Woot! I'm home. The retreat was a good thing to do. I'm tired but satisfied. I was with nice folks who were protective of me, and though I was hyper-aware of the sneeze in the back of the room, the nose blow to the right, I felt comfortable disinfecting my hands all the time. I still have not beaten the two-week cold, but can tell that my body is chipping away at it. Hopefully I will be better by Thursday morning, and my numbers will be up enough to proceed with chemo. It is a durn shame that as soon as you bounce back a bit, you have to go in for more. Today's meals were almost enjoyable, but I know that I only have a two-day window before it's back to rancid oil, whether I'm eating chocolate, a cracker, or an apple. Heath tells me to remember that eating simply is not about pleasure now. It's just about getting fuel. Tastes like petrol all right.
Here is a shot of me presenting this morning, taken by designated hugger, Roland. I like that for some reason, I've made people laugh. It wasn't the wig. That actually worked for me: it's comfortable, fun but not goofy, and doesn't look like I am trying to pretend it's my own hair. I am trying to decide if I can actually wear it in occasional sessions with clients. Probably depends on the client and their sense of what is professional, what is distracting, and what is just me feeling free to be. I had a skype session this evening, and wore the wig. That felt perfectly comfortable, but the client is a 22-year-old from Manhattan. I could hold sessions in drag and she might not notice. In fact, I sort of do dress in drag, I guess. Flat-chested, jacket, jeans. I suppose all that's missing is a necktie.
I've been unhappy about the missing breasts lately. With the burn and the drainage requiring so much attention, and then the anticipation of chemotherapy so closely on the heels of the surgery, I haven't had time to grieve that loss fully. I notice it at night the most. The skin is so tight, it pulls when I turn from one side to the other. This must have been part of Frankenstein's monster's misery; wherever he was sewn together, that had to pull. And I still have no sensation on about a 5-inch wide strip straight across my chest to under my arms. It feels like there is a layer of thick tupperware where my breasts used to be. The scars are both dead and alive -- no sensation, but pink and exclamatory. The left side is still recovering from all that drainage hooha; it's puckered here and swollen there, and tucked into that terrain is the slice of the scar. All that is something I can live with, and somehow it is different from the loss of my breasts; soft, healthy skin with feeling -- even expression! -- and with give. My chest has no give now -- it's tupperware, then rib.
Laura tells me as I cry typing here tonight that she thinks the scars are beautiful. She thinks they say No Cancer. She is a very sweet wife, and she says good things.
I'm realizing it has been a long day. I am glad to be home.
I am personally pro wig for all the reasons you say here, but hey, it's your ballgame. Did I ever tell you I became a nurse because I hated the medical system so much? Some of the draining, burn, chemo rush necessary, but at the same time, here it is late in the day for such an understandable grief. It's like you've been on a medical treadmill & just got off. I don't know whether to say this, will it sound wrong, altho i think there is some helpful accuracy to it? A mastectomy is an amputation, but mastectomy is a softer word. As a therapist, the changes of sensation, grief, loss, phantom feelings would make total sense to you in a client who had lost part of a leg. Allow the grief, loss, but down the line, please don't forget there is so much more to you than this.
ReplyDeleteI love you, Paula!
ReplyDeleteLee