K and I are checking out gyms. It's part of our plan for a smart, healthy life together. Of course, we like the most expensive one best. It's close to the house, the yoga teacher is superb, and some friends of ours already belong there. Best of all, there is a hot tub, steam room and dry sauna right there in the women's locker room. We don't have to put on our suits and mingle with men when we want a soak after basketball.
Alice Waters once wrote (if I remember correctly) "I'm not a sepratist. Except occasionally, for my health." I feel the same way. I love the nudity of the locker room; the freedom to stroll from shower to tub wearing nothing but flip-flops. I love being surrounded by naked women of assorted shapes and sizes. Few of them, even the really toned ones, resemble the sex and sales goddesses that permeate our media culture. None of them seem to notice or mind how widely they all differ from the projected "norm" of Heidi Klums and Nicole Kidmans.
I'm sure many of them do mind. Most of them probably have body image issues and eating disorders that plague their days and dreams. But, I can't tell by looking at them. From my seat in the whirlpool, it looks like an organic garden of healthy women's bodies. The gardener has obviously read about the ills and dangers of monoculture, and instead has planted heirloom varieties, betting on the strength and abundance that comes with diversity.
In an environment like this, I could shamelessly display the recent alteration to my birthday suit. But I don't.
The first time, I wrapped a towel around myself.
I remember learning to do this. We were at the Waynesboro swimming pool. Mom showed me how to pull the long edge of a beach towel tight around my waist until all that was left was a handful of terry cloth at the corner. Under her direction, I gave the piece in my hand a twist, and stuffed it into what was now the waist of my instant skirt!
Years later, I was still wrapping and twisting beach towels around my waist, until the day I saw this girl Anna at the pool. She wasn't a particular friend of mine, but she was the daughter of the man who did my mom's taxes...so we stopped and said, "hi."
I could not take my eyes off her hips. Anna was a talkative, popular girl at school. I'm sure my apparent fascination with her damp and scantily clad body boosted my own reputation as a weirdo and freak. But, I wasn't looking at her. I was looking at her beach towel.
Her cover-up arrangement completely side-stepped the laws of nature, physics and pool-side fashion, as I understood them at the time. Alone in my bedroom, I tried to copy her style.
First I wrapped the entire towel around my waist, all the way to the corner. I didn't twist and tuck like I'd been doing since early childhood. Instead, I held the entire thing flat against my body, and then folded the whole thing down, creating a kind of waist-band that held the towel in place. I was impressed and amazed. It had never occurred to me that there was more than one way to wrap a towel around yourself and hold it there without pins or clips.
I tried to wear my towel flat-folded like this the next few times I went to the pool. Finally, I had found a way to dress like the cool kids, without the money. But I couldn't break my old habit. To this day, I am still a twist-and-tucker at heart. But my adjusted anatomy may force a chance that peer envy couldn't.
In the women's locker room at the fancy health club, I try to twist and tuck a towel around my chest. I'm long and the towels are short, only barely managing to cover my ass. It's okay. It's not my ass I feel anxious about.
I've grown accustomed to the way my scar and single breast look next to each other. And K., in a surreal moment of what I think was honesty actually said to me the other day, "I like the way you look!" I was naked from the waist up at the time, so I am apparently not the only one in the house who's gotten used to my ammended figure.
But the women at the gym haven't had a chance to get accustomed to me. I don't want to shock them. I don't want to startle them. I'm happy to open up my blouse and show my scar to anyone who expresses the slightest interest, but I do feel like people deserve a little warning.
So I don't mind that the towels are too short to cover my ass, they cover my chest. For a few minutes, at least.
The twist-and-tuck method, which has served me so faithfully these past 3 decades, won't hold anymore. I used to do the tucking part right into my cleavage. But, I don't have cleavage anymore. I tried to tuck on the flat part where my right breast used to be, but even 6 months after my surgery, I'm too sensitive. It hurts to tuck it there. So I tuck under my arm, but the angle is wrong or something, and the towel won't stay.
