vanity.

it can not be killed
or hidden away
it's a lover
in your dreams
and accused
demon
by day.

as i stepped into our shower for the first time following the mastectomy, i was careful not to bump or snag the drains that dangled and slithered under the flesh of my chest wall- (those magical tubes that created a tunnel uniting the mysterious inside with the out). i remember attempting to methodically sort my thoughts: focus. first things first. cleanse. shampoo. pain. lifting arms too high. careful. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) hum a little tune- that might help distract. what's for lunch? when will i be able to paint the closet door and the kitchen walls? should i condition? no it's too painful to lift my arms again. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) exfoliate. should i shave my legs? no. too much work. (chorus: acknowledge it for what it is. you're alive. no chemo. don't cry. don't get emotional about it. don't look down. don't think about how your body use to look.) nothing left to do. and there's still hot water. looking down. rolling the edges of the bandages to test their endurance. discovering the bony rise and fall of my now visible ribs, which defiantly give form through my skin on the right side. and here's where all hell breaks loose. because in that small space of a shower a mountainous avalanche of issues break through the chorus and the gates of focus fail.

in the solitude of that shower i freaked out. overwhelmed with fear and angered by vanity and the politics that would surround this new body. i wanted to separate it all before this shower was over. but i knew that wasn't going to happen. the water was starting to get cold. i accepted that there was some self-pity in there somewhere. but one thing was for sure. at the base of the avalanche aftermath lay a truth. the truth being that my life was perhaps lengthened a bit by having a breast that carried mutating cells that had not yet spread to other parts of my body had been removed. and while my personal ideologies assist in shaping my vanity i would still have to socially reckon with my decision to not have reconstructive surgery. when i finally turned the water off i realized i was going to have to carefully dig through all of the layers. just me. my vanity. and my truth.

re-invention.

it was the first summer after my mastectomy and i soon realized that the luxary of wearing layers was disappearing. One night in that twilight between wake and sleep i decided, without evaluation, to have a henna drawing placed upon the landscape where my breast had once been. it wasn't an effort to veil the history... but an effort to reinvent my perspective, language and relationship with this fragile yet powerful piece of body realestate.

the weight of quiet. the possibilities of night...

this post is a gift to co-survivors... a tribute to their role and their instinctual healing powers when the going gets tough.

nights became difficult when I returned home following the mastectomy. with the apartment quite and dark i would become acutely aware of my physical existance. i'd acknowledge the drains entering my flesh, the flatness and numbness when i searched the new landscape. the sensation that i was literally in the wrong body. living someone elses life. aware that i was embarking on perhaps an exhausting journey of re-invention: of my self, my body image, my perspective, my identity, my faith. inevitably this overwhelming mental journey would turn into an emotional landslide and i would weep. i had started to sleep with my walkman in hopes of distraction. one night my twin lay next to me as david gray sang sweetly and privately to me from a "white ladder". though i can be mesmerized by him most of the time- my nightly evaluations were loud and persistant. i wept through the tunes. and the next thing i knew she had reached for my hand to provide comfort. she didn't say anything. just cried with me under the weight of quiet and the possibilities of night.

bridges, drains and bows.

simply unveiling...

when my robe was opened in the recovery room to unveil my mastectomy i was met by these bows. i was told that a breast surgeons wife had designed these surgical bras. an effort to wrap this invasive, breathtaking experience in something delicate i suppose.

i remember the morning i went next door to my sisters apartment and asked her to photograph/document my "bridges, drains and bows". i specifically asked her not to include my face in any of the photos. i don't regret that request. on many levels i am sure i was protecting myself. as long as i didn't see my eyes, my telling eyes, i was safe. i wasn't denying that i was involded in this event, this journey, this hike into often dark hills. but as long as i didn't witness myself "in it" i could keep treading without seeing the fear looking back at me.

i threw the bra away several months after surgery. in an effort to be pratical. embrace the over-and-doneness of it all. i do, however, regret this- for as i reflect- it was an object wrapped in curious metaphors.

sunrise, day 2.

it was early morning, at the explosion of dawn when, as usual during the 3-day hospital stay for my mastectomy, i was awakened by my roommate’s television. she slept during the day and kept her light and television on all night. this actually didn't bother me. somehow i knew she was having a difficult time. other than her occasional, soft moaning she was very quiet. the muffled conversations that i could hear from behind the curtain with her doctors were strained and discouraging in tone. i would gather from them that her recovery (the nature of her surgery remained a mystery to me) was slower than "expected". i never actually saw her.

i awoke with a crisp clarity of my surroundings: seeing my iv bag and behind and above it- the stream of muave country roses that rippled just below the ceiling on the wallpaper border. basically alone in this room i became intensely aware of my presence and being grounded in the moment. metaphorically i would say i was standing on the edge. right then. right there. a clear vivid view of falling apart and staying solid lay before me. i turned to look out of my window and was met by a clock tower across the east river. the sun bore through it to display a sky bursting with burning orange and that icy winter january blue. a silent voice cradled me. it had birthed from my heart, my guts, my soul and deep from my conscience to rescue me. "stay cool. just stay cool" she said.

velcro with white- the color of surrender.

i was warned/informed by my surgeon that following my surgery i would be encouraged to view/acknowledge my mastectomy. so, i was still in a "recovery" room with my husband when a smiling, good spirited woman came in and announced with a smile that "we" take a look at the site. i was in fine spirits, a morphine drip slithered under my skin and so far I had been pretty "matter of fact" about this event. i was now emotionally neutral after the initial shock of diagnosis. pure, simple survival mode. the hard part was over, surgery. i was now on a high- not only morhine, but a psychological high. i was relieved that I had covered this quite unfamiliar, unbelievable terraine so far, and I was still relatively, elasticly sane.

no turning back. no turning it off. no walking out or away.

my robe was opened to unveil the delicate nylon surgical bra-contraption. two things etch my rather peaceful memory of this moment: the expected soft screaming of the velcro and the beautiful whiteness of my skin against the virgin white bandage strips- gracefully bridging the fresh sliver within the smooth, flat, unexplored landscape.

emblazened silver.

a closed/bound photo
on january 16, 2004 i had a mastectomy after my second breast cancer diagnosis in four years. i just wasn't able to finish the highly prized "5 year cancer free" marathon. several days before my surgery i scheduled a sitting with a ny photographer/artist who still creates "daguerreotypes". i realized early after my diagnosis the importance of embracing the terrain of the journey. i accepted that my body was going to be different and i wanted a "record" of it before the change occurred. it was an effortless decision and i knew this timeless, historical form of photography was the perfect medium to capture my body as i knew it. my twin sister accompanied me on this expedition and we arrived at the studio with pensive hearts and crystal clear intent... to embrace the event before us. the photographer was incredibly thoughtful and sensitive. the third photo was a charm. as the image birthed from the wash i saw my nakedness and my eyes looking back at me were etched with worry, fear and grace. i knew i/we would move on from this. as the photographer handed me the wrapped image we both became aware of the power of the exchanged object. after gently tucking the leather bound, moment-emblazened silver into my purse my sister and i went out for a delicious frenchtoast breakfast.
i have only been able to open the photo three times. even though i approach it with all the intellectual, logical and rational power i can muster i am unable to view it without the weight of overbearing emotions.