Yesterday, in the middle of my walk in closet, surround by
not-quite-neatly folded clothes and cleaning supplies, I made a realization.
Today, crawling through the dark caves at Purgatory Chasm and skidding on the
ice at the bottom, I made it again.
The realization? I am happy in my own skin.
It’s been almost six years since I last said.
A cancer diagnosis can have a tendency to stir up a feeling
of discontent. A handful or two of scars and some removed chunks of skin can turn
that discontent to loathing. Losing hair, and then body parts that you didn’t
even know you valued can even lead to a touch of despair.
The slinking fear of recurrence
hiding out in the deepest depths of your heart take a steady toll, too.
All that compounded with constant exhaustion from chemo or
radiation or surgery can leave you distrustful of the body you’ve been trapped
in. If
I go for a walk, will I have the energy to come home? Will I get sick if I eat
that? Will I get sick if I don’t?
Then, of course, there’s the wardrobe. Comfy sweaters are
too scratchy for aching skin. Favorite jeans won’t fit over the extra pounds of
chemo, or slide off because of the lost pounds. Fitted blouses don’t fit if you
don’t have breasts. After each surgery, I never knew which clothes in my closet
would fit.
But somehow, today, all of that is meaningless again.
Because once again, I am happy in my own skin.
Maybe it was the last surgery – I finally slipped close
enough to normal to feel normal. Maybe it’s simply that Spring is here after a
long, hard winter. Maybe Mom’s been praying for me again. Maybe God reached
down and retuned my heart. Probably a combination of all of those. But it doesn’t
really matter.
Once again, I don’t need to know the why.
I just need to know that He loves me. And, as
corny as it may sound, I love me, too.
