I saw “The
Wolverine” the week before last, a movie I’ll never forget. And I can say with
a fair degree of assurance that my singular viewing experience does not match
up with that of any of the gazillion others who have seen this movie.
The film wastes
no time launching our mutant hero on his journey. A few minutes in, he lunges
his gigantic metal talons into rowdy hunters. Not long after, his comeuppance
comes via blades and arrows. With the first major attack on our hero, I felt a
sensation of warmth on my side, then running down my back. Was I so engaged in
this story that I empathized to this degree? Hugh Jackman’s blood filled the screen, and my body responded.
(After a mastectomy, you have absent nerves that still give off
sensations. Sometimes when I drink water, it feels to be running down my side.)
In the theatre,
I put my hand under my arm and ran my fingers down my shirt. My fingers were
sticky and soaked. It was too dark to tell with what, but it didn’t take long
to realize the site of my drain that had been removed three days prior had
chosen this movie moment to spring open.
Let’s just say I
missed about 30 minutes of the film. I’ll admit “The Wolverine” is not my kind
of movie anyway. I only went to stay abreast (no pun intended) of what the
mainstream masses are drawn to. Movies, walks, reading, music are part of
moving beyond my story, which I’ve been relishing the past couple of
weeks. I’ve been doing anything but think about what I’ve gone through on my
medical journey. Apparently, though, my body is saying this story’s not over
yet.
Two days ago, a
week and a half after “The Wolverine”, I arrived at the plastic surgeon’s
office for my weekly fill, anticipating another 50 cc of saline to be added to
my muscle expander. I sat down in the waiting room and felt wet under my arm.
It was a hot day and I was perspiring more than usual. In the examining room,
it became clear it wasn’t sweat. The timing was good, and the doctor massaged
the area to remove the excess fluid. “Wow, there’s a lot,” he said, as I gushed
like a little spring. The nurse brought a vessel to catch the fluid.
I talked to a
couple friends about these experiences. My niece Lisa, a nursing mother, said
it’s not a stretch that my body would give a sympathetic response to what was
happening on the movie screen. After all breast milk and lymphatic fluid are
interconnected. This would be like a nursing mother doing errands away from her
child and her body responds with flowing milk to another baby’s cries. I’m not
sure if there’s medical proof of this or not, but it makes sense.
My friend Signe
simply said, “We women are used to gushing -- tears, menstrual cycles, breast
milk. This all seems natural.”
I like getting
these feminine perspectives. As far as how I’m feeling, I’m not that
uncomfortable. Or worried. I’m just hoping the weeping stops soon. I’m hoping
for one more connection to “The Wolverine,” the part where his wounds seal shut
for good.
