I’m sure we all have our own ways in which we are ridiculous. Maybe not — maybe it’s just me. In any case, there are a few ways in which my own ridiculousness keeps popping up lately, over and over, mostly in the form of problems that have solutions for normal people, but not solutions I am likely to utilize. (If you look at it this way, some might see fit to substitute ‘ridiculousness’ for ‘laziness’ here.) Since I have some extra time and nothing else to write about, I thought I’d share them. I’m considering it somewhat of a public service, because this should make you all feel a little better about yourselves, a little more well-adjusted in comparison.

I often get the comment that I’m brave for showing my bald head publicly. My reaction to this is generally surprise or confusion. Does said person not really know me? Is s/he under some misguided belief that I have the patience or interest in keeping up my appearance? (and if so, does s/he pity me that this is the best I can come up with??) The truth is, I don’t bare my bald head because I’m brave. It’s not like I’m scared to go bald, but do it anyway to make a statement for cancer patients everywhere. A more accurate description would be that I am some combination of lazy and comfort-driven. I mean, come on! It’s summer! I’m hot all the time. And I hate feeling hot; I am from Seattle, where mild temperatures reign. So there is very little chance I am going to add to that misery by donning a wig. Maybe a hat. Every once in a while a scarf if I’m feeling fancy or motivated, but I don’t really have the skill or the patience to pull that off like a normal person would. Also, I often forget to look in the mirror, so I’m usually blithely unaware of how I might look to others. Don’t get me wrong, I’m terribly flattered that anyone might find me brave. I’m just saying, that’s not what’s motivating me. Comfort motivates me. Laziness guides me. The one exception? Miko’s first day of school. Apparently that’s where I draw the line of apathy for my appearance. I made a special shopping trip (a rare and dreaded activity in my world) to buy a new hat to wear at drop-offs and pick-ups. By the second day I dropped her off while bald. Hats make me sweaty. Also, I forgot to look in the mirror.

Instead of sticking a needle in my arm every time I need to have blood drawn or get chemo, the nurses access my port. This is a nifty little device that sits just under my skin below my clavicle on my right side, and is used for infusions. It used to look like a round bump, but now that the swelling has gone down, you can actually see the edges and prongs of the port, and it’s pretty disturbing. It’s clearly not supposed to be there, and the more I look at it, the more anxious I get about it (which, in turn, causes me to look at it more, like the car crash phenomenon). The more the port protrudes, the more certain I am that if I lie on my right side, it might just pop out of my skin. The nurses assure me (every week) that this can’t and won’t happen, but just looking at how pronounced it’s become, I’m not always certain I believe them. So what do I do to ease my anxiety? Sleep on my back? Or my left side? No. I continue to sleep on my right side, because it’s more comfortable, and somehow, changing my sleep position feels like too much work. The bonus to this is that every morning I get to wake up and feel pleasantly surprised that my port did not, in fact, pop out of my skin.

My double mastectomy is coming up (in two months). I’m increasingly focused on how I’ll look afterward. I’m self-aware enough to know I won’t do anything about it, so it’s not like I’m planning accomodations or anything. I’m just recognizing that in two months, my already-present body issues will become more pronounced. Essentially, I spend my time actually planning to feel self-conscious, rather than planning ways to make myself feel better. Ridiculous. See, I don’t have a boyish figure. So, this no-breast look is going to look absurd. It just is. Combined with my bald head, and the fact that I gain weight predominately in my stomach, I’m certain I will look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man come November 11th. I tell this to friends, who laugh nervously (while conspicuously not making eye contact) and tell me that I couldn’t possibly look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man. But I’m skeptical of their honesty. I’m reminded of a close friend who told me that once I lose my eyebrows, I should draw them back on in outlandish and/or pronounced ways, and see which friends allow me to leave the house that way. Are the same friends who say I won’t look like a pot-bellied, middle-aged man the very ones who would allow me to be seen in public with drawn-on super surprised eyebrows? If I were brave, I’d do an experiment. But I’m not. And just so we’re clear, yes, I’m aware there are several “fixes” to this man-looking problem (wig, prosthetic breasts, new clothes, etc.) But let me just refer you back to my apparently stable personality traits of laziness and apathy, and remind you that those fixes are highly unlikely to ever occur for this girl. That just sounds like too much trouble.

A part of me (okay, most of me) is mad I haven’t gotten cancer-skinny, like you see in the movies. I’m aware of how insensitive this sounds, especially for those who have struggled to keep weight on while their disease ate away at their bodies. But I was just kind of hoping, you know, a silver lining might be that I finally lose some of this weight that I have sort of tried to lose every once in a while, on and off, when I didn’t feel like a snack. Instead, I’ve gained weight. Every week when I see my doctor and complain about it, she is a little less patient with my concern, and reminds me that she is doing every thing she can to ensure that I actually don’t lose weight while I’m on chemo. I thought she could throw a sister a bone or something, but apparently not. So my clothes don’t fit, but I refuse to buy new ones, since my shape is about to drastically change, anyway. The other reason I can’t lose weight (aside from my affinity for ice cream)? If I want the option of reconstruction without implants, I have to maintain a certain level of belly fat. The surgeon will “harvest” the fat from my abdomen to construct my new breasts. (I’m not going to lie, I’m sort of in love with this fact.) Which, makes me sound like a farm or something, and brings to mind the saying “you reap what you sow.” I’m sowing plenty. Hopefully that works out, and I end this ordeal with a rockin’ new bod.

As I read this, I’m aware my mother will probably see it and worry that I need some affirmations, maybe a reframe or two to tell me I’m not ridiculous, but just right. Don’t worry, Mom; I’m ok. Although, a little Mama-love is always welcome.