Beautiful.
It’s not a word I have used to describe my body. Ever.
Even when I was young and lithe and strong I didn’t think of myself that way.
After three pregnancies that word was certainly gone from my vocabulary.
I loved and appreciated my body for what it had done, what it could do. However, that feeling was more a result of recognizing its practicality more than its aesthetic appeal.
When I was diagnosed with cancer everything changed.
One aspect: body parts became liabilities.
It doesn’t matter, people said, you are the same person inside.
Was I? Am I?
Ripples replaced smooth expanses of skin.
Rosy scars replaced creamy white flesh.
I didn’t mind them then– I don’t mind them now.
Or do I?
When the glass is half full it is still also half empty.
I can see both views by shifting focus.
I’d rather be scarred than dead…
…but I’d rather have been healthy than ill.
I miss the hormones. My life is not the same since the removal of my ovaries shut down almost all of my estrogen production. One of my doctors told me the change would not be radical. She was wrong. There isn’t a day that goes by that this decision doesn’t affect my life.
When we’re in the thick of it we are afraid. We think fear is bad, but in fact the fear is useful: fear causes us to be brave.
Fear allows us to do things we never thought we would have the strength to do. Chemo was my greatest fear; I literally made myself ill with fear about receiving chemotherapy. I wanted any excuse not to do it. Saying no to chemotherapy would have been the wrong decision for me to make based on my particular risks. My fears of metastasis, dying young, and leaving my children was greater. I needed to do everything I could: that was my mindset. Whatever it takes.
I have reminders every day that I am not who I used to be.
And so, when I think of the words you are still the same person I realize it’s not true.
I’m not the same person… and I think that’s okay.
In fact, I’m not sure it could be any other way.
I ordered the book The Scar Project in October and finally received it two weeks ago. Photographer David Jay has been photographing breast cancer patients who were diagnosed between the ages of 18 and 35. The images are stark, real, true. The book has statements from the subjects, a bit about their cancer experience in their own words. I realized when I looked at them how beautiful the women were. That’s the word that instantly came to mind: beautiful.
With scars, without breasts, without hair… whatever each picture showed I found myself thinking how powerful those images and words were. And then I realized something: I am one of them. If they are beautiful so am I. It isn’t just their bodies, it’s their strength. Maybe my definition of beauty has changed; I just see it as meaning more than it used to.
Now that I am older I see that resilience is beauty. Scars can be inspiring. Scars are the marks we have to show that we have lived, endured, survived. I need to be willing to say that if those women are beautiful, so am I. Why I still have a hard time saying that, I don’t know.
Of course I am sure that is what David Jay wants to happen with his project; he wants to show that the reality of life with cancer is one that can be empowering. I do draw strength from my past, but the mixed emotions inside continue to wrestle with one another. David Jay has succeeded: he has shown strength in beauty and beauty in strength.
I need to do the same.
Link to Twitter
I’ve shared this post with all my friends on fb because I want them to see what a beautiful person you are. This is a very powerful piece, Lisa. Thank you. xoxo
You ARE beautiful. Accept it.
🙂
Wow. Brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my face. You are beautiful, Lisa, and I do hope you are able to see, feel, and believe this truth. While I definitely see the beauty in your strength, I also see the beauty in your willingness to expose your fear, anger, and sometimes even your frailty, in addition to your bravery, gratitude, and boldness. It’s your ability to share the darkness and the light that bridges the gap between these words on a screen and their effect on my head and heart. I love you, and wish for you the ability to catch a glimpse of yourself through my eyes and the eyes of all who love and cherish you.
Lisa, I love this. I have been kicking this particular word around in my head for months now. I was and may still jot something down on my silly nonblog about this. You are beautiful, those who have lived and laughed and loved and lost are beautiful. And I mean this from the bottom of my heart. Beautiful. xxo
Lisa, you are beautiful!!!
A very dear friend of mine was diagnosed at 38. One thing she struggled with was finding reference material for women under 40.
I remember a particular conversation we had about how her reconstructive surgeon didn’t have any photos she could relate to.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, feelings and experience re: this. I know I cannot know what you or my friend have gone through. But, somehow, reading your blog every day makes me feel like I am learning – hopefully enough to be able to support her in the way that she needs.
Humbled, as always, by your courage and your honesty.
Perfect sentiments Lisa.
You are beautiful… although I think you’re too modest to hear these comments with any real acknowledgement of that… I think that’s not what you want.
Your words are beautiful… your thoughts, your writing, your kids, your blog, you — you are infinitely beautiful.
This made me roar loudly. Your beauty can not even be contained within the word “beautiful”. Your beauty exceeds all boundries. Thank you for a truly empowering post.
I can only echo the sentiments of the other comments: You are beautiful in an abundance of ways. Most of all, you are fearless and unselfish in your writing, and that’s a gorgeous thing.
here here! I second all the above. Be brazenly beautiful.
http://babiesornot.blogspot.com/2011/01/brazen.html
Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts! Very inspiring and consoling to me 🙂
Best wishes to you!
Dagmar from Germany