It’s about the process babies

I’ve dealt with the mental/emotional upheaval associated with losing my body, my hair, my stamina. I had yet to experience physical pain. But worry no moreeee! Da pain is heahhhhh!

Sweet mother Mary does this shit hurt. I’m sore like you read about. Bruised from the top of my collar bone all the way to the top of my thigh. Just one big ole bruise with a few drains stuck in the middle of my ribs. 

Laying on the hospital bed, watching a sea of blue scrubs flitter in and out of my room I hear one of the nurses whisper to the other, “He’s here.”

I glance up at the clock. 7:41 am. Surgery was supposed to start at 7:30.

“He’s late,” I reply.

“Haha don’t tell him that,” one nurse nervously mutters.

In walks my plastic surgeon wearing one size too tight scrubs and his favorite thinly lined beard. 

“You’re late,” I say slyly with a wink as I eyeball both nurses. 

The surgeon responds with a tight lipped smile and a nod.

“Ok, so here’s the plan. You’ll see Dr. Hughes, have that cancer taken out and then you’ll see me straight after.” 

He interrupts his anticipated plan with a side story, “ha you know, I was at the beach this summer and I saw a lovely lady swimming,” cue my skeptical and where is this shit going side eye. “She looked great, actually so great that I almost let my son drown because I was too busy admiring” insert dry gag with an ExCuSe ME head tilt face. He concludes with a big goofy grin, “and guess what? She was one of my patients.” 

Not knowing if his yarn was meant to induce a level of comfort, disgust or applaud I say, “oh cool, good for you.” 

The surgery did not go as smooth as his seaside sighting and reconstruction did not occur. The good news is I’m cancer free. I’ll say that louder for the folks in the back I AM CANCER FREE. But because I’m of “an athletic build” aka small bewbs to begin with, there wasn’t enough tissue to place the expanders. Reconstruction will occur in a month or so.

Get angry? Get upset? Get sad? Nah.

Baby ain’t gat time for that. 

A.)   My white ass has a good 4 months before anyone sees it

B.)   This lesson is about learning and if I have learned nothing it’s waiters get good tips

C.)   I’M CANCER FREE

We’re expected to ascertain the idea of “feeling alive”as the goal.  Collectively we’re supposed to instinctively appreciate “being alive.” But how? 

The multitude of life’s ups and downs get a bad rep. When did being comfortable become the only thing to be? What if celebrating the bad times turns life into living? In order to feel alive you must accept the process of life. 

If your day pushes your time from one end to the other with a glimmer of satisfaction in the middle, are you living? If your name is Sally and you sell seashells by the seashore, drinking booze from start to sunset, is that living?  If you can’t and won’t try thinking from another person’s perspective is your life full to satisfaction? 

Life doesn’t hand you lemons so you could throw them at one another. Make some mother fucking lemonade, carry on and enjoy every step of the way while you’re at it. 

 

Monster farts

I woke up early. I can feel my body vibrating. My fingers are buzzing with electricity. My jaw is tight. 

I sit alone in my darkened living room listening to the sun rise. I can see the pink and yellow shine through the cracks of the blinds but if you listen instead of simply looking you learn a lot more. Hear that? It’s the dawn of a new day.

My husband wakes to use the bathroom. He walks over and gives me a kiss on my forehead before returning to bed. 

He lets out a disgusting monster fart that makes my dog’s eyes water and says, “was that you?” Mother. Fucker. 

That was something his dad used to say. It was his dad’s birthday last week. He would have been 63. He passed 7 years ago. Before he saw his son build our home, before he met Tommy who was named after his father and before he could witness my transformation into a bad ass bitch. But I know he sees. And I know he approves. Hi papa. 

I slept all day Saturday. I don’t remember one moment of the day. ZZZ. 

I used to feel horror if I had a day when I just could no longer function and resolved to shutting down. I would feel the rise of the mom/wife guilt monster peering over my shoulder. YoU SlEpt ALL dAy?? Were the kids ok? Did they eat their mother fucking fruits and veggies during meals? Did they get a bath and read Shakespeare before bed?? BITCH. WHO CARES.

Right now this moment is yours. Right now your body, your mind says stop. What you’re going through is enough that you need to unplug and try again tomorrow.

The fear, anxiety, the unknown anticipation of my upcoming surgery feels heavy. I know it’ll “be all right” but will it? I know I’ll “do fine” but will I? I know “I’m strong” but am I?

Fuck. I feel moments of greatness and preparation peppered in with debilitating anxiety. I feel scared, mad, sad, glad one at a time and then all at once. 

I wrote letters to Steve, my parents and the kids. Not necessarily in case something goes wrong during surgery but so they have a personal message from me during this moment in time. I want them to know what they mean to me. Not in the obligatory this experience has changed me and I feel more enlightened so this is how I love you sense. But more of a personal connection to each of them. Hey. We did this together. You. And me. Can you believe it? Look at our strength. I know you love me and I love you. But we stood together, held each other up, and look at where we are. 

In the last few days I’ve felt the energy of a warm buzz in our home. Tommy nervously asks “when will they take your boobies mum?” I tell him I’ll have surgery on Wednesday and they’ll give me new and improved boobies bud don’t worry. He looks up with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. He runs to Lilah sitting closely to her, he squeezes her arm and says “they’re taking mommy’s boobies Lilah.” 

Steve immerses himself in cleaning the house, doing laundry, taking out the trash, occasionally lifting weights, staying quiet, walking back and forth. I can see his brain running like a car that needs to be turned on but can’t be driven. 

Lilah is my right hand. She carries the torch without letting the weight get her down. She glows. I can see the stress in her eyes but she ain’t gat time to let it get in the way. She occupies her space with projects, drawing contests in magazines resulting in funds for her school. She holds Tommy’s hand and says, “I know bud. But if they didn’t take mama’s boobies then she would still have cancer and she wouldn’t be here at all.”

Today is the final day that I’ll spend in the only body I’ve ever known.

 New bewbs. 

I can look at it like the end result will be an upgrade but it’s an upgrade that I didn’t choose. 

How will the scars look? Will they travel directly across my breast like a newly paved road? Will I have nipples or will I have to wait months before I’m able to tattoo pale pink lumps onto my manufactured breast? How will they feel from the inside?

I’m not worried about the pain, or the tight feeling in my skin after the reconstruction. I’m not worried that I won’t wake up after surgery. It’s having to say goodbye which is the hardest part.  It’s like leaving a job you worked at for years, all of the friends you made, memories you shared now it’s time to leave and your life will forever be changed. And you’re not sure where you’re going from here but you can’t ever look back.

A friend once said, “Don’t wish your life away. Don’t wish it was Friday. Don’t wish it was over. Be in the now.” I’m not wishing the surgery was behind me. I’m not thinking ahead to whether or not I’ll require radiation. This is my life. This is today. And I love every minute of it. 

Monster farts and all.

New bewbs here I come.