I tried the flat-fold technique too. But that shortens the towel by a good 3 inches. I look silly and strange walking around like this. My towel stops exactly where modesty, and R rated film protocols, dictate coverage should begin.
So I carry the towel and cover up my chest with my hand, first the right, and then the left. I start with the right, holding my scar under cover. After all, that is the problem side. But I feel ridiculous holding a hand against my flat chest, while my free breast bounces happily in the bright light. So I switch, and hold my other side instead. My scar doesn't really look that bad by itself. It's only the juxtaposition with my healthy breast and nipple that makes my chest seem shocking. Without the comparison to give the viewer context, I think I look okay. It's just a flat area of my body, with a scar in the middle. Who cares? No one sensible will be appalled or affronted by this.
It's a good technique, until I start to feel self-conscious about grabbing my own breast. No one else is doing it. I start to feel inappropriate and vaguely sexual, like those teen age boys who cup their testicles in public. So I put both hands on my chest, covering both sides. I do this until I need a free hand for something for opening a door or drinking water. Then the switch-off routine starts all over again.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
New Blog
I love writing in this blog, and plan to keep doing it as long as I have anything to say that relates to having or surviving cancer. That will probably be a long while. But, cancer isn't all I want to write about.
I want to write about food and books and politics. I want to write about outdoor sports and community events. I want to write about art and music and people. But I don't want to write about those things here.
So I am starting a new blog. On my new blog, I intend to write about my own adventures. I also plan to research the thing I am writing about, so I can place my own observations, insights and experiences into a larger context. Looking to reflect this balance between real life and reference materials in the title, I am naming it "The Adventures of Library Girl."
I kind of stole this title from a speech I did at Toastmasters once, called "Library Girl to the Rescue." It was a self-glamorizing account of the first day I went sailing.
To entertain you, and myself, I'm posting this as the first story on my new blog. You can read part one by e-travelling to http://theadventuresoflibrarygirl.blogspot.com/
I've only got part one written so far. I'll try to get part two up by the end next week, at the latest. In the meantime I will continue to post my thoughts, feelings, and activities relating to cancer on this blog. My mental and emotional health seems to depend upon it.
As always, I appreciate that you read, and comment on, what I've written. I like to think I'd still be writing this, even if no one was reading it. But, that's probably not true.
So consider this...if you have ever read or commented on this blog, you've helped me to keep writing. And, if anything I write ever helps another cancer survivor or someone close to them...you have helped them too, because I wouldn't have done it without you.
I want to write about food and books and politics. I want to write about outdoor sports and community events. I want to write about art and music and people. But I don't want to write about those things here.
So I am starting a new blog. On my new blog, I intend to write about my own adventures. I also plan to research the thing I am writing about, so I can place my own observations, insights and experiences into a larger context. Looking to reflect this balance between real life and reference materials in the title, I am naming it "The Adventures of Library Girl."
I kind of stole this title from a speech I did at Toastmasters once, called "Library Girl to the Rescue." It was a self-glamorizing account of the first day I went sailing.
To entertain you, and myself, I'm posting this as the first story on my new blog. You can read part one by e-travelling to http://theadventuresoflibrarygirl.blogspot.com/
I've only got part one written so far. I'll try to get part two up by the end next week, at the latest. In the meantime I will continue to post my thoughts, feelings, and activities relating to cancer on this blog. My mental and emotional health seems to depend upon it.
As always, I appreciate that you read, and comment on, what I've written. I like to think I'd still be writing this, even if no one was reading it. But, that's probably not true.
So consider this...if you have ever read or commented on this blog, you've helped me to keep writing. And, if anything I write ever helps another cancer survivor or someone close to them...you have helped them too, because I wouldn't have done it without you.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Twist of the Wrist
I used to be in a politically radical performance group. For one skit, several of us dressed in suits and pretended to be greedy, sexist businessmen. My friend N. had a line where she was talking about big boobs. Every time she said the line, she cupped her palms inward, as if fondling huge imaginary breasts of her own. We went through several rehearsals, without anyone in our all-female troupe catching on to the inconsistency of this gesture. It took a visitor, I’m pretty sure it was a guy, to point out that no male chauvinist would pantomime a pair of tits as being his own. From that moment on, N twisted her palms away from herself and grabbed invisible breasts belonging to someone else. It really improved the piece, and made her persona believable.
