Body Image

What to say? My body has been ravaged by lymphoma, and I am one of those who got off easy. I am cancer free and missing no limbs or visible body parts, unlike other friends I know.

But when I look in the mirror, there is a thick, raised purple scar above my right breast from where a port was placed and then removed. My skin is striated, laced with grey stretch marks around my abdomen from steroid-induced weight gain, the hateful tire I wore around my middle until a year of dedicated weight training and no desserts slimmed it away. My legs and ankles have sprouted new crops of varicose and spider veins through weight gain and two pregnancies.

My abdomen has five scars across it, fading pink, from the ovarian transposition I had in order to move my ovaries out of the radiation field in my pelvis. And two months ago, the birth of my son turned into a frightening, invasive procedure as we were rushed into the OR for an emergency C-section. I now sport a dark purple slash across my belly that burns and tingles numbly.

I miss my old body that was 130 lbs. of lean muscle, a hiking and biking and swimming body. I miss my abs, the hint of a six-pack, and having flawless skin on my chest.

When I try to weed or do house cleaning, my hands complain by going on strike the next day, aching, swollen, fumbly and clumsy. I don't know if this is a lingering effect of the vincristine, which causes peripheral neuropathy (tingling and numbness in the extremities), or from pregnancy Carpal-tunnel syndrome.

I find it difficult to discern which of my ailments are from chemo, and which simply a result of aging. I feel prematurely old, like an old, old woman sometimes. I will be 30 yrs. old this January. I have a permanently gimpy leg, it seems, from where the 6" long tumor was dissolved from my pelvic bone. I can't sleep on anything but a very soft mattress, because my bones will ache (no camping pads!). If if forget myself and sit on a hard surface, like a step or the floor, when I try to get up I am quickly reminded by a shooting pain that courses down my leg and buckles my foot from under me.

But with all of this kvetching aside, I am ALIVE. Alive!! I am here to flop around the kitchen with my daughter riding on one foot, a living "size 34" sneaker. I am here to nurse my little baby boy, watching him transform day by day into the young man he will be. I am here to go swimming in the lake with my husband, to watch the mighty red sun rise out of the sea at 5am in the summertimes, to be among dear beloveds. Sometimes I pause for this battered, scarred body that has suffered through so much and carried me through so many procedures and so much pain, and I say, "Thank you, old body. Thank you for keeping on and not ever giving up." Because I feel toward my body like one does toward a faithful old plow horse, not as swift or strong or lovely as she once was, sagging a bit around the edges but still dear and affectionate, a steady friend with whom one can comfortably grow old.