Before chemo, I cut my hair really short—a slow goodbye to the version of me I used to know. It’s been two months. I haven’t gone completely bald yet, but I look like Captain Hook after his wig is yanked off by Peter Pan in Hook. The short hair sprouts might have worked on Dustin Hoffman—but not so much on me.
Hair aside, my body had its own ideas. After my double mastectomy, I developed what people jokingly call a “Pooh belly” or “Swelly belly,” thanks to my body reacting to surgery and my lymphatic system throwing a little tantrum. And when chemotherapy kicked in, that little belly graduated to full-on “Chemo belly.” I have now promoted it to “battle belly”—fully padded for emotional combat.
And then comes the guilt. The voice that says, “you should be grateful just to be alive.” And I am. I truly am. But grief doesn’t always make sense. You can be thankful and still mourn what’s been taken from you.
This really isn’t about vanity—but instead, it’s a profound crisis of identity. My body has been cut, scarred, foob stuffed and swollen into something unrecognizable. The hardest losses being the subtle ones: wondering if I’ll be seen through this damage, hesitating before the mirror, the way my movements feel clumsy, the painful distance of intimacy.
I miss feeling strong, beautiful, whole. I miss being me.
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