Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The Big Still


     These past weeks, I’ve enjoyed a breather from analyzing my Hero’s Journey.  The good news is there hasn’t been much external story to share. The deeper admission is there’s simmering content below the surface.
     I noticed this at the dentist last week. My appointments are on a nine-month cycle so the last time I sat in the reclining chair was before my cancer journey started.
     "Anything new in your medical history?” the young technician asks from her chair-side computer. I stare ahead and answer quietly, “Well, yes.”
     “What’s that?” she says.
     I mention the surgery I had in July and then detail what kind. She asks a couple more questions. I answer briefly.
     My words breast cancer shock the air, then dissipate into an empathetic still. There’s no “aww, I’m sorry to hear.” No attempts at pacifying me with language. Just silence. An invasive silence like a huge balloon pushing everything else out of the room. It presses against me. Tears form at the corner of my eyes, then stream. I smear them up and out like one of those facial creams promising youth, hoping my young female comrade doesn’t notice my weakness.
     I experienced similar tears a week earlier on another appointment. The emotion surprised me then too. I’m not sure why it’s difficult to tell people about my experience.  I don’t feel I’m harboring post-traumatic stress or malingering grief. I don’t feel sorry for myself. And I definitely feel I’m moving on, that I’m firmly footed on “The Road Back” to my ordinary world. I’m just not sure what the big lesson is yet – the “Elixir” or greater wisdom the Hero’s Journey promises. I acknowledge that getting to that point may take awhile.
     For now, reminders of my recent journey are everywhere. The other day while cleaning a ripe Italian cantaloupe, I realized it was a perfect model of how my nipple-sparing mastectomy went down. My surgeon essentially scooped out the inside of my breast leaving the exterior intact. Amazing, actually.
     I realize the way I see things or describe things may shock others who haven’t experienced this journey. I realize I’ve caught up to the place my surgeon was the first day we met when she explained, “Think of your body like a car. Sometimes parts need repairing.” Her words were jarring at the time. Now I get it. Got a bit of rust. No problem. Cut it out. Then move on.
     Summer's end and the croquet set in the garage was another recent reminder. I’ve been undergoing “fills” each week, the process by which the plastic surgeon injects 50 or 100 cc of saline into the tissue expander under my chest muscle. I have now officially graduated from this process. Six weeks from now, I’ll have another surgery to replace the expander with the implant. I anticipate this will be the “resurrection” part of my journey. Until then, my left breast is as hard as a croquet ball. 
     This game is not yet over.

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