My face is getting thinner but I am only two pounds lighter on the scale. The extra twelve pounds I have packed on in the last four months settled on my mid-section (and rear section), seemingly to stay.
I step out of the bathtub and towel myself dry. I look into the large, wood framed mirror on the wall. The first thing I notice is that I appear at least four months pregnant, an impossibility, of course; I had a tubal ligation after son number three. I was forty-two at that time and lost every pound gained with no effort, at all. Now, the saddlebags on my hips seem to mock me.
Soon, my eyes scan upward to the scars. There are two of them, well-healed, one across each side of my flat chest. It occurs to me that this barren plain only makes my belly and butt look bigger, more pronounced.
The cancer was caught in plenty of time but reconstruction was an utter failure. The implants went in, followed by a horrific infection, and another surgery to take them out. Exhausting pain and nearly instant tolerance and addiction to the narcotics made any future reconstruction out of the question, in my mind. Now, gazing at my naked reflection, for a moment I wish it could be different.
I have the best husband in the world about all of this. He assured me from the start that he was a leg man. I have always had a great set of legs! Lately though,the thighs are too wide to suit me, even if he seems not to mind. With indignation, I think to myself that it would only be fair for some part of me to still be fit for groping.
I remember back to the first time he touched the scars. After a very rough period in our relationship, several months post-op, we had reconciled and were ready to make love again.
Suddenly, he looked at me and quietly said,"I've never touched them, have I?"
"No," I replied, "and I do have some feeling left there."
Gently, he pressed his mouth to one of the scars. In that moment, I was healed. I was a woman again.
Now I knew that he still wanted me, that is, everything that was left of me.
I shake my head a bit and wonder how long I have been staring at it all. The humidity in the room has dissipated and I know that soon one of the kids will be knocking on the door, with an urgent need to pee.
I smear sweetly perfumed lotion over my skin, this time "seeing" my body's hills, valleys and plains with my hands. I think to myself, "Enough of this now" and quickly throw a layer of clothing over it, the whole imperfect bundle.
It is me. My body has a story of its own. From fresh and pure, gulping first air nearly forty-eight years ago, to this moment, battle scarred but still standing, it belongs to me.
I am still a woman, still loved, passionate and unashamed. Truly, nothing is more beautiful than just being real.
I step out of the bathtub and towel myself dry. I look into the large, wood framed mirror on the wall. The first thing I notice is that I appear at least four months pregnant, an impossibility, of course; I had a tubal ligation after son number three. I was forty-two at that time and lost every pound gained with no effort, at all. Now, the saddlebags on my hips seem to mock me.
Soon, my eyes scan upward to the scars. There are two of them, well-healed, one across each side of my flat chest. It occurs to me that this barren plain only makes my belly and butt look bigger, more pronounced.
The cancer was caught in plenty of time but reconstruction was an utter failure. The implants went in, followed by a horrific infection, and another surgery to take them out. Exhausting pain and nearly instant tolerance and addiction to the narcotics made any future reconstruction out of the question, in my mind. Now, gazing at my naked reflection, for a moment I wish it could be different.
I have the best husband in the world about all of this. He assured me from the start that he was a leg man. I have always had a great set of legs! Lately though,the thighs are too wide to suit me, even if he seems not to mind. With indignation, I think to myself that it would only be fair for some part of me to still be fit for groping.
I remember back to the first time he touched the scars. After a very rough period in our relationship, several months post-op, we had reconciled and were ready to make love again.
Suddenly, he looked at me and quietly said,"I've never touched them, have I?"
"No," I replied, "and I do have some feeling left there."
Gently, he pressed his mouth to one of the scars. In that moment, I was healed. I was a woman again.
Now I knew that he still wanted me, that is, everything that was left of me.
I shake my head a bit and wonder how long I have been staring at it all. The humidity in the room has dissipated and I know that soon one of the kids will be knocking on the door, with an urgent need to pee.
I smear sweetly perfumed lotion over my skin, this time "seeing" my body's hills, valleys and plains with my hands. I think to myself, "Enough of this now" and quickly throw a layer of clothing over it, the whole imperfect bundle.
It is me. My body has a story of its own. From fresh and pure, gulping first air nearly forty-eight years ago, to this moment, battle scarred but still standing, it belongs to me.
I am still a woman, still loved, passionate and unashamed. Truly, nothing is more beautiful than just being real.
