Cancer Made Me Pretty

This is true! I used to hate looking at pictures of myself. All I saw were flaws. My teeth are a funny color, and too small…except for the two front ones which are too big. My smile is odd shaped. My nose is too big, too narrow, too long. My chin looks lumpy. My hair is an awful over-bleached yellow with dark roots and I’m always overdue for a trim. My arms are flabby. My middle is too wide. My eyes are too small in sockets too deep. I look like an elephant when I’m standing next to normal-sized women. I can’t even talk about my butt, other than to say I’m grateful that most people don’t take pictures of it. When looking at photos with me in them, I usually keep from cringing by repeating the silent mantra, “This is NOT what I really look like this is NOT what I really look like this is NOT what I really look like.”

Ever since my diagnosis, it’s like I’ve had a miracle make-over. This is what I see when I look at pictures of myself now. I have great skin, smooth and creamy with just the right amount of freckles. My eyes are startlingly blue. I have a strong, interesting profile and a long graceful neck. My teeth are straight, my hair is flirty and my ear-lobes look delicious. Being so tall, I really stand out in a crowd…and my long legs and arms make me look thinner and more willowy than I really am. My new mantra arises spontaneously, “Wow! Is this what I really look like? Lucky me! Lucky me! Lucky me!”

These intoxicating new bouts of self-oogling aren’t just limited to snapshots. I was out hiking in a tank top the other day and I couldn’t get over my shoulders. They are so smooth and so nicely shaped. The skin stretched over them has such a peachy glow. I love the way they move slightly forward and back as I swing my arms. So fluid, so graceful, so rhythmically in balance with each other. I am an animal, muscled and fit. I am a fabulous machine, perfectly designed for my environment and tasks at hand.

In the bathtub I marvel at the length and sensuous shape of my legs. At bedtime, with my palms folded together on the pillow, I admire the elegance of my hands; the strength and delicacy of my wrists. In the mirror I squint my eyes and am amazed that there is a market for wrinkle cream and Botox. Those other women’s laugh lines must not be as adorable as mine!

This change in perspective didn’t creep up suddenly and leave me wondering, “When did I get so beautiful?” It was sudden. I became gorgeous the day I knew I had cancer and got more lovely with each diagnostic procedure between July 7th and August 8th.

I was talking to my friend M. the other day and she reiterated something I had read about women and their looks. M. and the article both talked about looking at pictures from 5 years ago, and always being surprised by how good they looked in the picture. They were surprised because they remembered feeling NOT that good-looking at the time. The writer seemed to think that this was because she got less attractive as the years passed.

I hated this article and the assumption that all women get uglier with each passing year. I don’t want to believe that comparing how much worse we look “now” is the only way to be able to appreciate how good we looked “then.” According to this train of thought, the way to really see how beautiful you are now, is to imagine how much you’re going to go downhill in the next half-decade. What a depressing thought! I can’t imagine that approach ever helping anyone feel better about themselves.

In addition to being a real downer, I think this attitude is inaccurate. I’m pretty sure I look better now at 35 than I did at any time previously. I’m more confident and more fit. Deep down I’m happier with myself and more able to express my true nature. I’ve got a better sense of style and more money to indulge it with. (At least, I did before I lost my job.) I felt all these things were true even before my double whammy hit. So, why is it that I too have always been able to look at older pictures of myself without the criticism that seemed inevitable when looking at photos from the present? I even remember this being true when I was a child. As a ten year old, I hated my school picture and wished it was as good as the one from kindergarten!

M. seemed to have a gentler view. She talked about the distance a few years gives us. Looking at snapshots taken today, we are too close up to see things properly. We take that information, recorded through the lens, as a comment or criticism. But, once some time has passed, and that face and body is not exactly ours anymore, we can see the frozen image as the neutral observation it really is. Things fall into perspective. Once we’ve moved on to a new look, we are able to apply the same compassion and appreciation to our own photo as we usually reserve for those of family, friends, or total strangers.

I like this theory a lot better! If this is case, then hypothetically, if we could magically obtain a photo from 5 years in our future, we would have a similarly gentle response. This theory also explains why I suddenly got so pretty.

I got some distance.

During the 4 weeks between my diagnosis and my surgery, I endured a battery of probing procedures. The appointments themselves were unpleasant. The time between them was worse. Every scan or biopsy was followed by a period of several limbo-ish days while I waited for the results to be announced. It was agony. The worst part was, non of the medical reports gave me any answers, they just brought up more questions.

Once I knew my tumor was malignant, I had to wait to find out how big it was. This would determine whether or not I got to keep my breast. Once I found out how big it was, I had to wait and wonder if the second lump they found was also malignant. Suddenly there was a possibility I might have more advanced cancer. I might need chemo or even die. Even after I knew that my second lump was the same kind of contained cancer as the first, I had to wait for the results of the genetic testing. This would determine whether or not I lost both my breasts, and maybe my ovaries.

I fretted. I agonized. I wallowed in worry. I struggled to get a hold on the ability to “let go,” which, of course, I only gained after I stopped struggling to “get a hold on it.”

For the first time in my life I felt completely relieved of the illusion that “I am my body.” Not only is my body not “me,” it’s not even mine. It’s just a vehicle that carries the real “me” around. I’m not sure who I borrowed it from, but I just got notice that I might have to give it back any day now. There’s no long-term lease. We don’t even have a month-to-month arrangement. It’s moment-to-moment.

Faced with this reality, how can I not be delighted? Look, I got a free body, and except for the one part that’s missing, it works perfectly and looks good too! I’m not being stuck up to notice it’s a lovely carriage, it’s not even mine. I just woke up one day and here I was, alreaady in it! No afternoon of dumpster diving in wealthy neighborhoods could result in such a score. No windfall harvest could be so abundant. No game show prize could be so priceless. It’s lovely, it’s free and it fits. I’ll take it! (Until it’s taken back.)

I wish I could share this pleasure with everyone I know who still cringes at their own photos. But, I don’t want to be like that woman who encouraged her readers to be positive by remembering the negative. I don’t want to be the kind of person who says, “Next time you are looking at your poochy belly, don’t imagine what it might be like if it were flatter, imagine what it might be like if it were GONE.”

I wish I could just give this to you. I wish I could just say it and you would believe me.

You look beautiful.

Really.

Absolutely.

Beautiful.