It was the size of a dime. A little spot along the hairline on my forehead that had to be removed. “Oh, I’ve had two removed, no biggie,” someone told me. I knew they were right, but that didn’t stop the torrent of emotions.
I tried to be rational. It was cancer, yes. But the removable kind. Not the kind that had taken my mother from me 37 years ago.
And yet, it was the first time I had ever been diagnosed with cancer. Hopefully the last, but I am realistic.
I was fine during the procedure. Fine afterwards. But when I woke up a day later in pain, with my forehead, eyes and nose all puffy, I was not fine. When I had to pull my hair back from my forehead and wear a bandana to cover my bandages, I was not fine. I had flashbacks to my mother when she was battling cancer, as she tried to hide her thinning hair, and make herself look healthy and presentable enough to leave the house.
It’s hard to explain that to people. I turned my zoom camera off to colleagues, but that only made me feel isolated and so alone. My aunt sensed I was upset when she called to check on me. My traveling husband was the recipient of my surliness when he didn’t call me first thing in the morning to see how I was. My friends knew I was cranky but I didn’t explain why. I didn’t have the words until my fingers hit the keyboard for this blog post.
I gave myself a day or two to feel sorry for myself. To feel sorry for my mom and all she must have been feeling in those months she tried to battle the cancer away, unsuccessfully. As women we try to put on a brave face, try to look put together. We need to have it all under control. But sometimes we fail. Sometimes it’s out of our control. And that’s frightening. But that’s reality.
So I forced myself to remember that my cancer could have been far, far worse. That in a month or two, all signs of it would be gone. That I would be OK. That I was lucky and loved, and living.
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