It was a long shower. I didn't care much about how much hot water I was using. I didn't rush. I had things to learn, push through, bring back into me.
I unravel myself slowly, taking in deep breaths and sideways glances before allowing myself a full all-out stare in the wide mirror that stands before me. It seems strange, indeed, to unwrap my bandages myself, slowly, the layers falling to the floor like candy ribbons. I feel anticipation, a bit of fear, some sadness. Beneath the gauze and nonstick pads, the drain site under my arm looks clear and dry--nothing coming out, nothing to soak up--the drain had done its job. Something new: I am purple now, the bruises cycling through their colors in bright fashion, leaving splotches of dark purple discolorations here and there, under and above the new breast that sits like a bare nipple-less small hill atop my stretching skin. I see that the incision is pocketed with a touch of edema on the lateral end, most likely where the drain had previously reached and suctioned the excess fluid off and out. My pectoral muscle, still swollen and sore and twitching, lacks the purple bruising that the rest of my chest wears like a face paint gone awry. Perhaps the Arnica gel that I've been putting on it faithfully has reduced the bruising to a faint yellow; I will use the Arnica on the purple patches in my garden and see if I can grow some softer colors.
I gingerly climb into the shower, where the water gently gathers steam against my skin and starts to make its usual waterfalls. Inside the curtained shower, I stand alone. I lean back into the stream and let the water course over my head until my hair is completely wet. With gentle circular strokes, I wash my long hair with both hands and fingertips, my left hand hovering at shoulder height while my head dips down to let the right hand do most of the work. It takes a couple of washings and rinsings, and as I comb the conditioner through the tangled mess, I think that it might be time for me to cut my hair again. Now, soap. I start slowly, on the left side, with right hand moving slowly, and I am acutely aware of the resistance in my chest wall muscles, the pull of tightness cautioning me to limit the stretch of limb, the twist of torso. I switch hands, and for the first time since the surgery, I must touch the mastectomy site, all of it, the purple patches, the incision, the drain site, the sprouting saline expander, the swollen pec, the ugliness, the beauty. My pec is fairly numb to touch--not surprising, given the residual neuropathy I still deal with since the minor knee surgery I had 8 weeks ago. But the skin still feels soft, familiar, mine. There is comfort in that. My left arm pit is happy for the soap; it's been a while since it's been able to open pores and fully breathe. What is missing is glaring and obvious: my left breast, my nipple. I am glad that the the water washes away my tears, and the sound of the shower muffles my cries, though they are quiet and do not last long. My right breast looks so alone, solitary, vulnerable. She's lost her twin, her balance. What will she think of the new one growing in the purple garden patch? I do hope they like each other.
I shave my legs, and curse the unsteadiness I feel when standing on one leg. As well, my hands are clumsy, and my head still feels boggy, but the now that I've gotten through the difficult part of having to navigate through the uncharted terrain of my new body, I am enjoying the rush of hot water, the enveloping steam, the quiet of the curtained space. What would Lewis and Clark say about this new territory? A seared stream of brush atop a lonely hilltop surrounded by a scrub of purple forests...quite lovely, but strange and unexpected, too, as if odd beasts lurked about... Or Darwin? I imagine he'd have a reaction similar to his first days on the Galapagos Islands: Nothing could be less inviting than the first appearance. A broken field of black basaltic lava, thrown into the most rugged waves, and crossed by great fissures, is everywhere covered by stunted, sunburnt brushwood, which shows little signs of life.
Actually, Lewis and Clark's expedition and the Voyage of the Beagle aside, there's something about my body that is oddly reminding me of Lord Voldemort's rebirth. Not that I have any intention at turning to the dark side and giving the Dark Lord a run for his money, quite the contrary, but there is something about my sudden transformation--and future reconstruction--that brings up his own for me, though I suspect that it will not be Harry Potter's blood I need but something else entirely that I'll need for my garden to thrive, for my body and soul to complete its metamorphosis. Perhaps it is the draw of the magic, or the elements of love and friendship and loyalty, and the undying strength of familial bonds, or haha, the use of anagrams (his I am Lord Voldemort to my zilrendrag); whatever it is, there it is, knocking on my head, and making me think I'd rather affiliate my current transformation with that belonging to someone else (the Hungry Caterpillar, for instance). I have been known to power through quite a bit of food on Saturdays...
Reluctantly, I turn the water off, grab my towel, and begin to pat myself dry, ever so carefully. Everything looks as if it is healing well, but for the purple and the small sack at the end of the incision, which can serve as my temporary, albeit oddly-shaped and a bit left-of-center, nipple until I get my new one in a few months. I am grateful for my first shower, for the chance to step out of the buffer of the bandages and take a hard look at my scars. I am glad, too, for the removal of the drain and especially for the chance to swap Advil for the Vicodin; I am eager to regain a sense of balance, clarity, mobility that will make future showers a bit more productive. And in a strange way, as I pull a tank top over my head, and try to get used to the new feeling of being bare and unbandaged, I am grateful for this vulnerability, this feeling of protectiveness, that focuses its energy around me like a charm, and allows me to imagine a new me, move forward into the possibilities that lie ahead, and complete the metamorphosis--before the call to change awakens my better senses again and sends me down another spiraling path of self-discovery.
Later: we have just returned from a walk in the woods on this bright, chill day. I am so aware of the shortcomings of my lungs right now, it is very discouraging. The inconsistent depths of snow warrants a slow surety, and I am glad for the excuse to take it easy. We found a wooly bear caterpillar, its brown black coat in stark contrast to the white of the snow he was inching along. I picked him up, and placed him, all balled up, in the softer, warmer dead leaves under a tree. I wonder where he was headed, and whether he'll be able to complete his own transformation, given the harshness of winter's extended stay. Come spring, come green grass spring, I'll be on the lookout for an Isabella Moth...
"It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent; it is the one that is most adaptable to change."
— Charles Darwin
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