ALL FOR THE PERFECT BOOB
The one thing about having to sit on your ass recovering for a week is that books and writing become a mandatory staple. There is just so much television to watch and frankly, my head starts to spin after more than an hour. Couple this with a perfect indian summer week of glorious weather and between writing and reading, my brain doesn’t feel as mushy as it sure could have. Sitting outside, birds chirping, sun brightly lighting the remnants of the flowers and plants soon to lay dormant and I can actually forget this week of bruising and soreness all for perfect boobs. The absurdity of this surgery does not go unnoticed by me. Feelings of guilt for taking this week to take care of myself have leapt into my brain and then of course I realize how silly this thinking is. I can hear my therapist saying, “Can’t you give yourself a break, Alayne?” Apparently not. Surely it doesn’t help that I haven’t been in my own home all week so that I could go under the radar and hide out a bit and not feel the pull of my business below calling me. Add to this, the blend of no exercise, a daily tab of oxy and craving sugar and carbohydrates and it is a recipe for a fucked up spinning head. But today is a new day; the bruising as promised by Dr. M has gone down considerably, I feel more like myself on this Day 9. I’m not going to lie though, the bruising, numbness and soreness in my sides of my hips has taken me by surprise.
If I had just had the surgery to do the exchange without the liposuction I would have been back to work in about a day, but this healing is slower than I thought. I want to be normal again. I want to get back to my house, my life, my work, my workouts, sex without worry that a part of my body will hurt, clear head. I sound like I am whining, maybe a little. I don’t like feeling unsettled and this is what this last round of my final mastectomy surgery has caused. All to have sculpted boobs. The lunacy of this also does not go unnoticed. I am grateful, a grateful cancer survivor. Shit could be so much worse. Clearly there is a lot more psychological significance and I seem to be more reticent about this aspect of this experience. Yes I write. Yes I am truth. But the head stuff that is coming up from this last surgery is an interesting science project on my brain. As I can hear my former husband saying to me, “Alayne, you think too much.” This used to drive me crazy, but there is unique wisdom to this comment. I wish I could easily lean into a more relaxed head space more often. My brain just has a hard time shutting down, off, lowering its speed. Then I get annoyed that I can’t so easily turn down the volume a bit and just stop the madness. This of course could all be because of Day 2 off of oxy and sugar and carbs and a full week with no exercise and usually this is when crazy brain revs up for the wild and bumpy ride. I know the things that bring me to balance and one is nature so going to my son’s rugby game today will definitely be a help.
Reading a book is also helpful to slow it down and escape a bit and I just finished a new favorite author who I had discovered by unfortunately reading her obituary in the NYT. She lived in Maine and the Portland Press Herald writer, Mary Pols started her obituary like this: “Elaine Ford, a novelist, retired University of Maine professor and seeker not of fame and fortune, but truth on the page.” Sing it Mary Pols! I love delicious writing and Elaine Ford is the first writer I have been inspired enough by to contemplate writing something fictional for a change. The New York Times started her obituary with this, “ Elaine Ford, who wrote spare elegant novels about quiet lives and thwarted aspirations…” My heart skips a few beats at these descriptions of her writing and I hungrily digested my first foray into her world in finishing in a day her collection of short stories called, The American Wife. I want to buy all of her books pronto.
If breast cancer not only got me off my ass and writing more, and breast cancer led me to Elaine Ford and the contemplation of attempting fictional writing, then I am grateful for its lessons. Good and bad, annoying, frustrating, confusing, mind fucking, head spinning, life rejoicing, appreciating and heart widening breast cancer. Who knew?