"Any surgeries or anything like that since we saw you last?"
Uh, yeah. Let me catch you up. I was in the dentist's office for a cleaning. My first one since being diagnosed with cancer in 2016. So I gave the hygienist the short version: diagnosed with cancer, mastectomy, 6 months of cancer treatment, and two surgeries for reconstruction. She didn't say anything, just took notes. "Oh," I told her "I'm leaving out the port insertion and removals." "Just all part of the same thing," she commented, and she just kept writing.
Her reaction, which was actually a non-reaction, was interesting, and I've thought about it quite a bit. It could have gone a few different ways, and this was one. She chose to not react, not gush, not show sympathy. It was all very professional and non-emotional. I was just another appointment with some teeth that needed cleaned.
Now that I'm not obviously a cancer patient -- I have hair, eyebrows, and my toenails are now regulation length -- I look like your average middle aged woman. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that someone would treat me that way. But physically and emotionally I'm never not going to be a cancer person. Every single day I deal with it. Which is part of the reason for this update.
Looking back at the entire reconstruction process, I realized there were a few reasons it was hard to talk about, let alone write about.
First, it was a very solitary experience.
In cancer treatment there was a feeling of community. When I was in chemo I was in a room full of people -- patients and nurses -- and I would often see the same folks again and again. We talked, we prayed, I prayed, we slept. Radiation was similar; there were women I saw almost daily, if only for a few minutes before I went back for treatment. We were "all in this together." It was a bond.
When I showed up at the plastic surgeon's office there were rarely other people in the lobby. And when there were, it was impossible to tell what they were in for. The exam room walls were full of posters about various offerings like skin care, varicose vein treatment, wrinkle fills. A pamphlet rack on the counter that I found especially fascinating had information about improving the appearance of your lips, eyelids, tummy, butt, wrinkles, and of course, breasts (larger or smaller, your choice). So while I assumed there are many women going through the same thing I was, I have to also assume that lots of them weren't.
So I was on my own.
Second, it was a choice I made and I can't unmake it.
I liked the idea of being able to throw on a shirt and walk out the door. See, without a mastectomy bra and the prosthetic, it was very, very obvious that something was missing. So this seemed like a natural decision. I would spend less time thinking about myself, and that would be a good thing.
But every single day since the surgery, I've told myself: Dr. S did the best he could to make the two sides match. And every day since them I've fought feelings of disappointment. After all, all the reading they make you do prior to surgery, and even have you sign off on, says that perfect symmetry is not realistic. So, "get a grip," I tell myself. "You chose this." "Maybe this is as good as it gets."
In case you're curious, it's not drastically different size-wise. But it is noticeable. Most days I use a modesty insert, those thin foam pads that come in sports bras or swimsuits, to even the sides out. Some days I've gotten away without it, with the right top, scarf, or jacket as cammo. It's still a daily decision, and it's a daily reminder that there isn't any "normal."
As I was getting my teeth cleaned, I was staring at the ceiling, not thinking much of anything. But suddenly I became aware of how much this was like being in treatment. I was captive for a while. I started paying attention to the conversations happening all around me. I realized that dentist appointments are scary, and there were surely people who were going to be uncomfortable or in pain. So like in treatment, I just started praying. I prayed for the other patients and for the hygienists. All those people to pray for. Maybe they don't have anyone else to pray for them.
So for those few minutes, I wasn't thinking about myself or my disappointment. I was just thinking about what God could do.
I'm still struggling with disappointment. I am human. But I think part of what God is showing me is that it IS possible to think about myself less and others more, even with a less-than-symmetrical body.
From today's second reading for Pentecost Sunday:
As a body is one though it has many parts,
and all the parts of the body, though many, are one body,
so also Christ. (I Cor. 12:12)
 |
| Photo by Michael Browning on Unsplash |
Uh, yeah. Let me catch you up. I was in the dentist's office for a cleaning. My first one since being diagnosed with cancer in 2016. So I gave the hygienist the short version: diagnosed with cancer, mastectomy, 6 months of cancer treatment, and two surgeries for reconstruction. She didn't say anything, just took notes. "Oh," I told her "I'm leaving out the port insertion and removals." "Just all part of the same thing," she commented, and she just kept writing.
Her reaction, which was actually a non-reaction, was interesting, and I've thought about it quite a bit. It could have gone a few different ways, and this was one. She chose to not react, not gush, not show sympathy. It was all very professional and non-emotional. I was just another appointment with some teeth that needed cleaned.
Now that I'm not obviously a cancer patient -- I have hair, eyebrows, and my toenails are now regulation length -- I look like your average middle aged woman. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that someone would treat me that way. But physically and emotionally I'm never not going to be a cancer person. Every single day I deal with it. Which is part of the reason for this update.
Looking back at the entire reconstruction process, I realized there were a few reasons it was hard to talk about, let alone write about.
First, it was a very solitary experience.
In cancer treatment there was a feeling of community. When I was in chemo I was in a room full of people -- patients and nurses -- and I would often see the same folks again and again. We talked, we prayed, I prayed, we slept. Radiation was similar; there were women I saw almost daily, if only for a few minutes before I went back for treatment. We were "all in this together." It was a bond.
When I showed up at the plastic surgeon's office there were rarely other people in the lobby. And when there were, it was impossible to tell what they were in for. The exam room walls were full of posters about various offerings like skin care, varicose vein treatment, wrinkle fills. A pamphlet rack on the counter that I found especially fascinating had information about improving the appearance of your lips, eyelids, tummy, butt, wrinkles, and of course, breasts (larger or smaller, your choice). So while I assumed there are many women going through the same thing I was, I have to also assume that lots of them weren't.
So I was on my own.
Second, it was a choice I made and I can't unmake it.
I liked the idea of being able to throw on a shirt and walk out the door. See, without a mastectomy bra and the prosthetic, it was very, very obvious that something was missing. So this seemed like a natural decision. I would spend less time thinking about myself, and that would be a good thing.
But every single day since the surgery, I've told myself: Dr. S did the best he could to make the two sides match. And every day since them I've fought feelings of disappointment. After all, all the reading they make you do prior to surgery, and even have you sign off on, says that perfect symmetry is not realistic. So, "get a grip," I tell myself. "You chose this." "Maybe this is as good as it gets."
In case you're curious, it's not drastically different size-wise. But it is noticeable. Most days I use a modesty insert, those thin foam pads that come in sports bras or swimsuits, to even the sides out. Some days I've gotten away without it, with the right top, scarf, or jacket as cammo. It's still a daily decision, and it's a daily reminder that there isn't any "normal."
As I was getting my teeth cleaned, I was staring at the ceiling, not thinking much of anything. But suddenly I became aware of how much this was like being in treatment. I was captive for a while. I started paying attention to the conversations happening all around me. I realized that dentist appointments are scary, and there were surely people who were going to be uncomfortable or in pain. So like in treatment, I just started praying. I prayed for the other patients and for the hygienists. All those people to pray for. Maybe they don't have anyone else to pray for them.
So for those few minutes, I wasn't thinking about myself or my disappointment. I was just thinking about what God could do.
I'm still struggling with disappointment. I am human. But I think part of what God is showing me is that it IS possible to think about myself less and others more, even with a less-than-symmetrical body.
From today's second reading for Pentecost Sunday:
As a body is one though it has many parts,
and all the parts of the body, though many, are one body,
so also Christ. (I Cor. 12:12)
I appreciate that cancer treatment feels like being part of a community. When my wife goes for checkups she stops by oncology to see who's on duty.
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