I think about this theatre bit whenever I read about reconstructed breasts “feeling” natural. I know they’re not able to re-attach the severed nerves. I can’t imagine the transferred flesh they stitch on as a nipple is able to communicate anything but the vaguest pleasure or pain back to the brain. Doesn’t it feel like a big numb lump? I don’t know. I should ask someone.
But I strongly suspect that when patients or their doctors refer to reconstructed breasts as “feeling” natural, they are talking about the way they feel in the hand of someone not connected to them. I haven’t read anything that talks about how it feels to the woman wearing the breast.
This is what I would care about if I was considering the surgery. How will it look to me, and how will it feel…to ME. I mean, why does it matter what it feels like to another person?
I understand and agree that the full, warm, squishy-ness of a woman’s breast makes a friendly handful. But, come on. The really cool thing, the thing that matters, about touching a woman’s breast is how it makes her feel, right? It makes her feel good. It makes her excited. It makes her want you to touch her more, and in other places. The way the nipple shifts and changes is confirmation that you are successfully communicating your desires, and making her feel them too. You’re connected. You’re contagious. You’re hot, hot, hot.
It seems to me that all the people, both doctors and paitents, who write and talk about re-contructed breasts feeling "natural" have got their wrists twisted the wrong way. Only by turning them around are we going to get the right answer, because the question is not, "How do these breasts feel to a hand?" The question is, "How do they feel to a person?"
I think about this theatre bit whenever I read about reconstructed breasts “feeling” natural. I know they’re not able to re-attach the severed nerves. I can’t imagine the transferred flesh they stitch on as a nipple is able to communicate anything but the vaguest pleasure or pain back to the brain. Doesn’t it feel like a big numb lump? I don’t know. I should ask someone.
But I strongly suspect that when patients or their doctors refer to reconstructed breasts as “feeling” natural, they are talking about the way they feel in the hand of someone not connected to them. I haven’t read anything that talks about how it feels to the woman wearing the breast.
This is what I would care about if I was considering the surgery. How will it look to me, and how will it feel…to ME. I mean, why does it matter what it feels like to another person?
I understand and agree that the full, warm, squishy-ness of a woman’s breast makes a friendly handful. But, come on. The really cool thing, the thing that matters, about touching a woman’s breast is how it makes her feel, right? It makes her feel good. It makes her excited. It makes her want you to touch her more, and in other places. The way the nipple shifts and changes is confirmation that you are successfully communicating your desires, and making her feel them too. You’re connected. You’re contagious. You’re hot, hot, hot.
It seems to me that all the people, both doctors and paitents, who write and talk about re-contructed breasts feeling "natural" have got their wrists twisted the wrong way. Only by turning them around are we going to get the right answer, because the question is not, "How do these breasts feel to a hand?" The question is, "How do they feel to a person?"
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Wordle
My friend C. forwarded me this very cool website. It will take a document or a group of words and create a sort of collage based on which words come up most frequently.
The address is http://www.wordle.net/e.net/
This is the image she created by feeding this blog address into the site.
The address is http://www.wordle.net/e.net/
This is the image she created by feeding this blog address into the site.
Sorry the quality is so bad. I had to change it from a pdf to a jpg. I probably didn't do it right.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A Striking Assemblance
You know that thing that happens when people spend a lot of time together and they start acting and looking like each other?
It's happening in our house.
Phyllis is starting to dress like K.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Apologizing in the Bathroom
I don’t know how to describe the feeling I have when I look in to the mirror at bedtime. My eyes tear up sometimes and the words in my head are “I’m sorry.”
Who am I apologizing too? K. I want to bring a perfect body to bed. Barring that, I’d like at least a decent one, with all the usual working parts.
