December 11, 2023

Perfectly Loved

I’m amazed how four words can change so much…”You’re the perfect patient” even more than the life altering four words that followed minutes later, “I suspect its cancerous.” I’ve fought with “perfect” all my life, it has been spoken over me, to me, and for me, so many times and has always brought some level of comfort and some level of rage. This day, dressed in a short magenta examination gown sitting solo in a dimmed waiting room, I was much more aware of my rage.

After being called back the week before to have a closer look at the calcifications my annual mammogram discovered, all day long a nagging sense grew in me “I need to tell someone I’m even here.” That afternoon, I finally honored my gut instinct and sent a quick text to my three sisters as I pulled into the parking lot of the Breast Center. As I waited to be called my sisters sent reassuring messages that sounded exactly like what I had been saying to myself all day. I undressed from the waist up and awkwardly cooperated as a strange woman’s relaxed hands touched my tense unclothed body. She contorted my right breast between plastic plates, my arms in unnatural braces, my ribs jamming into the cold metal of the machine…. She instructed me to tell her when it hurts too much. What did “hurts too much” even mean? Images of my breast splitting open from the extreme pressure filled my mind and seemed like the only instance I could provide that information to her with any clarity. In an attempt to be kind to myself, I told her I wasn’t good at that and she should just do what she needed to do. I wasn’t qualified for such decisions. All of my life had been too much pain and I had already split open more times than I could remember and I am somehow still ok. Relieved by letting myself off the hook from navigating such an impossible burden, we managed to get the images the doctor had ordered without much more than significant discomfort.

As I gathered my belongings, I tried to keep the gown closed. Noticing my full hands the technician offered to carry something for me, I politely thanked her and assured her I was fine. I could do it. I had no doubt. As I followed her, she explained that I would sit, half-undressed, to wait for the doctor to review the images and decide what to do next. She then offered me a warm blanket. I politely said “no thank you”, “I just want to get out of here”, I thought. How does a warm blanket help, I wondered? As she crossed the threshold into the darkened waiting room, her voice full of delight said, “You’re the perfect patient.” Her words and her tone hit me like a punch in the stomach. Hot all over, my face flushed, furious, “How dare she!?” As I took my seat, scenes from my lifelong war with “perfect” flashed before my eyes. Deeply disturbed and angry, I knew my life was about to change. Heaviness settled on me as I began to imagine cancer becoming a part of my life. As I sat there in the semi-darkness, I let the tears come and the sudden desire for a warm blanket. I saw the oven-like warmer full of white blankets across the empty room and argued both sides with myself as I wrestled with my need for comfort. I would no longer be anyone’s definition of perfect, I would no longer deprive myself so that others can feel good. I dared to give myself permission to take the long walk across that darkened room to get a warm blanket for myself just because I wanted one. And it felt good.