Cry Until You Laugh

It's Halloween and I am already dressed in my costume. You'll know it's me if you see a trick-or-treater wearing a post-mastectomy vest under an Adidas sweat suit, bad hair, and a grimace of pain. I think there was a character much like me in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

In fact, I think this is how I used to dress in the 1970s when we would go see that movie during the midnight showing at Woodland Theater. My poor husband probably thinks I am having some sort of midlife crisis, reverting to my teenage glory days. Little does he know my hair looks like this because it just hurts so much to raise my arms above my shoulders and fix it.

Over the last week I have questioned whether or not I did the right thing having both my breasts removed. I even asked Dr. 90210's nurse what she thought when I was there earlier this week.

"You did it, so it must have been the right thing to do," she said, going for tact.

Ha! How trite.

The verbal pathology report indicated that removing one breast was a must, but I could have preserved the second. I have come to a startling conclusion:

I really never believed that I had cancer.

I talked about it. I read about it. I shared my feelings about it. But the whole time it has been more of an out-of-body experience. Like I am talking about the Kim that is sitting next to me — not the one that currently has gas from all of the stool softeners I have been consuming.

I was recently blessed with a wonderful new daughter-in-law to add to the two incredible ones I already had. I have grandchildren. I have a husband who cannot find anything without me. I have friends whose lives would certainly be incomplete if I wasn't there from time to time to share my view on the new fall fashions, or world peace, or whatever it is we talk about.

I have a dad who has been through enough in life, and I know that I am his favorite. My children seek my sage wisdom on a near-daily basis.

If I am incapacitated, who would:

Who?

I would say "I have cancer," but I never believed it. This reminds me of when I get my driver's license renewed, and I tell them my height is 5'2" and my weight is 120 pounds. The Secretary of State clerk gives me a funny look, but I stay firm. I give her the look meant to communicate: Don't mess with me, maybe I am just a little bloated today.

Or, what about smiling and saying "I'm fine" when you just had a big fight with your spouse, and if he knows what's good for him, he had better be on his way to pick up the kids from soccer practice bearing flowers from the store. You say it but don't believe it.

We don't mean everything we say, do we?

I say "cancer," but I do not really believe it exists.

Even now I still do not believe it. I would rather say:

"I am going to have a fine rack when this is all said and done."