This morning I was able to take the dressings off the three incision revisions. In my vast surgical experience I’ve decided removing tape is the worst “procedure” there is. Next time I’m throwing back a shot of whiskey and gnawing on a leather strap.
I found myself on the brink of dangerous territory as I looked at the doctor’s handiwork. It would have been so easy for me to go down that path. In fact I took a couple steps in that direction. I know I’ve said I don’t expect perfection and I really don’t. Why would I need perfection anyway? As I’ve stated time and again, I gave up my nude modeling career years ago.
However, knowing that in my head and believing it in my heart are two different things when I see the blatant evidence of the disease. And I suppose that’s the problem. Not so much the fact my left breast is still misshapen, though not as much as before, or the fact my chest is just a series of scars – they will fade with time. But what all those imperfections remind me of.
And once you start hanging the streamers and blowing up the balloons you’re only a cake and some punch away from an all-out pity party. Without any effort on a good day I can let myself become depressed about such superficial things: the scars all over my torso that nobody outside of the medical profession and Todd will ever see; the 30+ pounds brought on by different medications that seems nearly impossible to budge; two rounds of menopause, including hot flashes and night sweats. And those thoughts lead to wondering what the last two-and-a-half years would have been like if I’d never had cancer.
It doesn’t take much to trigger the melancholy. A hot flash, the feeling of my still-swollen tongue as it pushes against my teeth, waking up in the middle of the night because I don’t feel quite right… Even something as ridiculous as looking at a woman on TV or in a magazine in a low cut dress or bikini that I would never wear anyway, but knowing no matter how good of shape I’m in I’ll never be able to wear anything like that even if I was inclined to because of my scars.
However, this morning as I looked at the raw, bruised revisions and began wishing for a normal looking body, I decided to pop the balloons and tear down the streamers. I must have missed a couple because I’ve been in a bit of a funk today, but it could have been so much worse.
I gave everything to God two-and-a-half years ago and He was ever faithful to bring me through the most difficult period I’ve ever known. Why don’t I give him this small thing in comparison? It’s not like I’m new to the peace and comfort and joy He gives so freely. I’d already experienced all that long before my diagnosis and was overwhelmed with it when I needed it most. So what’s my deal?
My deal is that I’ve taken my focus off Jesus and put it on my physical issues. The things I’m struggling with are so minor compared to what I’ve been through so I decide to just manage them myself. Stupid, stupid girl. I know better. I really do. But it’s time to start walking the walk, not just talking the talk.
I’m going to try to give everything to God again. That’s not to say I won’t still whine now and then. Heck, that’s part of my charm! I also know I’ll still get the blahs. God may be bigger than anything, but I am still human.
We’ll see how I’m doing on Saturday when I remove the rest of the dressings!