ugly

Yesterday morning I looked in the mirror — one full breast, one remnant of a breast, not yet healed from the radiation burn. It’s better, yes, much better, but there’s still a fairly large area that’s still healing, red, raw, and sometimes when I take the bandages off some part of the area a little blood comes dripping down. The area doesn’t hurt anymore. Not physically, anyways.

I looked in the mirror, eyes focused on my breast and my not-breast, and I thought to myself: Ugly. I couldn’t get that word out of my head all day. There it was, popping up here and there all day, without censorship, without introduction, without explanation: Ugly.

I sat through the church service, some of the songs difficult to get through because I not only felt that my raw, burnt, bleeding not-breast was Ugly, but that I was Ugly: body, soul, and spirit. All of me. I had somehow slipped again down into that abyss of depression, probably through the weeks of radiation, of the vulnerability of getting into a gown and disrobing for medical personnel, of having my not-breast radiated 5 days/week for 6 weeks, of having the worst burn I’ve ever had, or one of the worst, and over the largest area anyways. Of finally acknowledging that it had been stressful getting to radiation every day, that as nice and light-hearted and accomodating as the staff had been, the whole procedure nearly every day was difficult in its way, that the few days that a tear or two slipped down my cheeks were the days when the real feelings came out; the other days were the days when I was putting on an act for everyone, including myself, just to get through it all without completely falling apart.

I had wondered recently why I’d insulated myself in some ways from people, repeated the standard responses, maybe responded to “How are you?” with what was happening but not exactly with How I was. Largely because I didn’t know myself. When the burn hurt physically, I was distracted with the physical discomfort which, to be quite honest, is almost easier to bear than this emotional unease. At least with the physical hurt, I can take some pills to make it go away; this emotional stuff is much harder to deal with.

Throughout radiation, my skin was damaged more and more, peeling, raw, incredibly burnt, physically very painful, oozing, bandages upon bandages, still oozing through bandages and two, sometimes three layers of clothing. I was self-conscious the whole time I was around people, wondering if they could see the stains on my clothes when the burn did ooze through all the layers I would wear. Coming home, I would peel off all the layers in disgust, then take off the bandages, and have to wash the prescription cream off of the burnt area. That was when sometimes an area, maybe two, would start to bleed — not a large area, but small areas, little rivers of blood flowing down my skin. I would take a hand towel and cover my not-breast area to stop the flow of blood, just holding the towel there for awhile. Once the blood had stopped, I could then re-apply the cream, and once again put on more non-stick bandages. I then apply the paper tape. I can’t use anything else because my skin there is so sensitive that other types of tape give me rashes. The “halter” type of device that the Dr. gave me to hold bandages in place gave me a rash on my skin. The stretchy “surgical bra” that the Dr. gave me as another alternative also gave me a rash on my skin.

Every day I change the bandages twice. I go through it a bit numb until recently, when the physical pain abates and then I notice things more: how much smaller the burnt area is getting, how it looks compared to how it looked before, how Ugly it is. How Ugly the whole thing is.
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My friend, J., who I consider a spiritual mentor, came to my office this morning. She had a concerned look on her face and asked how I was doing. I told her. I told her everything. I told her about looking in the mirror and saying: Ugly. I started crying. She shut my office door. I broke down and said that it’s been so hard lately and I think I’m regressing back to mastectomy grief because of the radiation, especially the burn.

She listened. She always listens. She said she thought she should stop by. It’s happened before with her, so I’m actually not surprised anymore. She has that gift, at least with me she does.

She said that I’ve gone through all of this brilliantly, yes brilliantly is the word she used. That word, it took my breath away. She said that I’ve had so much to bear and I’ve done so and of course there are going to be times when it gets to be too much, that it would be too much for anyone. Then she went on to tell me that God creates people in His image and God isn’t Ugly and I’m not Ugly; that instead, God creates beauty and I’m beautiful. She told me that the next time I think of the word Ugly, to remember that: God creates beauty and I’m beautiful.

I love J. She prayed for me, she told me she loves me, she was there for me. She knew. She really knew.

She helped me.

So I’m trying.

When I hear that word, Ugly in my head,

I say “Not Ugly, but beautiful.”

Beautiful.

Say it enough

and

I’ll

believe.

b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l.