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.

 

No Caress; or, Boob Talk

there was no caress
before the flesh-ripping jab—
you’re all violence.
Enjoy your pound of marred meat,
‘cause of my soul you’ll get zilch

 

the (not-even-close-to) wee notes…

I was diagnosed with breast cancer 2 weeks after I started the Trinkets and Armor project. See? The universe works in mysterious and often gallows humor(y) ways. I can totally hear her say, “Stunning Brain of Magaly, you will soon need a group of fantabulous people with whom you can discuss adding yet another chronic illness to your collection. So, why don’t you start crafting yourself a wild circle?

“Um… also (yeah, for some reason the universe sounds a lot like me *cough*) you could use that space to keep your extended family and friends informed, otherwise they might drive you nuts with questions and well-meaning advice your situation, time, and energy levels might not be able to manage.” Yep, the universe is brilliant.

The cancer was caught early, so it’s treatable (thank goodness for wee-giant bits of magic). I’m having a unilateral mastectomy. I have a zillion things to do before the surgery. But… I shall continue writing and sharing poetry and such. Because… an extremely sexy (soon-to-be extremely sexy and single-boobed) wild woman said that “Poetry is ink in lust with living” and that “ink is therapy—words shaped into dark and bright to soothe hurts and more”. That’s exactly what she said. And I trust her words. I trust words and I trust her… all the way to my achy bones.

For the next few months, most of my posts (if not all of them) will look like this one. Someone suggested that I should start a new blog or join an online community “for cancer patients only”, which is moderated by the same individual who made the suggestion. According to this person, “the cancer talk is not for everyone.” A whole lot more politely than you might’ve expected, I told her thanks but no thinks. You see, my Wicked Luvs, that plan might work for her and some others, but not for me. I believe that stigma and despair are filthy soul-sucking beasts that feed on unnecessary secrets, on silence, on segregation… I refuse to go down those gullets.

Treatment and recovery will be slightly nightmarish: I will be in exquisite pain, I will be exhausted, I will be having long conversations with my left boob as she gets used to being an only child, I will be dreaming up tattoos to decorate my battle wounds, I will spend a bunch of time polishing my newly acquired single-boob innuendos, (my Piano Man’s innuendos are so much better than mine… it’s often like that when it comes to him and my bits *giggles*). In not-so short, I will need to be me more than I have ever been. So, walking away from those I know, or separating them from those I will certainly meet makes absolutely no sense to me.

If you feel uncomfortable around poetry that shows teeth, picturing lines of scars and stitches, dancing with stanzas that chant of pain and soothing, blushing (or not) at sexual innuendos, or reading words like breast (and boob) and passiflora (and boob) and mango (and boob) and coffee (and boob) and even nipple (and most of us know just how sensitive that particular word can be). So… if any of this makes you feel icky, you might want to avoid my blog (and me) for a while. I shan’t hold it against you. But if I see you around, I can’t promise that I won’t glance your way, and shout while grinning, “Dude, where’s my boob!” Yep, I’m a bit of a horror.

Cancer is scary. Cancer is crushing. Cancer’s teeth are bigger than mine. But I’m a sneaky warrior—I come to the fight with a hammer, a (slightly mad) grin, a Piano Man who loves and understands me, a Muse with ink at the ready, family (by blood and by choice) and great friends… the best weapon a wild woman could ask for.

 

 

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

Because the Taste of Storms Feeding Tongues and Sparking Word-Lust Is Freaking Irresistible

I tasted the storm
feeding your tongue and my ink
(pure tinder and flint),
screaming, “Let’s spark words of love
hot enough to curl hate’s toes.”

 

the (not so) wee note…
– I wasn’t going to post today because… well, I’m supposed to be resting. I tried resting… but my mind kept on tapping her foot and glaring… You see, last Saturday, over on Instagram, the folks of Blackout_Poetry_Challenges, um… challenged us to blackout a piece from one of our favorite Instagram poets. I’ve always been taken by @ip_writings. So, of course, I asked her if I could. She said, “Yes you can!” And I did. Then, I stopped by the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and read Sanaa’s prompt. Dear Sanaa invites us to “pick a few words or a short line from a favorite poet” and… well, I’m a sucker for coincidences (which I’m convinced don’t exist). So, I posted the tanka you just read. Yep, that’s how my mind works. Pure madness galore.

my blackout poem

the original yumminess
(and I’m all with her, we should “brag about love… and words” always)
click on the image to delight in her poetry