Beautiful

Beautiful (adj.) beau·ti·ful \ˈbyü-ti-fəl\: 

Having a quality or aggregate of qualities

 that gives pleasure to the senses or 

pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit

In case you didn't know, I'm a cancer survivor. Every cancer is different, but the particular kind of breast cancer that was discovered at my (fortunately) very early diagnosis almost 10 years ago now is aggressive, destructive, and fast-growing. As a result, treatment for me was comprehensive. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, drug treatments--whatever we had, we threw at it. I'm luckier than many; my prognosis was good, and my chances of recurrence are low. But my body still bears the marks of the battle.

I've graduated now, finally, to annual follow-up mammograms. It's nice to go less often, but even so, I have been there so much that the routine is familiar. You put on the gown, and answer all the same questions. And then, before the 20 minutes of freezing cold and pain and pressure and holding your breath first because you're told and then because you can't breathe and then again until you hear someone say cheerily from behind the screen of images "Looks good!", there is the moment when you will mark your scar. To clearly identify your scar tissue on the scan, lest it be mistaken for something more ominous, a tiny wire will be shaped and taped along the length of your surgical scar, marking it out for the techs and doctors who will view the films.

At my latest appointment, not that many weeks ago, after the gown and the questions and the rest, the nurse who was prepping me finished her notes, packed up her paperwork, and said briskly, "All right, now let's see your scar."  I lifted the gown in the now-familiar motion, turned and gestured so that she could see, and her businesslike bustle came to an abrupt halt as she drew in her breath and just stared for a moment. "Oh my god," she said. "That's beautiful."

It isn't the first time someone has had that response to my scar. Actually, it's never once been shown to a nurse, doctor, lab tech, or any other medical professional without getting that response, and it's because they know what they are looking at. But if you are not a scar professional, if you don't know what you're seeing when you look at my scar, or at any scar, you might be tempted to look at it as just the opposite of beautiful. Scars are just one of the many things that we often view as physical faults or imperfections--things that destroy beauty.

In my past, I was given that message--that the scar was a flaw, a blemish, something to be ashamed of, something that ruined me. That it made me unlovable. That it destroyed my value. But I am learning, slowly, over time, that it is a thing of beauty. I have had great love and care given to me in my life, have walked through deep valleys, have experienced enormous good fortune. The scar tells all those stories. If I foolishly wished it away, I would erase with it all the power and love its story holds.

I know this is true, because it is true for others besides me. I think of the little one dear to me, and the birthmark that is simply a testimony to the miracle of her existence. Of my own two boys, and all the bumps and scars and faded marks that are the witness to the adventures of their childhood. Of the partner in my life now, and those deep, crinkly laugh lines around his eyes, which cannot come overnight, but tell the story of a life lived oriented toward joy. The marks on our bodies are the marks of our lives. All these things we view negatively, and too often, we can begin to view ourselves negatively because of them, yet all the imperfections that we believe mar us, mark us, are actually the things that illuminate us.

Once upon a time, I was often told that to find me beautiful would require changing the definition of the word; and this, unknowingly, was a profound truth. There is a distortion running deep in our society, a stunted definition of beauty that revolves around an artificial, superficial flawlessness. But if we cannot see beauty in those around us, we are using a faulty definition. A true beauty is found in the stretch marks that tell the story of the birth of our children, the calluses and bruises of hard work done well, and even the generous waistlines that speak of good food, warm hospitality, and time well spent with family and friends. It's found in scars, those stories of battles that have been fought and won, and of those who carried us through them, of things greatly dared and bravely endured, of adventures that have changed us and that define us. These are moments and memories that could not be traded for a superficial snapshot or a slimmer silhouette. These are the beauty marks, the marks of all that matter. This is beautiful.

Diagnosis Day

As the parent of teenagers, I'm accustomed to having my kids think that the majority of what I do is weird. Most of the time, I figure this is just biology doing its job, but sometimes I have to admit that they might have a point.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation with my son, and I started talking about an idea I had to mark this year's Diagnosis Day, my annual commemoration of the day cancer became a part of my life. "Mom," he said, "no offense, but Diagnosis Day seems kind of weird. I mean, I could see if you were going to celebrate, like, when it was over or something. But diagnosis seems like a bad thing. Why would you want to celebrate that?"

I think this is actually an understandable question. So, instead of the day I got cancer, why not celebrate the day I beat cancer?

One reason is that there really is no such day. In my own case, I was officially "cancer-free" as soon as my surgery was completed, but I had in front of me another 18 months of multiple types of chemotherapy, radiation, and several years of drug therapy that is still actually ongoing. There was no time in that round of bruising, scarring, body- and soul-battering struggle for survival that seemed the appropriate moment for celebration.

Not only that, but I believe in every case, not just mine, even once treatment is over, even once someone has uttered the magical words like "remission" or "cancer-free", only if you have not had cancer can you believe that there is ever, ever a moment when it is completely and conclusively behind you. Just last week, I had a volunteer in my office at work, telling me about his relief that his oncology appointment that morning had gone well. He said, "I mean, I already know I'm in remission and everything, so I know it was fine, but...you know." I said, "It's always there." We nodded, knowing.

Newly diagnosed, I had a veteran say to me once, "It just walks right in and pulls up a seat, doesn't it?" And that is still the best description I have ever heard. Cancer pulls up a seat at the table of your life, sits down like a family member, makes itself at home. It moves in and out of your spaces, occupies your thoughts, becomes your closest companion, at least for a while. Although the chair may sometimes be empty, it remains, always a reminder of its absent occupant. Diagnosis is the beginning of a lifetime relationship, in a way you can't realize until it has begun. It reminds me of the way some friends of mine, years ago before any of us were parents, after winning a long battle with infertility, around the beginning of the second trimester of their much-longed-for pregnancy, asked their OB, "So, when can we stop worrying?" (Parents of adult children, I can hear you laughing.) Once you've become a part of each other, there will never again be a time when the thought, the worry, the awareness, will be absent in your thoughts, even when you are no longer united in body.

But there is a reason for marking Diagnosis Day that is about more than just having no clear end-point to commemorate. While my son is right that a cancer diagnosis seems like a bad thing--and I won't argue that it is a positive experience that everyone should have--those of us who have sat in its company know that it brings along with it other, more welcome guests. The lessons, people, and events that accompany it will change your life in ways that are painful, beautiful, and unexpected. You will grow in ways you didn't know you needed to grow. You will learn something important about the people and relationships in your life, even if those lessons are difficult. Things will be revealed, refined, clarified. Whatever else happens, you will never be the same again.

When I had just received my diagnosis, on the long, exhausting day I met my whole medical team for the first time, I stopped on the way home for Chinese food and caffeine. Too tired and overwhelmed to be hungry, I picked at my food; finally, before leaving, I opened the fortune cookie to the tiny slip of paper that read, "You will have much to be thankful for in the coming year." I put my head in my hands, there at the table among the sauce packets and chopstick wrappers, and sobbed outright with relief and gratitude. The words that penetrated my numb, shocked heart and mind that day are still on my refrigerator where I see them daily, and they are as true now as they were then. That year, and every year since then, has been a gift--a bittersweet gift that cannot be explained, and that I would not trade for anything either more or less, even though it is not a gift I chose. And that, every year, seems like a thing worth celebrating.

Happy Diagnosis Day.