Roadmap

For my girl Beth Peck, who I'm waiving at from the other side of the mountain.
And for my girl Krista Nye Nicholas, who I can't begin to thank enough for her love.
And for my girl Sharleen Ernster, who is making it hot for women to own it, all of it. Love you.
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Dr. Sullivan's PA eyed the opening on my chest, prodded it a bit, gave me a second glance and said "It looks like it's filling in, Fran. I think we shouldn't worry about it."

I'd come in to have a check up, down in New Orleans for a conference and worried about a wound from my surgery that hadn't healed properly. She looked at it again and told me that the wound would not close skin to skin, but would fill up, layer upon layer, until it had healed.

This was not news I was prepared to hear because it was a big wound, a startlingly large wound placed on my reconstructed breast in the most conspicuous place. But she went on to say that after the filling and the healing, that a revision would take place, that the scar tissue would be reworked to bring the appearance back to as normal of a condition as possible. "It will look good again, Fran. It will just take longer than we thought."

I've reflected on this experience a lot over the past few years, thinking about physical and emotional wounds and how they heal, how they are sometimes not just stitched up and become faint memories, but have to take the long road of layering time to bridge the gap and connect again. And then, if we are lucky, and if we are open, and if we desire (actually), someone may come along and help us revise that scar so that it's less noticeable to ourselves, be that through a change in attitude or insight.

One person's scar is another person's roadmap.

Yesterday I got fitted for the most beautiful swimsuits I've ever had, each with a plunging neckline, each summoning my inner warrior who owned the fact that the scars are there and visible and real and not a problem, that it is hot to own your history and all that comes with it. The metaphor of healing with time and love is not lost on me as I roll into this fifth year of living a second life. This is a hurdle, this is the clearing, this is the other side.

Fat With Promise

One of my favorite memories from childhood flickers in my mind in dappled 70's film light. My friend Jill and I roaming her family's farm, playing in her treehouse, eating a picnic her mom made for us, fighting imaginary crimes. The group of  kids we played with at school were avid fans of superhero play, shaped mostly, if not entirely, by our television experience of the comic book stories.

I was thinking of this memory the other day as my work partners and I were talking about our favorite characters that we had growing up. Those days with Jill had a funny pattern for me. As would be expected, Jill would want to be Wonder Woman. And, of course, I would want to be Wonder Woman too. I mean, who didn't want to be Wonder Woman?
Or, rather,who didn't think that she was supposed to want to be Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman was good, she had a strong spine, she did the right thing with a very focused look on her face. She stood tall.

Catwoman was bad. She had a whip, she enslaved men's minds, she wore that damn hot suit that would forever shape my fashion choices.

But, with another girl around, there was the option of being Catwoman if I wasn't Wonder Woman and I really, really, really (although fairly secretly) loved being Catwoman.  I remember wrestling with this idea constantly.  Not wanting to be Wonder Woman must be bad...you should want to be the virtuous, good, solid character; the person who does what is right. Wanting to be Catwoman was definitely bad...it showed that other side that nobody gets to see, the side that likes to be naughty, shades of grey between the stark black and white of Batman. Delicious.

Thinking through this little-person-starting-to-grapple-with-fucked-up-whore/virgin-bad/good-guilt line of reasoning and all of the fallout that has gone with it, something just finally clicked. [I mean, Jesus, I am 42 years old and it finally just clicked.] This warring of my two sides has been with me for as long as I can remember. I live with it in spades every day. It's the me that wants to get up to go to yoga every day but hates the virtuous air of what yoga seems to be about. It's the side of me that likes to drink bourbon until late in the night and shake my ass to funk, even though I know I should be home. It's the me that wants to be a perfect mom, but the me that loses track of time and shows up late. It's the chaos muppet in me that my order muppet tries to corral. But, in truth, it is the manifestation of intense creativity that lies within me that must be allowed to prowl. It's the me who comes up with irreverent ideas, the me who speaks her mind, the me who is passionate and fierce and loyal. The one that the more she is constrained, the more she needs to claw herself free.

I am not sure why it has taken me years and years and years to come to terms with this idea and the bigger question is what to do with it. I'm fairly sure this is as common as dirt and that a million dissertations in feminist theory have been written on this experience of young females along with the gazillion theories of why young girls love horses, but I'm going to play here, unlock it a bit, try to find that place where Diana and Selina can co-exist; lighten each other up or calm each other down.

Episode 3: Where Fran discovers a creepy old man and a new superpower...

A big nap and another big hit of meds and I am in a much more cheerful mood, which as given me the emotional bandwidth to laugh about a few things. It's the little things that matter, right?

Years ago when I was training to be a Pilates instructor, my teacher taught me to really pay attention to the way I hold my body that might increase pain or fatigue. This has been helpful this week, actually, as so much of my time has been sleeping sitting up and moving in a really awkward way and trying to relax those worked up muscles that are running for cover. 

So during this body observation, I realized that I walk around during the day with my upper body slightly rigid with my hands clenched at my sides, much like the small people do when they are learning to walk. I didn't really notice this until yesterday when it dawned on me that I looked like Bob Dole gimping around with that pen stuck in his hand. Of course, then I googled Bob Dole and came up with this Pepsi commercial of Brittany Spears and Bob Dole with all of the exploding bottle tops and Bob watching Brittany in the dark with that rigid pen in his hand during his Erectile Dysfunction advertising heyday and that gamey look on his face and got completely creeped out. And now, thankyouverymuchinternetz, I cannot scrub it from my eyes.

The other thing that this body observation gives me is the notion that I have a new supertool. I am pretty much sure I can deflect bullets with my breasts now. I am also pretty sure Wonder Woman could too, but the television censors wouldn't let the public know. Seriously. It was the cuffs AND the boobs.

On the plus side, there are friends who truly understand...

Me: My new superpower is the ability to deflect bullets with my breasts.
Joanna: Good. I'll stand behind you.
Me: Too bad I can't shoot them from my breasts, eh?
Joanna: That's the next stage when you have nipple reconstruction. You can choose bullets, fairy dust or champagne.
Me: [peeing.]
Me: I think I am going to choose all three. One for every occasion!
Joanna: Great idea. Not sure if insurance will cover all three, but we can pass the hat.
Me: With cuts in the city budget, I am pretty sure they will need me on the force.
Joanna: True. You will be in high demand.
Me: I could be the new Bond girl, saving A2 from harm, seducing evil men only to entrap them with my guns...ha! guns for sure!

This opens up a whole new world of possibilities...

Update:  The fiesty and ever-firey Deb Fisch sent me this knock-out clip. Yes, I like girls of that caliber....bwahahahahahaaaa.  First the fairy dust, then the bullets, natch.