Still Avoiding the Mirror

The sun glimmers onto my bathroom vanity, deceptively giving a sense of warmth despite the windchill of eleven degrees outside the window. It seems a metaphor for my present condition. There is a sense of warmth that I can radiate to others even though deep in my soul a relentless storm swirls. Just as this windchill hurts exposed skin, the reality of my situation hurts my sense of well being.

Oh the physical pain is now only annoying discomfort after 4 weeks of recuperation, however, the emotional impact has me in tears nearly every day. I am tormented by the truth that I have to make peace with the empty space where my right breast used to be. The day is inevitable when I will have to finally stand in front of the mirror and allow my eyes to focus on what is left. This resistance is crippling. I am delaying independence. If I could remove the dressing myself (which I could certainly do but won’t because I don’t want to see it), I would have the freedom to take a shower on my own. 

When I contemplate what is behind this utter reluctance to stand in front of the mirror, this paralyzing fear, I know it is not rational. This is reality. Not seeing it doesn’t mean it’s not there. It is. I know it is. Somehow refusing to look at it postpones the inescapable truth that I will live the rest of my life with no right breast. 

Caroline says, “It looks really good, Mom. I think you’d be surprised that it’s not at all like you probably imagine.” I know she’s right. Yet, I can’t bring myself.

This week I am listening to a lot of Tim Keller sermons at the suggestion of my friend, Deb. As I’ve made my way through his series on Ephesians, I find encouragement. One titled “A Foretaste of the Future” is really a sermon about suffering. It is so inspiring, I listen again for a third time. My sense of gratitude for God’s loving provision overflows. Every step of the way, little things come my way that meet me where I am.

Reassurance wells up, “All will be well.”

Not Yet

I can’t look yet. It’s been 3 weeks and 2 days. I still have not seen it. Caroline has taken photographs, texted them to me, logged into my Brigham portal, uploaded them, and carefully deleted any trace of them from my phone and iPad. For now, I can’t bring myself to see it. 

For the first time in 3 weeks, I took a shower yesterday. After carefully removing my clothes and avoiding the mirror, trembling and in tears, I stepped under the warm, cascading water. Nothing hurt. Water flowed over my shoulders, down my flat right chest and it didn’t hurt. Even my raw, right thigh didn’t sting! 

There’s something therapeutic about water. Those H2O molecules interacting with skin somehow resets my sense of well being. A hot shower alleviates a morning headache. When it seems like life is too hard, a shower washes away the pessimism. 

But yesterday, the lovely warm water did not give me courage to look down at the place where my right breast used to be. For the majority of the 10-minutes, my eyes were closed. It’s inevitable. The time will come when I will have to see it. I will have to make peace, embrace a new normal. 

Caroline sees it every single day as she changes the dressing. “It’s looking really good, Mom.”

“Do you mind if Rob takes a look at it, Mom?” My son-in-law saw it and agreed with Caroline that it looks like it’s healing really well.

Dr. Argarwal and his nurse saw it three days ago. “It’s lookin really, really good!” they both said.

The visiting nurse saw it yesterday. “But, we were just at the doctor and he said it looks good,” I said. “I’m so sorry, but I do have to see it and document everything.” I reluctantly complied, reclined on the couch, unbuttoned my new Old Navy flannel shirt, and allowed her to see it. “Wow, that is healing up very nicely!” she said. I signed the discharge papers before she left.

I do wonder when the time will be right as I sit here in my cozy living room on this blustery February morning. Will it be weeks or months? Will I wait until it is completely healed and smooth, pink skin is what I’ll see? And how long until then? I just know I can’t look, not yet.