The Grandpa.

Earlier this year, I matched with someone on a dating site.  He seemed to be a wonderful guy, and I spent about a week texting with him almost daily.  The conversation flowed freely, and the more we chatted, the more hopeful I became.  He was successful, attractive, goal oriented, and seemingly a man of faith.  On Saturday morning after our week of chatting via text, he called.  I sat on my back porch with a silly grin on my face as we talked about everything.  There was never a lull in the conversation – and not only was he quick-witted and extremely smart, but he was also extremely flirtatious.   Four hours later, as the conversation was winding down, two things happened.  

First, he made his interest in me clear.  Second, he set plans for a fancy date for Monday evening.   I was elated. An excuse to dress up – on a Monday – yes, please.

Feeling a tinge of nervousness at the newness of it all, I made a point to clearly explain my boundaries in dating.  With what I thought was a ton of grace, I said, “Hey, I  just want to clarify some expectations before we meet face to face..  I am super excited about Monday, but I am new to all this.  I want to be really really upfront:  I intend to date in a way that honors the Lord.  I’m not a hookup.  And I wont ever be.”

There was radio silence on the other end of the phone.  At first I thought he was formulating a response that would ease my tension – a sentiment that would echo mine.  

I was wrong.

“You know, Kim, (dramatic pause) my grandpa always told me that if a woman is worried that you’re only after her for her body, its usually because she fears thats all she’s got to offer you. She’s empty.  Run from that.”

Without taking the time to engage my filter, I flatly responded.  “Your grandpa is an idiot.”

After that, the conversation ran dry.

I sat there with the phone in my hand and a wild stare in my eyes.  There was a fire in my feelings and the simmering fury of absolute rage that occurs when someone says something that shouldn’t be true – but you secretly wonder if it is. 

 I was bothered.  

I guess I don’t have to tell you that we never went on that date, and I haven’t heard from him again.

Date retracted.  Devastation Activated.

I wish I could tell you that I didn’t cry over that man and his ridiculous grandpa, but that would be a lie.  I wish I could tell you that those words weren’t the background music  in my mind during lonely nights for weeks afterwards.  But that would be a lie too.

I stuffed this event down deep and moved on with my life.  Not until a few nights ago did it even bubble up to the surface but when it did, HOLY GUACAMOLE, it brought memories with it.  I spent years working to bury those memories under a new life with a new purpose.    Last weekend someone asked me a question that forced me to reflect. Before I knew it, I had accidentally taken a look back – and I remembered it all.  

The Sickness

Maybe you knew me back then.  But, even if you did.  I’m pretty sure you didn’t.  

I was in my early thirties.  Life was fast and mostly good.  Most of the memories have faded to fuzz – a sort of static noise in the background of my mind, but a few  remain etched in my memory in vivid detail: Sickness. Surgeries. Shame.

It started with a series of “off” days.  I  remember feeling really tired.  I had lost quite a bit of weight.  I was never really in pain, but I ached.  As winter turned to spring that year, the fatigue got worse, and the ache turned into an almost constant abdominal pain.

I was teaching a state tested area that year, so I pushed through the testing season, then made an appointment to see my local doctor.

She asked questions, did a thorough physical exam, ran some tests, took a look at my abdomen, stepped out of the room for a while, then came back in and told me that she was scheduling me an appointment at West Clinic to see a Gynecologic Oncologist “just to be on the safe side”.

I went home somewhat concerned, but optimistic.  I was young.

I didn’t mention it to my husband. 

I wanted to go alone.

Days later, I sat in West Clinic and faced the reality that I would be undergoing a total hysterectomy and potentially an oophorectomy as well.

There were tumors. In my uterus and on my ovaries.  But that wasn’t all.  My physical symptoms were alarming to the doctor – resembling  characteristic marks of ovarian cancer –  and he felt very strongly that I needed to have the surgery quickly.

He began to talk to me about cancer.  He handed me pamphlets.  Showed me charts and diagrams.  Read statistics.  Explained it all.  But what I remember the most is his hand on my shoulder as I wept.

I learned that there wasn’t a quick test they could run to determine  definitively if I had ovarian cancer.  During the surgery, they would perform a biopsy – and when I woke from the surgery, they would let me know.  

Either way, cancer or not, I would walk out of the hospital without the ability to have more children.

A big part of the essence of my womanhood would be gone.

I was young.  

The NEWS.

There was good news on the horizon, though.  I woke up from surgery, opened my eyes, and stared into the face of a smiling nurse.   I was in the blissful stages of post op when the pain meds are strong and the warmth of sleep is close at hand.  I dozed in and out of sleep until my doctor came to visit me.  

