Yesterday I discovered what may end up being my secret
weapon to getting through radiation with my sanity (relatively) intact: lipstick.
I’m a big believer that for the most part, the way we
present ourselves to the world, the way we ask to be seen, is pretty much how
we will be seen, by other people as
well as ourselves. If I walk around in
sweat pants and a sloppy ponytail and fugly flip-flops, not only are other
people going to assume I’m a bit of a slob, but I’m probably not going to feel
too confident in myself, either. It’s
stupid, really. I mean, sweatpants vs. a cute a-line circle skirt -- That
actually changes who I am? Of course it
doesn’t. But it’s a pretty effective
mind-over-matter maneuver, and for me, anyway, it often works.
So yesterday I put on a new summer maxi-dress. The dress is racer back, so I got to haul out
my frequently ignored strapless bra, which always makes me feel fancy. (I won’t be able to wear regular bras for
more than another week or two, so I kinda wanted to shoot my wad on the
strapless number!) I spent slightly more
than my normal 30 seconds on my hair, I put on makeup (including my signature
color lipstick), wore my favorite sandals, and accessorized like I was being
taken out on a first date. I looked in
the mirror and I saw a woman who was confident and strong and knew how to hold
her head up in the world. And I decided
that I was going to be that woman,
not just on the way to my appointment, but while I was there, too. It didn’t matter that by the time anyone on my
treatment team saw me I would have already changed into my hospital gown – I
would still know what I wore to that appointment and what I would be wearing
out of it. I was going to hold my head up, look my fear
in the eyes, and with my perfectly-colored lips, tell it to eat my dust.
It helped, of course, that I now knew what to expect. My first treatment was all about coming face
to face with this big, fat, scary unknown.
I had done that now, so my second treatment was more about trying to
settle in to the reality that every day, for the next six weeks, I would be
here, in this cancer center, with this treatment team, voluntarily allowing
people to strategically burn my body.
I’m pretty resigned to my choice at this point, but when I really think
about what it is that’s happening under that impressive and intimidating
machine, it still makes my skin crawl.
It’s completely counterintuitive, to allow harm to be done to yourself,
and every logical bone in my body wants to sprint out of that room, as fast as
my legs could possibly carry me. So
there’s the mental work of quieting my brain, trusting in my doctors and my
treatment team, and believing that my own strength and stubbornness will see me
through it.
It also helps that Sara, one of the radiation techs, loves
Sex and the City. It’s easier to put my long-term health in the
hands of a woman who believes in both Sarah Jessica Parker and Manolo Blahnik,
in fairly equal amounts.
I realize this all sounds trivial and silly, like radiation
is nothing more than a glorified trip to the mall on BOGO days. But really, it’s my way of allowing myself to
just be who I am through this experience, to indulge the part of me that loves shoes
and ruffles and sparkly things and pretty sundresses, to hold on to those parts
of me while this terrifying thing is happening to my body over which I have
absolutely no control. I don’t want my
personality to change because my breast has changed. I don’t want a new
default, one of gravity and fear, when my normal default is one of joyfulness
and laughter.
I don’t want to reflect
the cancer – I want to reflect all the rest of me.
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