Today marks the start of my return to independence. I have already wiggled my slippers on, waddled slowly to the toilet without a supportive arm and managed to wash my face. My moving mattress is now just foam, so there won’t be any more late night parties. I have also conquered the stairs without my wound feeling like it’s ripping apart. That means I am pretty much ready to go home.
Today has been an unexpectedly big day. Not because I can now pull my big knickers on. Not because I am getting my third drain taken out (leaving me with just one to take home with me tomorrow). No, today was the day I saw myself in the mirror for the first time. And, the worst bit is, I wasn’t prepared.
Looking down certainly doesn’t prepare you for looking in the mirror. I had accepted the challenge of washing myself independently and, before I knew it, I was sitting facing the scars and trying to make friends with my new flap. I had believed the nurses and doctors when they said it looked amazing (and it does in medical terms). It’s just that a scar from hip to hip, a new belly button, a large swollen lump in place of a cancerous boob (with no nipple) and a very swollen arm from the lymph node removal is quite a lot to take in. I may be healthier right now and I should be rejoicing about that, but I just feel a bit like an alien. Until I love these new body parts, how can I expect any one else to love me?
There is a small blessing in all of this. I have never been a woman defined by my looks. I’ve had spots, I’ve been overweight many times, my style is what could only be described as timeless (because it pretty much never changes, not because it’s stylish) and my walk is unique to say the least. I grew up being teased for the way I look and walk and I am strong enough now to know that it’s not a bit of body tissue that makes you who you are. It’s the person you are beyond the scars that matters.
A lovely nurse said something beautiful to me yesterday. She said: ‘disease makes us beautiful’. By this, she didn’t mean there are a queue of people dying to get stitches and surgical bruising. What she meant was, every obstacle we face reminds us of the important things in life and gives us the space to work out who we really are and what we really want. Each scar is a reminder that life is hard, but every time you recover, you learn to see more beauty in both yourself and others. We can be beautiful in other people’s eyes because we can see the pain others can’t and we can be the shoulder or support when others’ backs are turned. Put it this way, if beauty were defined by the amount of hurdles we face in life, I’d be Kate Moss.
While I will never be beautiful, I hope that my scars (once I have learned to love them), will give me the strength to support others and help them find the beauty within.
So tomorrow is the beginning of the real post-surgery recovery at home. There is only one thing I will miss from this first stage other than the beautifully smooth mashed potato – and that’s the view. London, with its bright lights, busy streets and Big Ben alarm clock – is pretty good company when you can’t sleep (and I’ve had what feels like about three hours in total in hospital). Walking by the river on operation day felt like a different kind of London. Away for the usual crowds and commuters, it was preparing for the day, with workers sweeping up, switching on and keeping the city’s heart beating. Looking out over the water at night, it feels like another world driven by bus timetables and lone wanderers, not blood pressure machines and drain bottles. It may be the city that never sleeps, but in the early hours even the centre can feel like the quietest place on earth.
There’s only one thing I have to do now before they let me go tomorrow – and that’s have a poo. Easier said than done…