It is February 2009, one year and eleven months since I first found a breast lump, my last bit of surgery tape finally fell off as I showered last evening. Of all the things for me to celebrate, not a clean bill of health, not an end to painful shots and weekly poisoning, or removal of my "badge of courage", the protruding plastic port in my chest and neck, the moment that last stretch of surgical tape loosened and fell in the shower, I felt a rush of total freedom.
While I can't guarantee that I won't ever deal with cancer again, and I know that within a couple months I am due for two or three more small procedures, I am at least finally free from the binding of special bandages, wraps, compression garments and performing acrobatic tricks in the shower to keep incisions dry. I'm free from the smell of healing wounds, of tubes to drain, of bloodstained cloth that has stuck to me for fifty-two days and fourteen hours. Don't think I didn't count them just for effect.
I feel similar to when I got my braces removed in eigth grade. Instead of a beautiful set of pearly white teeth, perfectly straight and ready to model for the next teen magazine cover, it was just me with bloody gums staring back in the mirror, my thin lips still a bit crooked and too disappointed to smile. Since then I've learned to enjoy these unphotogenic traits as "character" and now I own five character-rich inches of new and improved flesh that will be in vogue for any surgeon's office waiting room.
After my first ovary removal, I learned to like the deformed umbilicus that accentuates my belly fat. You see, the ugly scar was necessary to save me from painful and embarrassing stomach cramps by removing a blood-filled clown-faced tumor. (I kid you not, it looked like "Jack" without his hat and maybe a punched up bloody nose). At least my body had a sense of humor.
But my fun with cancer is coming to an end. My hair has grown back, my scars are itching under the thick applications of scar cream I apply several times a day, and I can no longer give a nod of understanding to the woman in line behind me at Walgreen's, who's bald head is poorly hidden under a floppy hat.
Now that I'm done, I don't think I'll be picking up any pink souveniers as a reminder of my ordeal. I won't be buying a breast cancer license plate that reads "HLL KTY" like my neighbor at the apartment complex or write any words of encouragement on the back of my car window to show the world I was part of the race. The guy behind me on his cellphone does not need a reminder to do self-breast exams and I'm sure the rest of you have already gotten the message from yeast packets to yoghurt labels to pink ribbon foot callous removers, something in every isle of the store. This is not the type of solidarity I seek in life, not through illness, not the fear of death, not even coming together to fight and conquer the horrible injustice disease ravages on our human race.
I don't want to give cancer any more lip service than it's already stolen, no more pressure for atonement or to find God, no more control over my diet, no more time, and no more cause for excuses why I haven't called, written, or come by. I smiled at the lady at the Walgreen's. I wanted to tell her, "I know what you are going through. I was once just like you." But I know that's not true. She has her own battles and her own fears, maybe nothing like mine.
I offered to let her go ahead of me in line, not that I thought she was too sick to wait. No, when they opened a new checkout at photo, I had rudely rushed ahead of her (because I could move faster). I offered her item-filled cart a place in front of my dinner of gummy bears and diet soda, partially out of guilt and because I gambled that she would allow me to stay ahead of her anyway.
Her scalp shone glaringly under the hat brim. Her illness was as conspicuous as if she'd walked in bare headed, hogging the shampoo isle with her cart, eyeing cheap hairbrushes and clips like a sugar-starved child. She was calm and seemed very nice, but I couldn't help imagine her clawing at her temples and screaming "Why me!" while she kicked in circles on the floor, or cackling angrily as she chucked boxes of hair dye. "You, get out of my aisle, you!"
I didn't analyze the items in her cart, but I hoped she'd found the "Sleeping Beauty" isle, that all drugstores should be equipped with. I hoped she would find that miracle pill to erase a year and a half of unhealing boo-boos, that she could take something and instantly restore confidence in her health, allowing sleep and effortless understanding from friends and family. I hoped the pill would spare her any discomfort, politely telling strangers to go about their business of being rude like it was any old day in her life. After all, she was like any old slob in line, like me, eyeing discounted bottles of imitation vanilla extract as the unwitting clerk struggled to unlock the register, fumbled with the merchandise, entered and re-entered code after mind-numbing barcode to void purchase.
