"Ya wanna see my scars?"

I had only been chatting with the woman in the KAO office about five minutes. I stopped by to pick up a few more postcards before we left for the Gila Cliff dwellings. Sporting the Navajo jewelry I'd picked up in Santa Fe, she commented that my new earrings looked cute with my short hair. "This is exactly one year's growth since my last chemo," I exclaimed as I reached up and patted the relaxed curls that were chemo's silver lining. That was all it took to jetison two complete strangers into an intimate converstation which might not have happened with people I've known for years. She asked me about my cancer and shared the story of a woman in her church with metastatic breast cancer. I remarked that last year will go down as one of the best years of my life. She looked surprised at hearing that, so I explained that the journey had been filled with joy as I was prayed and loved through every step of treatment. I had literally been carried on prayer during the three surgeries and eight rounds of chemo. The palpable support I experienced was more than meals delivered or get well cards received and was not a figment of my imagination. She told me about how her friend had benefitted from prayer as well. "Now I am trying to find my way in dealing with life without breasts," I said. "I miss them. The 'girls' were the super highway to 'joy valley' and now its been a little tough finding a way to 'get the party started' without all the usual players," I explained. "Having to cut off your breasts 'cause they were trying to kill you is like having a bridge washout on a major road. You have to find an unexplored detour route and it doesn't always feel right," I continued. And the truth be told, sometimes you don't even feel like getting in the car. This is were something ironic happened. I admitted to her that I still don't let my husband see my chest. I think it is ugly. I think that he would think it was ugly. At that point, I blurted out, "Ya wanna see my scars?" She nodded immediately. Right there in front of a woman whose name I still don't know, I lifted the front of my t-shirt up to my face to reveal what I avoid letting my husband see, my breastless, scarred chest. My bilateral scars are very long and uneven. The stretchmarks from nursing engorgement on the skin under my breasts still remain and meet the incision line. I think this adds to how unattractive my post-surgical chest looks. My left armpit area has a wider and jagged scar from extra tissue removal for excising the sentinel node. The result is an uneven appearance. "Oh," she said, not too startled. "I think it has been hard for my husband. Guys are so visual," I said. "But, if he loves you," she started to object. "Oh, he loves me, but guys are just wired differently than we are. Breasts matter, though he would NEVER let me think it matters to him now that I don't have any." "Of course," she agreed. We talked a little more, shared mutual encouragement and then we met at the end of the glass case of trinkets and had a wonderful hug. It was the kind of a hug your sister would give you, two arms wrapped solidly around your back, applying meaningful pressure and concluding with a of couple pats to communicate that she really meant it. I left the office/gift shop feeling very connected to an awesome woman who infused me with a bit more courage to explore my new detour.