I stand naked in the bathroom after my shower, or before brushing my teeth. Dripping or dry I look the same. Lopsided and scarred. Not pretty. Not sexy. Not right.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t want to feel this way, apologetic. I don’t want to have these words in my head. I don’t want to come to bed with tears in my eyes. I want to give my lover the best of everything I’ve got. If I haven’t got two perfect breasts to bring, then I’d like to bring the funny looking one I’ve got and let her call it perfect, like she does. And I’d like to let her call my scarred, misshapen, flabby chest flesh on the other side perfect, like she does. I’d like to watch that word, “perfect,” hop from her mouth onto my skin and let it be true. I’d like to have the confidence and boldness of a woman in an intact body. I’d like to be bright and beam. Shameless.
I manage it sometimes. I can put out the light, or put on a shirt, and my apologies fall away into the fabric, into the night. K calls me the most beautiful woman in the world and whether or not it’s so, I feel like all the good things that blessing would bring are true for me with her.
But sometimes cotton isn’t enough, and neither is silk. I’m broken and partly missing. Even the total shroud of a moonless midnight sky painted deep with star-dampening clouds doesn’t make a strong enough shield. I can’t hide from my lessoned, lessened self. What have I learned? What have I lost? I crumble and cry.
Poor K. It must be bad enough to have a lover whose body lost a battle to win a war. Why should she have to deal with my trembling needy heart as well?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would it take all these feelings away?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would I be all healed up by now?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would I believe her when she says I'm the most beautiful woman in the world?
Maybe.
Maybe I should just go ahead and believe her now.
Who am I apologizing too? K. I want to bring a perfect body to bed. Barring that, I’d like at least a decent one, with all the usual working parts.
I stand naked in the bathroom after my shower, or before brushing my teeth. Dripping or dry I look the same. Lopsided and scarred. Not pretty. Not sexy. Not right.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t want to feel this way, apologetic. I don’t want to have these words in my head. I don’t want to come to bed with tears in my eyes. I want to give my lover the best of everything I’ve got. If I haven’t got two perfect breasts to bring, then I’d like to bring the funny looking one I’ve got and let her call it perfect, like she does. And I’d like to let her call my scarred, misshapen, flabby chest flesh on the other side perfect, like she does. I’d like to watch that word, “perfect,” hop from her mouth onto my skin and let it be true. I’d like to have the confidence and boldness of a woman in an intact body. I’d like to be bright and beam. Shameless.
I manage it sometimes. I can put out the light, or put on a shirt, and my apologies fall away into the fabric, into the night. K calls me the most beautiful woman in the world and whether or not it’s so, I feel like all the good things that blessing would bring are true for me with her.
But sometimes cotton isn’t enough, and neither is silk. I’m broken and partly missing. Even the total shroud of a moonless midnight sky painted deep with star-dampening clouds doesn’t make a strong enough shield. I can’t hide from my lessoned, lessened self. What have I learned? What have I lost? I crumble and cry.
Poor K. It must be bad enough to have a lover whose body lost a battle to win a war. Why should she have to deal with my trembling needy heart as well?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would it take all these feelings away?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would I be all healed up by now?
If I'd had reconstructive surgery, would I believe her when she says I'm the most beautiful woman in the world?
Maybe.
Maybe I should just go ahead and believe her now.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Live from Colorado
I had a short talk the other day with another breast cancer survivor. Like me, she had a mastectomy. Unlike me, she opted to get reconstruction. So, she has a different perspective than I do. I liked talking to her. I wish I'd had more time to ask her about why she chose the procedures she did, and how she feels about them now. But, even in our few minutes of candid discussion, I gleaned some interesting tidbits.
1. She chose to have the spacer plus implant surgery instead of the body-salad surgery. I didn't get to ask why she chose one over the other.
2. She's completed the surgery, with the nipple added and everything. This was interesting to me. I haven't had the chance to talk to a lot of other surviviors yet, but two of the stories I've heard were from women who didn't even get the nipples attached. They had the bulk of their breasts rebuilt, but by the time they were healed up enough to get their nipples added they felt like they'd already had enough surgery and having nipples wasn't really worth the effort, pain, risk and expense of going under the knife again. She obviously didn't feel this way.