As a cancer survivor, I had earned my right to glue myself to the endless wall of candy hoping to find the no-calorie bag that would take care of my sour-fruit, peanut butter, salty-chocolate, butter toffee, chewy, gummy craving. Now I just hoped the effort was worth it. I had driven so far out of the way.
While I can't guarantee that I won't ever deal with cancer again, and I know that within a couple months I am due for two or three more small procedures, I am at least finally free from the binding of special bandages, wraps, compression garments and performing acrobatic tricks in the shower to keep incisions dry. I'm free from the smell of healing wounds, of tubes to drain, of bloodstained cloth that has stuck to me for fifty-two days and fourteen hours. Don't think I didn't count them just for effect.
I feel similar to when I got my braces removed in eigth grade. Instead of a beautiful set of pearly white teeth, perfectly straight and ready to model for the next teen magazine cover, it was just me with bloody gums staring back in the mirror, my thin lips still a bit crooked and too disappointed to smile. Since then I've learned to enjoy these unphotogenic traits as "character" and now I own five character-rich inches of new and improved flesh that will be in vogue for any surgeon's office waiting room.
After my first ovary removal, I learned to like the deformed umbilicus that accentuates my belly fat. You see, the ugly scar was necessary to save me from painful and embarrassing stomach cramps by removing a blood-filled clown-faced tumor. (I kid you not, it looked like "Jack" without his hat and maybe a punched up bloody nose). At least my body had a sense of humor.
But my fun with cancer is coming to an end. My hair has grown back, my scars are itching under the thick applications of scar cream I apply several times a day, and I can no longer give a nod of understanding to the woman in line behind me at Walgreen's, who's bald head is poorly hidden under a floppy hat.
Now that I'm done, I don't think I'll be picking up any pink souveniers as a reminder of my ordeal. I won't be buying a breast cancer license plate that reads "HLL KTY" like my neighbor at the apartment complex or write any words of encouragement on the back of my car window to show the world I was part of the race. The guy behind me on his cellphone does not need a reminder to do self-breast exams and I'm sure the rest of you have already gotten the message from yeast packets to yoghurt labels to pink ribbon foot callous removers, something in every isle of the store. This is not the type of solidarity I seek in life, not through illness, not the fear of death, not even coming together to fight and conquer the horrible injustice disease ravages on our human race.
I don't want to give cancer any more lip service than it's already stolen, no more pressure for atonement or to find God, no more control over my diet, no more time, and no more cause for excuses why I haven't called, written, or come by. I smiled at the lady at the Walgreen's. I wanted to tell her, "I know what you are going through. I was once just like you." But I know that's not true. She has her own battles and her own fears, maybe nothing like mine.
I offered to let her go ahead of me in line, not that I thought she was too sick to wait. No, when they opened a new checkout at photo, I had rudely rushed ahead of her (because I could move faster). I offered her item-filled cart a place in front of my dinner of gummy bears and diet soda, partially out of guilt and because I gambled that she would allow me to stay ahead of her anyway.
Her scalp shone glaringly under the hat brim. Her illness was as conspicuous as if she'd walked in bare headed, hogging the shampoo isle with her cart, eyeing cheap hairbrushes and clips like a sugar-starved child. She was calm and seemed very nice, but I couldn't help imagine her clawing at her temples and screaming "Why me!" while she kicked in circles on the floor, or cackling angrily as she chucked boxes of hair dye. "You, get out of my aisle, you!"
I didn't analyze the items in her cart, but I hoped she'd found the "Sleeping Beauty" isle, that all drugstores should be equipped with. I hoped she would find that miracle pill to erase a year and a half of unhealing boo-boos, that she could take something and instantly restore confidence in her health, allowing sleep and effortless understanding from friends and family. I hoped the pill would spare her any discomfort, politely telling strangers to go about their business of being rude like it was any old day in her life. After all, she was like any old slob in line, like me, eyeing discounted bottles of imitation vanilla extract as the unwitting clerk struggled to unlock the register, fumbled with the merchandise, entered and re-entered code after mind-numbing barcode to void purchase.
As a cancer survivor, I had earned my right to glue myself to the endless wall of candy hoping to find the no-calorie bag that would take care of my sour-fruit, peanut butter, salty-chocolate, butter toffee, chewy, gummy craving. Now I just hoped the effort was worth it. I had driven so far out of the way.
No comments:
Post a Comment