There is no way I could have prepared for how this cancer experience was going to feel. The thoughts I had at the beginning are still relevant, which is interesting. I don’t feel like I’m necessarily at the end of this just yet. I do feel like I’ve gotten past the hardest part. Reading back on the post talking about this diagnosis, the three things that hit me hard are different now. Well, they’re at least unpacked.
The idea of being strong is entirely subjective. This is something
I’ve come to understand better these past few months. Being told that I’m
strong has had a different impact. At the end of the day, I honestly have no
idea what anyone truly thinks of me or sees when they look at me. I know what I
see and what I feel. What I’ve learned lately, is that we all see each other in
ways we could never see ourselves. Isn’t that kind of rude? Our lives are spent
torturing ourselves blind, seeking validation that can only truly come from
inside. It’s cruel; the cliches surrounding us mocking our reality.
“We are a villain in someone’s story.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
“Perception is reality.”
We all have our different ideas of characteristics that make up the
definition of a strong person. It is an honor that anyone sees me in a way that
meets that idea. The way I’ve seen myself up until lately is more of a survivor
who got strong out of necessity. What has come into focus lately is that I
don’t give myself enough credit and perhaps I give into the imposter syndrome
beast a little too often. I have not struggled much in finding enough water to
fill the cup past half full. This chapter has been the epitome of opportunity
and preparation meeting with a bang. All the trials before this has prepared me
and I’m seeing it now. I think I have handled this all pretty well.
Having the boys with their dad has made this house very quiet. My
sweet dog, Toby took a journey over the rainbow bridge this week. Which has
made the house even quieter. I haven’t had this much quiet in my house in over
four years. I can hear Toby’s foot tappies at night still. I can hear the kids
walking around the house. But no one is here. This is the kind of quiet that
can do one of two things. Drive a person to madness or drive a person to
create. I am ironically going through this cancer journey quietly. But in a
totally different way. I’m still processing this aspect of solitude. Being
still and quiet with sanity intact is a state of being that I am not fully
accustomed to but looking forward to growing to be. This experience hasn’t
exactly required a shouting from the rooftop kind of meltdown. I’ve required
the quiet to hear my thoughts and feelings with clarity.
The fear of dying like my mother is still something I’m working
through. In all realness, this one has opened up into different layers lately.
My normal is still reshaping. Grief if so wild. I continue to have a more
meaningful relationship with people who are dead than I did when they were
here. I feel like I understand my mother more today than ever. As I continue to
process this new dichotomy with my mother, I will likely need to write a fully
dedicated essay to that portion.
Each day, I am growing more and more acquainted with my new anatomy. If
I’m being fully honest, I hate the way I look. I have undergone two expansion
sessions with my reconstructive process. While I have the sensation of having
breasts again, they are wildly different. Not having nipples is INSANE to look
at. Instead of seeing fun piercings I had before, I look dead center at two
lines across the center of my breasts. Like closed eyes. The incisions will fade,
and the look of the scarring so far leads me to believe this will soften in the
near future and not be so abrasive. However, I must get to that part first. In
the interim, I’m looking at my reflection and convincing myself that this is
the best thing I could have done for myself. They were literally trying to kill
me. But, damn.
There are so many things that don’t get said out loud. Women tend to
minimize strife. We don’t like to make too much of a fuss about the hard
things. Seeming weak or incapable is tough for women like me to exhibit. I’ll
go ahead and say the quiet parts out loud.
Being a single woman going through a fully bilateral mastectomy, I didn’t
have the advantage of external perspectives or opinions to appease. Only my own.
“They’re just breasts. They don’t make you a woman.” While that is absolute,
I had a big relationship with them. I grew them to support life. They gave me
curves that gave me confidence. They weren’t too big and weren’t too small.
Just right. I loved them. It’s going to be a very long time before I feel like I
will be comfortable being naked in front of anyone again. This part is really
hard for me to wrap my head around. Maybe it won’t be so bad once I have the full
reconstruction completed. Right now, I hate them. They’re weird.
Watching them go from nothing to something has been even more sobering. I can feel the ghosts of what was there. I can feel the sensations of nerves searching for what was removed. They went from being filled with little bits of air to saline. I still get emotional when I touch them. I do just lay in bed and hold my chest and cry.
About two weeks after the surgery, I had the overwhelming impression the
surgery was successful. I felt so much better. My color improved. My energy
improved. My appetite got better and back to normal. I told my daughter that I thought
the cancer was gone. I still feel that way. The healing part is still on-going,
but I can tell the difference between the cancer ick and the healing
discomfort. I am ready to get back to my life and put things back together
again. That part is going to be the hardest part of this entire journey. On the
other side of this cancer is an entirely new existence that I have never known.
In all truth, I am immensely excited about it but dammit if it isn’t saying
goodbye to something I have intimately known.
The crying I am doing these days is totally different. I’m so very
tired of grieving. This is healthy grief. That’s what I have to keep reminding
myself. This all had to happen. I have asked for it. Maybe not the exact way it
unfolded, but I did ask for this. I am so in love with a song by a sweet song
writer called Marielle Kraft called Good Grief.
Good grief
How many days have I been in this room
How many pages have I gone through
‘Cause I’m on my third pen trying to make it make
sense
I’ve been lighter since I let it go
I got tired under the heavy hope
So I’m laying to rest the very last shred
This is goodbye to a bad thing
This is goodnight to a bad dream
Losing something I wasn’t meant to keep
This is better but it feels worse
This is healthy but it still hurts
Becoming who I’m supposed to be
I’m losing everything but me
This is good grief
Good Grief
I’m on the sweet side of bittеr
I’m on the green side of winter
I can see thе way out and I’m headed
there now