3. Not only did she have the removed breast replaced, she had it made a size larger than the original one. To go along with that, she had an implant placed in her healthy breast, so that she would have a matched set. I think if I'd done reconstruction, I might have gone up a size too. Surely, after going through the agony of cancer, one deserves the compensation of a new "dream rack," or you could call it a "booby prize!"
4. I found this next bit incredibly interesting. She called the healthy breast, the one that didn't have cancer in it and now has an implant, she called this her "live" breast. She didn't refer to her other, reconstructed breast in the same context, so I don't know what she calls that one. But I can't help wonder, if one is "live" what is the other one?
5. The live breast continues to grow and shrink as she gains or loses weight. The other one doesn't. Here it is, the middle of winter in a cold climate and the holidays just ended. Most of us are carrying a few extra pounds and I guess she is too. Her "live" breast was noticably larger than the other one. I wondered how she felt about that. After all her surgery and healing and trying for a dream rack and everything, she still ends up with a lopsided bosom. Unfortunately, I didn't feel comfortable asking in the limited time we had together.
6. When I told her I hadn't done the reconstruction and didn't plan to, she replied that she probably wouldn't have done it either if she'd been older when it happened. I don't know her age, but my guess is that she's at least a decade older than me.
I've tried to be completely truthful, and respectful in reporting what I learned from my talk with her. I didn't ask her permission to post this. I don't think she even knows I have this blog, so I don't know if she'll ever read this.
But if she does, I hope she can tell that I completely honor and respect her choice. I feel really priveleged to have such intimate information about her body and her health and her personal choices. Talking to her helped me understand better what is going on in this country for other women facing breast cancer treatment decisions, and it helped me understand my own choices and situation better.
1. She chose to have the spacer plus implant surgery instead of the body-salad surgery. I didn't get to ask why she chose one over the other.
2. She's completed the surgery, with the nipple added and everything. This was interesting to me. I haven't had the chance to talk to a lot of other surviviors yet, but two of the stories I've heard were from women who didn't even get the nipples attached. They had the bulk of their breasts rebuilt, but by the time they were healed up enough to get their nipples added they felt like they'd already had enough surgery and having nipples wasn't really worth the effort, pain, risk and expense of going under the knife again. She obviously didn't feel this way.
3. Not only did she have the removed breast replaced, she had it made a size larger than the original one. To go along with that, she had an implant placed in her healthy breast, so that she would have a matched set. I think if I'd done reconstruction, I might have gone up a size too. Surely, after going through the agony of cancer, one deserves the compensation of a new "dream rack," or you could call it a "booby prize!"
4. I found this next bit incredibly interesting. She called the healthy breast, the one that didn't have cancer in it and now has an implant, she called this her "live" breast. She didn't refer to her other, reconstructed breast in the same context, so I don't know what she calls that one. But I can't help wonder, if one is "live" what is the other one?
5. The live breast continues to grow and shrink as she gains or loses weight. The other one doesn't. Here it is, the middle of winter in a cold climate and the holidays just ended. Most of us are carrying a few extra pounds and I guess she is too. Her "live" breast was noticably larger than the other one. I wondered how she felt about that. After all her surgery and healing and trying for a dream rack and everything, she still ends up with a lopsided bosom. Unfortunately, I didn't feel comfortable asking in the limited time we had together.
6. When I told her I hadn't done the reconstruction and didn't plan to, she replied that she probably wouldn't have done it either if she'd been older when it happened. I don't know her age, but my guess is that she's at least a decade older than me.
I've tried to be completely truthful, and respectful in reporting what I learned from my talk with her. I didn't ask her permission to post this. I don't think she even knows I have this blog, so I don't know if she'll ever read this.
But if she does, I hope she can tell that I completely honor and respect her choice. I feel really priveleged to have such intimate information about her body and her health and her personal choices. Talking to her helped me understand better what is going on in this country for other women facing breast cancer treatment decisions, and it helped me understand my own choices and situation better.
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