To be consistent with my truth-telling self, I will relate the odd experience yesterday of visiting my opthamologist for an eye check-up, He asked how I am, so I frankly told him what this year has been like. He trumped me by telling me that since I saw him last, his wife died of esophageal cancer at age 64. He said she had suffered through horrible surgery to replace her esophagus after the diagnosis, and she yet died anyway because it had already spread.
What made this odd, folks, and I'm being brutally honest here, is that my very first reaction was the flash thought, "You know, he's not unattractive, maybe we could be lovers now that he's available." Or somehow that thought was mixed with real compassion for how terrible it must have been for both of them. When he showed no sign of having the same thought, I found myself wondering if my mastectomy turned him off. This sort of thing happens to me all the time, and I'm never sure whether I'm just more selfish than other people, or if many people have these reactions and don't have the foolishness to talk about them or even think about them.
Ugh. Sigh. His story was another instance of perspective on how lucky I am to have a good prognosis compared to so many others. Yet I am still struggling with envy for every two-breasted woman on this planet, which makes no sense. I was helped somewhat recently by a long conversation with a close friend who argued that it's okay to feel bad about your own loss while having perspective about the suffering of others at the same time, that it's not a suffering contest.
This friend and I also talked about the interesting question of how we see ourselves as continuous. How do we incorporate changes like losses in our lives? People are often shocked to see pictures of themselves as they age, the way people are shocked by hearing their voices on a tape recorder. Yet the changes of aging are gradual, which probably helps. For example, this friend, whom I've known for over twenty years, looks no different to me. Actually, almost anyone I've ever been attracted to sexually, I still find attractive, which is kind of remarkable. I also know that when I first contemplated getting divorced from my husband of 24 years, it was inconceivable to think of myself as a "divorced woman" -- it just didn't seem to be me ... yet now, 20 years later, it seems very much a part of who I am. So the task before me is incorporating this new body into the "me" I have in my head. And that is complicated by the way breasts are fraught with meanings having to do with femininity, desirability, and sexuality. Even though I'm in my sixties, oddly enough.
Many years ago when I still went to the NYU gym, I saw a woman there frequently who looked somewhat odd. I couldn't figure out what it was about her, and it was quite some time (I don't remember whether it was weeks or months) before I realized that what was different about her was that she had had a double mastectomy. She was completely flat in front, with two slightly curved scars where her breasts must have been. What I found so interesting about myself was that it took so long for me to figure out what was unusual about her appearance.
ReplyDeleteThere's a colleague at work who was diagnosed around the time I was twelve years ago. Though she didn't have to, she had a double mastectomy without reconstruction, and refused to wear breast forms or bra. In fact she let everyone know she thought faking it was silly, and that she just didn't care what the world thought, she felt it looked fine. I respect her decision, but I'm not there. I've never liked the idea of looking odd...in fact one reason I don't use make-up (i.e. foundation or lipstick) is that I fear putting on too much and standing out. Unless it's just laziness.
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