New Medicine

I’m tired in my mind and in my heart. I want to be comforted and I know I’m not going to be. Instead, I have something that is probably more useful in the long run. I have the perspective that comes from looking at my scarred chest in the mirror. I like the sideways view. It’s dramatic. It's obvious that something has happened to me. I remember in those cave-girl books if you survived an animal attack, those scars became magical proof of your personal power. You had Mountain Lion Medicine or Black Bear Medicine. (That sounds like some kind of Native American appropriation, but I think it communicates the idea. Just to be clear, I am making the appropriation, not the author…Jean. M. something or other.)

What kind of Medicine do I have? Over-eager Cell Medicine? Curly-Haired Surgeon Medicine? Shiny Scalpel Medicine? What exactly attacked me? What did I survive?

They say they don’t know what causes cancer, but I think I know. I think it’s all the toxins in our environment. It’s the poisons we use to kill insects and fertilize our crops. It’s the plastics that we touch all the time. It’s the cleaning products we end up inhaling inside and the complex molecular dirt in our “fresh” air. Of course, there’s also a nuclear powerplant over the hill.

To quote the character Madrone in The Fifth Sacred Thing, “We are living in a toxic soup.”

I have Toxic Soup Medicine.

I also have strange dreams.

Last night I dreamt I was a 1950’s sock-hopper and I had a tall basketball playing boyfriend in a lettered sweater. He worked after school at a small local grocery-type store with a countertop deli. It sounds more “Pleasant-ville” than it was. In the dream, the scenery looked like a 7-11, and my boyfriend fondled my chest in public.

It was actually a sweet interaction. I must have been wearing some kind of prosthesis. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me in a wonderful way. (I can’t wait to be kissed like that in my waking life!) Then, still holding me with his right arm, he caressed my shoulder with
his left, moving his hand lower and lower, until he was squeezing what would have been my right breast if I had one. Our eyes locked and we exchanged a look that told me he was just doing it to remind me that he knew about it and he didn’t care and he loved me and thought I was absolutely sexy and delicious anyway and I didn’t even need to wear the fake boob at all as far as he was concerned. He went back to work, stocking the dairy case items on the other side of the room. I swiveled around in my seat at the counter. I think I had a sandwich or a milkshake or something waiting for me. Suddenly I had a girl friend sitting there too. Maybe she was there during the kiss and the squeeze, but I wasn’t aware of her then. I wasn’t startled by her now. Dreams are an awful lot like being on Valium. I sighed and leaned my chin on my hands. “I think I’m in love,” I said. She asked who, and I answered, “with my boyfriend,” like it was big news because I hadn’t been until just that moment.

It’s funny to dream about wearing a prosthesis. It was a nice one, squishy. I don't even have one yet in real life. I haven’t been wearing anything at all inside my bra, except for once. I went to a baby shower for a friend of mine from work this past Saturday. I wanted to feel like I looked nice so I wore my favorite pink top. It’s a silky clinging fabric and the neckline only works with a certain bra that I have. That bra isn’t just a cropped and banded tank-top, like the ones I’ve been wearing. It’s got underwire and a structured cup. I don’t mind looking flat on the right side, but I don’t like the way I look with an empty, crumpled-up foundation garment. I looked like a plump bakery-shop muffin on one side and a day-old pop-over on the other. So, I stuffed my hosptial souvenier sock in it. It looked fine. I could tell that it was a smaller than my real one and a shape other than rounded…but I doubt anyone else could. Towards the end of the party, I whipped out my sock to show my friends. They insisted that, even with the sock in my hand, I still looked okay.

I couldn’t wear the sock and underwire combo for very long. It pressed against my scar and the pressure made me really tired on that side of my body. It’s funny. Sometimes I’m in pain from the surgery…other times I experience very localized exhaustion. It’s hard to explain. I just get to a place where I cannot DO ANYTHING using that side of my body unless I lay down (on the floor if necessary) and rest first.

Now that I’ve got the tape off and my incision is sealed up tight, I can, very lightly, scrub my chest in the bathtub. It feels super-weird. As I run the soapy sponge up and down, it is as if I have a big bubble over my scar. I cannot feel anything at all on the skin…but I can feel the pressure (ouch) underneath.

That's the reason I don't have a prosthesis yet. I'm still too sensitive to be measured for one. I'm not in big hurry. I've got lots of socks, and to be honest, I don't know how often I'd wear it anyway. Why should I? My friends can't tell. My soda-shop dreamboat boyfriend doesn't care. But most of all, I don't want to cover up my Medicine.