“You can smile.  It’s done.  We had to remove everything – but your tumors are gone.. and you don’t have cancer.”

I didn’t even ask questions.  I just cried.  

I really did feel better after the surgery.  It was summer, and I was healing.  I didn’t talk much about the ache that I felt knowing that I would never again carry a baby in my womb.  I didn’t allow my heart to feel the loss. I just kept living.

The CHOICE.

Later that summer, I discovered a lump in my breast.  I wanted to ignore it – and I shamed myself into thinking that I was imagining things.  Day after day, I felt it as I showered.  It didn’t disappear. I couldn’t muster enough positive thinking to make it disappear.

I had to address it. And I chose to do it alone.

Again, I sat in a doctor’s office.  This time a breast surgeon.  

The lump was benign.  The plan moving forward was not.

At my followup appointment with my breast surgeon, I was faced with a decision.  I had been on Hormone Replacement Therapy for a few months after my previous surgery.  That HRT was linked to increased odds of breast cancer.  

My doctor rolled his stool right in front of me, leaned close and talked to me with so much compassion that it almost took my breath away.  He was older and exceedingly kind.  In the moment, his kindness made my weakness feel acceptable.  

He walked me through some options:  I could do nothing – come back a couple of times a year for breast checks and biopsy any lumps that appeared.  Or, I could eliminate the stress of this process by choosing to remove my breasts with a prophylactic  bilateral mastectomy.

The scars on my abdomen were still fresh and the fear – dear heavens – the fear of cancer was suffocating.

I drove home in silence.  He advised me to take some time to carefully count the cost of both choices.  

I didn’t consult anyone.

I didn’t pray.

I didn’t seek wisdom.

I made the decision quickly.

I made the decision alone.

I wanted  the surgery.  I wanted eliminate fear’s reign of terror in my life.

I had no idea that I was trading one fear for another.

Not even five full months after my first round of life altering surgery, I was back in a surgery center.  This time to have both breasts removed.  

I had elected to have reconstruction.  But there would need to be time for my body to heal before that process could really begin.  On the day of surgery, both breasts would  be completely removed.  Tissue expanders would be inserted under the skin, and drains would be inserted under  both scars.

I thought I had a pretty good understanding of what would be happening – but nothing really prepares you to wake up and see the reality of the surgery.

I didn’t look at myself for a couple of days post surgery.  I was tightly bandaged and in quite a lot of pain during the brief interludes of time when my pain meds wore off.  I mostly slept.

Eventually, though, my nurses pushed me to start getting out of bed and trying to regain mobility.

On day three, I shuffled into the hospital bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.     

My chest was wrapped in bandages – blood stained bandages – stretched across a completely flat chest.

I ran my had across the bandages and began to cry.

Crying gave way to sobbing and before I knew it, my nurse had me wrapped in her arms.

“You probably need to look.  It’s better if you do.”

Shaking, I began to unwrap the large bandage. Round and round… until it fell completely to the floor and I stood staring in the mirror at my new body.  Stripped. 

I was horrified.  The bruising was shocking.  My breasts were gone, and in their place were two huge incision scars with Frankenstein like stitching.  And the drains… under each incision was a drain line hanging down. At the end of each drain was a fist sized bulb collecting the bloody fluid oozing out of the place my breasts used to be. Just below the horror of my brand new mastectomy were the still -fresh scars of  my hysterectomy and oophorectomy .

Emotion flooded me – and the devastation of all the loss I had endured manifested in a guttural scream.

I don’t know how long I stood staring before I started to scream.   I also don’t know how long I screamed before the room started to spin and I passed out.

It was day three.  That was the day I stopped feeling beautiful.  That was the day I felt completely stripped of my femininity.

It’s also the day I began to wonder if I could ever look at myself again, or worse yet – allow anyone else to look at me. 

It would be six months before I would ever even glance at my scars in the mirror again. Six months of emotional denial.

So, on some level, rude grandpa was right – maybe not completely right – but right enough.  

On day three in that hospital room and every day since that day,  I have hidden those scars – behind pretty clothes, behind a big smile, behind success, behind service to others, behind good deeds… behind anything that can serve as a distraction.

Hidden just below the surface. But always hidden.

Yep, grandpa.  I have been afraid.  Not that my body is the only thing I have to offer… but that I can only offer it in brokenness.

DISCLAIMER – Though this section of my story ends with a twinge of sadness and seeming hopelessness – this is not the end.  It’s the beginning of a wild section of my story – one where I first ran to Beale Street to try to escape my pain – but ultimately met the Lord in a fresh way and launched a life I had only dreamed possible.  I’ll share that part soon, because I love telling a good story.  🙂