When Looking Good Isn't Enough

When I first started chemo, people often told me I looked great.

I never took the compliment well; it irked and saddened me. Most times I was not gracious. 

"I feel like crap," I'd say – and then I'd be plagued by guilt and regret over my bad attitude.

I knew it was genuine praise meant to uplift me, but every time someone lauded my appearance, my insides burned.

I wondered why. I should've been thrilled that others thought I retained some cuteness while undergoing one of modern medicine's more savage torments.

During my first phase of chemo – four cycles over eight weeks of Adriamycin and Cytoxan (commonly referred to as 'the red devil') I felt like I was dying. 

If you've seen "The Princess Bride," it'll be easy for you to appreciate my physical reaction to 'the red devil'. 

Picture the scene when the Man in Black is in the Pit of Despair, tethered to a wood table in front of a machine with water wheels, pumps and levers. The Five-Fingered Man, who has a pain fetish and is eager to test the machine's torture properties on the Man in Black, pulls a lever and water rushes through the machine. The Man in Black writhes; his entire body jerks violently.

This pleases the Five-Fingered Man. He smirks sadistically and explains that his machine is modeled after the suction pump; but instead of sucking water, his machine works by sucking life.

"I just sucked one year of your life away," he tells the still twitching Man in Black. 
He then picks up a pen and notebook and dispassionately asks the Man in Black how the torture made him feel – he is writing the definitive work on pain and wants to be accurate … for posterity. (Evil!)

The Man in Black whimpers.

For nine of the 14 days between my Adriamycin/Cytoxan treatments, for eight weeks, I felt like the Man in Black after a life-sucking session. 

Though some people have an easier time than others with chemo or after surgery or during radiation, nobody sails through cancer treatment … physically or emotionally. We're in pain, we're afraid, we're concerned — and we live with it every day. A simple "you look great" without an acknowledgement of the struggle somehow minimizes our experience.

Now that I'm well into the second phase of chemo, with my eyebrows and eyelashes gone and the semblance of an escaped convict, the compliments are nil. But that's OK, because my outward image better reflects the anguish my body and psyche has endured. It's like a badge, and I wear it proudly (to the dismay of my daughter, who wishes I'd put on a wig and false eyelashes every once in a while). 

One day I'll be through this and I'll look good and I'll feel good. When that time comes, don't hesitate to flatter me — and please do it often. I can't conceive of anything more life affirming than being healthy and having it shine through from the inside out.