Rain Harder
May. 6th, 2024 11:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootWe went to the fundraiser, everybody was excellent, friends were lovely, eager to catch up. I recall one in particular, a little wine-happy, big kind eyes gazing at me.
'We'll meet soon,' she said.
'We will,' I agreed.
'Aye, we fckn' will!' She said, adding 'You'll contact me soon won't you? Pinky promise?'
Pinky promise it is, so I will send messages tomorrow night. What they don't understand is how little I have to talk about, how much of a drag I fear to be on the conversation. Or maybe they do understand but don't mind because they're very compassionate. I worry I may be fine then suddenly burst into tears over some random nothing. I dread to see anyone really. Even the arrival of the gardener today has me feeling as though basic conversation may betray me. This right here is the best I can do.
Saw a couple of other mates on Sunday, they asked how it was going so I told them, without laying it on too thick. One of them, a trans chum, recommended that I check out trans men's mastectomies and top surgeries and see how much better the scars look a year on. It was kindly meant advice but I cannot follow it. Right now my response to the initial scarring is too visceral for me to see past and pursue to the actual point. R considered her indelicate for comparing the two situations at all but I see the healing and hope she wanted me to imbibe from her words. It's not entirely appropriate but it is trying to make better, and I appreciate that.
R is being phenomenally supportive. As is Bro.
When I talked over the option of just staying on Letrozole for a few years, see if something like near-infrared photoimmunotherapy research developes into a valid available treatment, Bro's answer was 'Yes, you could do that. But you know it's a Hail Mary don't you?' He added; 'I'm going to make you angry now. Do you remember how you felt that when Mum got ill, she just avoided diagnosis and drugs because anti-psychotics would ruin her image, make her drool and shuffle around and all that? Can you see a parallel?'
Well no. Yeah. Kind of, Bro. Shut up when you're wrong and shut very up when you're right.
What's happening generally across my body is just age. Looking at Mum, it's not so hard to grow old and look the way I want, I don't need the validation of a libido lavapool permanently bubbling away in the background. But this is different, this feels like violence and disfigurement even if it isn't. I don't want people to look at me and feel sorry for me. She probably felt the same, and then the disease caught hold of her and took all her decisions away.
Delaying much more might just mean an operation in 5/10 years, when age makes me more vulnerable, drugs are less effective and metastasis might have occurred. R has said little apart from reassuring me and reiterating his total support for whatever I choose to do.
I spoke to R about how I feel, saying 'I am afraid of losing my breasts.'
He replied ever so gently: 'I am afraid of losing my wife.'
It is the only thing he has said regarding his own feelings, and I am listening.
I am doing a lot of listening, reading, thinking. The only thing beyond me is talking.
God, I really hope the gardener cries off. Rain, rain harder!
'We'll meet soon,' she said.
'We will,' I agreed.
'Aye, we fckn' will!' She said, adding 'You'll contact me soon won't you? Pinky promise?'
Pinky promise it is, so I will send messages tomorrow night. What they don't understand is how little I have to talk about, how much of a drag I fear to be on the conversation. Or maybe they do understand but don't mind because they're very compassionate. I worry I may be fine then suddenly burst into tears over some random nothing. I dread to see anyone really. Even the arrival of the gardener today has me feeling as though basic conversation may betray me. This right here is the best I can do.
Saw a couple of other mates on Sunday, they asked how it was going so I told them, without laying it on too thick. One of them, a trans chum, recommended that I check out trans men's mastectomies and top surgeries and see how much better the scars look a year on. It was kindly meant advice but I cannot follow it. Right now my response to the initial scarring is too visceral for me to see past and pursue to the actual point. R considered her indelicate for comparing the two situations at all but I see the healing and hope she wanted me to imbibe from her words. It's not entirely appropriate but it is trying to make better, and I appreciate that.
R is being phenomenally supportive. As is Bro.
When I talked over the option of just staying on Letrozole for a few years, see if something like near-infrared photoimmunotherapy research developes into a valid available treatment, Bro's answer was 'Yes, you could do that. But you know it's a Hail Mary don't you?' He added; 'I'm going to make you angry now. Do you remember how you felt that when Mum got ill, she just avoided diagnosis and drugs because anti-psychotics would ruin her image, make her drool and shuffle around and all that? Can you see a parallel?'
Well no. Yeah. Kind of, Bro. Shut up when you're wrong and shut very up when you're right.
What's happening generally across my body is just age. Looking at Mum, it's not so hard to grow old and look the way I want, I don't need the validation of a libido lavapool permanently bubbling away in the background. But this is different, this feels like violence and disfigurement even if it isn't. I don't want people to look at me and feel sorry for me. She probably felt the same, and then the disease caught hold of her and took all her decisions away.
Delaying much more might just mean an operation in 5/10 years, when age makes me more vulnerable, drugs are less effective and metastasis might have occurred. R has said little apart from reassuring me and reiterating his total support for whatever I choose to do.
I spoke to R about how I feel, saying 'I am afraid of losing my breasts.'
He replied ever so gently: 'I am afraid of losing my wife.'
It is the only thing he has said regarding his own feelings, and I am listening.
I am doing a lot of listening, reading, thinking. The only thing beyond me is talking.
God, I really hope the gardener cries off. Rain, rain harder!
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no subject
Date: 2024-05-06 01:01 pm (UTC)And I truly don't know whether the following will make you feel better or be just some more kindly meant but tone-deaf babble.
But anyway...
The first piece I ever properly published was a series of interwoven interviews with women describing their various birth narratives. One of the women I interviewed was my very wise friend Peach who'd ended up having an emergency Caesarian. Very ugly scar. She was—is—a beautiful woman, very proud of her body.
I think that's too bad but, you know, life will change your body. It certainly changes your face, she told me. And as sad as the Caesarian was for me — and it was desperately sad, that mark on me... I've thought a lot about it, almost I think in some tribal ways of altering the body that are indicative of who people are. Why isn't my Caesarian scar as beautiful as a tattoo?
I've thought a lot about what she said in the years since. And I hope I am not being glib to share it with you.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-06 01:31 pm (UTC)...Tribal ways of altering the body that are indicative of who people are... An interesting narrative. I see how this has worked with some people, powerfully and positively. I do not feel it myself but maybe that will change.