to the hospital on Thursday. That shirt has been dancing in Chicago and New York, on summer dates with Zack, worn under jackets to work and over tight jeans to parties. It fit my curves just so, and I always felt beautiful when I wore it. It is missing a button, and the edges are frayed, and it doesn't have the same give that it used to. In fact, it has gotten pretty worn out. So, really, no-one would know but me that I look beautiful in that shirt.
I know that in a few days I'll be feeling better, and it will be time to change out of my jammies and into regular clothes. That will probably be when the strangeness starts to creep into the everyday. When nothing fits right, and my reflection in the mirror doesn't match what I imagine it should be. When I look around at other women and see curves in all the right places but don't have them myself.
I just have to remember that I know I am beautiful, even if what everyone else sees is just a ratty old shirt.
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