The dried roses in a vase on top of my dresser are the most important flowers to me. Touch them and die. I’m only half joking.
When we moved into our new house (oh, did I mention we moved into our new house last weekend?!) I carried them ever so carefully, never letting my hand leave their side as they sat next to me in the car. They’re the roses from my bouquet from my wedding. And since my wedding day they have been with me in that same glass vase. A few petals have fallen to the bottom of the vase, but about four or five dried pink and white roses, and their stems, remain intact.
They are a constant reminder of the beauty of my wedding day and the beauty of my life. As the seasons change and our houses change and life moves forward the roses remain in one place, still, silent. They are my wedding-day bouquet.
Last week I realized that the second anniversary of Pink and Pearls is coming up in July. I was reading some of my old entries, including ones from when I just started writing, and it brought up a lot of emotions. It’s funny to me (not in the “ha ha” way, but in the other way) that some of the stuff I wrote in July 2011, following my first mastectomy and before my LFS diagnosis, still rings true today. The stuff about the breast cancer “never really being over.” I wrote that back when it WASN’T really over, not in the least. Little did I know I had five more surgeries to go, would get diagnosed with LFS and decide to get my healthy breast removed. Little did I know that as much as I wanted my bachelorette weekend to be about me and my wedding, it became about the breast cancer when one of my implants had to be removed because it caused my skin to rip around it. Little did I know I would get married with one breast. So back then, it really wasn’t over. And today, I am lucky. That part is over. The cancer is over and the surgeries are over. But I somehow knew back then it would never be “over.” I always knew I would worry about it coming back and I always knew I would have to get lifetime screenings and I always knew I would have to be diligent.
And I guess I always knew I would be too scared to touch my skin when I wash myself in the shower. When I wash under my arms I use the soap bar (or washcloth) straight to the skin; no fingers. If I have an itch under my armpit, I scratch it as fast as I can, trying not to touch the skin. Because I know a lump under the armpit can mean breast cancer.
I still have pain and tightness on my right side from my surgeries and implants, and most bras (including sports bras) are still uncomfortable to wear. Yet I somehow make do. I run and I bike and I do yoga and I have clean armpits. But in the back of my mind it’s still there. Not a single day goes by that I’m not reminded I had breast cancer.
My chest will never feel the same. I know that. My implants still hurt, and I still have trouble sleeping on my stomach. I see the scars every day in the mirror. I still “check” the placement of the implants at least six times a day to make sure they haven’t shifted or no skin has ripped. These are daily things I do. Like brushing my teeth I peep down my shirt a few times a day to “check on things.” I’m looking for signs of breast cancer and I’m making sure my implants haven’t moved. Yet I won’t touch them. Not even for an itch. My fingers don’t go near my chest.
Because that’s how I found the cancer. I know I found it myself and maybe even saved my own life (or at least saved myself from more gruesome treatment) by feeling around and poking around, and I am a huge advocate of self-exams, no matter what doctors or the government say. But I have a breast MRI every year, so I’ll leave the cancer screening to that. If I go in for an itch or to wash myself and think I “feel something” like I always do, my life will literally come to a halt. I’ll cry and panic and crawl in bed and I won’t eat or sleep or work or answer my phone until I can see a doctor who can tell me everything’s OK. So I’m not putting myself through that. I am way too busy to be crying and panicking over cancer scares. Other stuff? Sure. Bring it on.
So Pink and Pearls is two. We’re moved into our new house and we love it! It’s absolutely gorgeous and more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed! The most beautiful part is that we built it together and as the years go on we will continue to build and create this home and this life for ourselves. From the beginning (the floors and the walls and the doorknobs and the perennials) to the middle (furniture and decorating) to the forever. We created a living space for ourselves today and our family tomorrow. It will continue to grow and blossom into something more and more beautiful. Because it is OUR home, that we built. And we built it in more ways than one.
And Pink and Pearls is two. I’ve been writing for almost two years. I know now I don’t write as much as I used to. Life has changed and things have changed. But it’s good to know Pink and Pearls, my ol’ gal, is still here and will always be here. For days like this when I remember I’m still scared of getting breast cancer again – so scared I don’t touch my armpits in the shower. Days when I’m scared and sad, and days when I’m happy. All the days. Even if I don’t write I know I can. I know Pink and Pearls is here for me. It provided me so much when I was first diagnosed. When my brain couldn’t hold the hundreds upon millions of conflicting thoughts. When I had to get them out or I would explode. When I had to figure out what I meant or what I was feeling or had a message to say. When I was in pain. When I was happy. Through the wedding and the surgeries to today, nearly two years later.
Like my wedding day bouquet, Pink and Pearls has blossomed into something I carry with me. It’s provided more than I could ever imagine. From my feelings and my thoughts to awareness to support. It has become my blanket. My comfort.
My wedding day bouquet of pink and white roses, covered in white ribbon and pearls, was symbolic of love and peace and my future as I carried it down the aisle to Sean. I held it close and dearly. It was perfect.
Pink and Pearls, though not tangible or palpable, is something now that I also carry. Symbolic of a journey behind me, and a journey ahead. I may always be scared. I may never again touch my armpits, and I may peep under my shirt a few times a day for the rest of my life. But I AM healing, and Pink and Pearls has helped me do that and see that. For me, one of my healing processes is writing.
Happy almost birthday, Pink and Pearls. Thanks for being there, always. I’ll always need you. I promise.
No comments:
Post a Comment