It was easy to notice the damage of breast cancer right after surgery. My breast was blue from the dye they injected to find the lymph nodes. It was swollen and red around the surgical site. Bandages crossed the stitched incision. Eventually the injured flesh bruised. I noticed all of it. I mourned the loss of my whole, well body. I knew the cancer was still inside and thought about it always.
It wasn't until the cutting and stitching, the poisoning and burning was done, until all the hair and relationships were lost, that I went to an occupational therapist to regain strength in the right side of my body. The first thing she asked me was:
Have you touched your scars?
No, I hadn't. My hands did all kinds of things during that year of treatment: prepared food for my daughter, washed and dried my body from a shower, tied my shoes for a walk after chemo. But not once had I touched my scars.
I thought about my scars while Los Angeles burned this week. It is the county of my childhood, and the city where my daughter dances to this day. I thought about how we are all feeling it hard during the burning and the poisoning, during the loss of home and love. While the fire is still inside our bones, smoldering from the inside out like a cancer.
I wondered what I could possibly add to the conversation about helping and mourning, about fire perimeters and first responders, about anger, confusion, hope and gratitude. Some much has been offered. So much appreciated. So much more needed.
My body has been a wreck for Los Angeles. And during this time, I keep coming back to my cancer and that question:
Have you touched your scars?
Cancer spreads like wildfire. A wildfire spreads like cancer. And both need clean edges to stop the growth.
But what happens when all the burning is done? When the city is left with the remains of its once-whole body?
Will we touch our scars? And how?
I started slowly, light finger tips on the tough, numb skin. I could still feel nerves underneath, but very little on the surface. And I was terrified that I would still feel the lump, or its traces, even though it had been excised almost a year before. Finger tips grazed the three inch scar on my breast, and the four-inch scars underneath my arm pit. My stomch flipped over on itself. Nausea came in waves. I hated this touching. But I added gentle circles to help loosen the tightness, the layers of scar tissue bundled around the story of my near-dying.
Hands can reach out
Cup the pain
Lighten the load
Douse the flames
Scoop up the ash
Rebuild bodies
and homes
and cities
Hands are not elixirs
They cannot disappear
the memories
even when they hold a
magic wand.
They cannot bend
time or space
to avoid the tears
But hands can
do so many things
They can start slowly
light finger tips over
toughened, numb hearts
careful of the nerves still
firing underneath
Hands can loosen
the trauma so that--
when we are ready, Angelinos
we can tell the story of our near-dying.
Because hands can
touch our scars.
With love, Sharon
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