More Boob Talk

It’s been a bit of a while, hasn’t it? Well, getting ready for chemo and radiation and such… is busy business, particularly when one is healthily fixated on finding out as much as one can about the procedures… the drugs… the side effects… and whether or not one can get a cranial prosthesis that looks just like Storm’s hair.

I mean, if cancer undearest is going to take so much of my time, the least the bastard can do is help me cosplay. I’m thinking… Okoye while my head is totally bald, Imperator Furiosa when my hair starts growing out, Misty Knight after my hair is a few inches long, and my Storm wig (I mean, cranial prosthesis  *cough, cough*) for whenever I am feeling like flinging wild lightning and making my eyes look creepy (which, knowing me, will likely be fairly often).

So… there I was, waiting to be fitted for a fake knocker—I doubt I will ever wear it with my regular clothes but need one for specialty items (like a paintball armor), which have spaces for two boobies). Anyhoo, I was sharing this gloriously creative idea with another prospective breast cancer ass-kicker, when the look of raw horror on her face made me… burst into laughter. I know… how awfully inappropriate of me, but… when have I been known for my social appropriateness? Exactly.

I apologized to the lady and explained that I was not laughing at her. But at the fact that her facial expression had been so extremely vivid that it looked cartoonish, and well… I have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy (or a 9-year-old girl) who believes that nothing could be funnier than saying “fart” aloud or watching a cat get almost murdered by the mouse it wants to kill and devour (Tom and Jerry rocks!). I also told her that finding a way to make the best of things is what keeps me radiant (earlier in our conversation, she asked me how I managed to stay so radiant while she can barely get up in the morning, and she is not even as ill as I am).

After all the explaining was done, and after she started wondering if the wig people would let her get away with a cranial prosthesis that resembled Chaka Khan’s hair in the 70s (and before we were asked to step out of the waiting room because our raucous roaring was disturbing others), she decided that she would try really, really, really hard “to have fun with cancer treatment”. Once I heard those words dance out of her smiling lips, I walked around like a peacock—feeling all superior and all shiny all day. Not because I convinced someone to walk in the wilder (and louder?) side, but because I might have helped another human being find a way to make the best of an impossible situation, to do that honestly, and to do it for herself. It was… magic!

For moi (and for most, methinks), living with a collection of chronic illnesses and then being slapped with a disease that could be terminal isn’t easy, but… it doesn’t have to be the most difficult thing in the world. Like I’ve tried to point out in every Trinkets and Armor post I have shared, I believe that we can turn any torment into something we cannot just live with but thrive through.

I also believe that we must achieve this thriving in our own way. I do it by never allowing any person or group or social expectation to have the power to make me feel anything but perfectly me. Like I told the person, who while fitting me for a breast prosthesis, told me, “What your eyes see from above, when you look at the prosthesis, is not as accurate as what I see when I look at you from the front, and what others are seeing is what matters.” I gave her a smile fueled by the sort of hostility that kind of nonsense rips right out of my gut, and said, “Oh, my dearie, the way I see me and what I think of the seeing will always matter to me a whole lot more than anything you or anyone else can come up with. And since I am the first one on my list of who and what matters to me, whatever you say is less than crap.”

I know this person was just doing her job. And heck, she might even be right about my bird’s-eye view of my boobage. But… we start losing who we are when we stop correcting people about what is true about our Selves. And what I am, my Wicked Luvs, is sure… proud… and protective… of what I see in the mirror. Also, only a blinded fool could look at me without seeing purest Magaly-perfection. And, yes, I am also proud of understanding that my modesty goes beyond anything anyone can withstand without bursting into fits of uncontrollably wild adoration (or rage). 😀

Breathe… my Wicked Luvs, breathe… it gets easier when you breathe… then laugh!

 

and out of life, poetry:

I see perfection
in the mirror, pure wonder—
me, unchangeable
in spirit, willing to grow
into better fitting flesh.

 

 

a wee note…
– I stopped posting weekly Trinkets and Armor prompts because participation went down to almost zero. But worry not, my Wicked Luvs, I shall continue using the tag and you are always invited to add your insight to all my posts.

 

Love and Lust and More…

“Love gives you something extra… It makes you limitless…” ~ Adam Scythe

 

I need no one (other than me)
to love me, to want me,
to make me feel
desired, but…
that look, that wild look
in your eyes, that deep dance
between love and lust and more…
oh Love! that wanting look is need
I never knew I could relish in
needing from anyone… but me.

 

the wee notes…
– the other day, my Piano Man and I were in bed. I was being my healthily naughty sexual self, when he smiled one of those smiles that makes human beings hold their breath until undies begin to drop and… well, you know the smiles I mean. Anyway, he smiled at me, and said, “You are an incredible woman. This hasn’t changed you at all.” One of his hands was on my mastectomy scar when he said that. I doubt I’ll ever be able to explain exactly what those words, that smile, that touch… did to me, what that moment meant to me. So, I chose to poetize it instead… hoping your own heart (and lungs?) can feel some of it. Oh, and… um… the fact that my Piano Man and I broke the bed shortly after that is totally unrelated. Really! Stop laughing! All right, you don’t have to stop, I start roaring every time I think about it. Bwahahaha!

– Linked to Poets United.

 

Vortex of Passion, by Leonid Afremov

Obsessive-Compulsive Behavior (camouflaged as discipline) Can Be a Superpower

I am doing fantastically well.

I started with that statement because more than a handful of you has messaged me to let me know you are concerned about my virtual-MIA-ness. Thank you for that, it means a lot to me. My incision is healing beautifully… I’m regaining mobility a lot faster than expected… And although we aren’t yet sure what will happen next (the pathology isn’t back), I feel quite ready (even eager) for what’s to come.

I spend most of my day reading about chemo, radiation, hormones, supplemental therapies, nutrition, exercise… and anything I can think of that might ready me for the conversations I will have with the breast and radiation oncologists once the lab results are back. Writing, researching, exercising several times a day, sleeping for healing, groping my Piano Man for healing, 😀 and spending a ridiculous amount of time staring at my new sexy in the mirror takes a lot of my day and night.

So, please don’t worry, my Wicked Luvs. I am not in pain (or in any more pain than I have been in the last decade. Just busy, busy, busy… and sort of obsessed (in the best of ways) with the new bits of me. Some might find this attitude unhealthy, feel that I’m allowing myself to be consumed by the effects of the disease. But… in my case, at least, they would be wrong. When it comes to new trials, I’m disciplined to the point of obsession—I use all the energy and time I can afford in eliminating the immediate threat, analyzing anything I’ve gained (or lost) in the battle… then I play (blog, Instagram, Facebook) and move on to the next fight.

That is how I work. I assess the enemy, acknowledge (and delight in) my assets, then I sink my teeth into anything fighting against me… until one of us cries for mercy, runs, or agrees to go into a long, long, long… period of remission.

I suspect my blogging will become more predictable in a week or three. Until then, remember: I’m not suffering at the bottom of some dark lagoon. Nope. I’m exploring the lagoon’s revealing darkness… while wondering how much yummier the cool water will feel on my skin… after chemo takes all my hair… and my boob and I get to swim naked and grinning (and roaring battle-cry-bubbles) like the fluidly-sexy-beast I know myself to be.

 

P.S. I will lurk around your cyber-homes (and reply to your words here, Instagram, Facebook…) sometime tonight. Be good. Be wicked. Be wicked good, my Luvs.