This interlude before I have the final surgery has proven interesting to me. Up until now, things have been happening so quickly that decisions could and did come fast and without a great deal of thinking. That was OK, because even with the two previous surgeries, not much changed. I had a rather discrete 3” scar and basically, it wasn’t much different than deciding to have a callus removed.
However, losing a breast is not quite the same as removing a callus.
First, I just wanted to get it over with.
Then I thought about what I’d do afterward, hoping the scar wouldn’t be a big deal and thinking about whether or not I’d have the courage to get a tattoo.
And now it’s sinking in. A part of me is going to be gone, a part of me that I interacted with every day – even if just to cover with clothing – to never be seen again. Even if I’d have reconstruction (I probably won’t.), a reconstructed breast may look the same but it won’t be the same one.
Eventually I finally came to the realization that I had a vague feeling of grief over that. I’m going to lose a part of me. What does that mean? To me as a person, I mean.
I’m not good at grieving. I suspect that’s a fault I should rectify. Not that I haven’t had other losses, big ones, to be grieved, but that I don’t think I’ve done a good and complete job of grieving for any of them.
This is something I need to learn how to do.
And maybe that’s at least a part of the lesson here. To learn to grieve. Not to just keep a stiff upper lip or keep my chin up or make light of it or just move on.
So for the next two and a half weeks I intend to investigate that more fully. Just how do I grieve and what will I do?
An admirable goal, Sam. I’d say we grieve as we have to, and you don’t need to plan it. Just be open to the feelings that will come . . . the varying episodes of sadness, anger, disappointment, etc., and have a place to express it and someone to comfort you. I do best when I’m talking to someone, it helps me release my emotions, and so I like to have a therapist available. Journaling also helps me. You may need to educate your SO so he understands what you need from him . . . . not cheering up, just a willing ear, maybe a shoulder to cry on, and/or words of reassurance that you are still lovable. I’m sure you’ll do a great job of honoring your grief, because you are aware, now, that it is what you want to do. I wish you the best of good luck and healing.
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Thanks for your comment and good wishes, Samantha. I think my biggest issue is not allowing myself to be “open to the feelings that will come.” That will take some practice, I suppose, and will involve much more than the next two weeks or so. I grew up not feeling free to have “negative” feelings, or even any strong feelings at all. I’m not sure if I learned that from family or just from experience, but it’s a lifetime of “practice” that I have to overcome. Even during the ten years or so when I was seeing a therapist I never really felt deep feelings. I could talk about them but “wasn’t allowed” to feel them, or so I thought. IOW, I do very well in my head, it’s a bit more difficult to get down into my heart. But habit is habit and habits can be changed, can’t they? So I’ll work on that.
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Dear Sam, Grieving is so important, but like you say, how to do it? I really, truly believe that a lot of our problems stem from the fact that we don’t allow ourselves to grieve. You have a lot of friends pulling for you, and praying for you as you go through this. Hugs!!
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Thanks for reading and commmenting, bobbi. Yes, I agree with you that we don’t allow ourselves to grieve. That may be cultural (Get over it! Chin up, old girl! That sort of thing) or idiosyncratic, but whatever and wherever it comes from, it’s a disservice to us. The fact that I’ve gotten so much support from friends – some of whom I’ve never even met – helps tremendously. That means I can cry and wail or whatever and there will be people there to hold me, even if only online. Thanks!
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I learned my lesson from a wonderful role model (my mother) when I was thirteen. Her mother died, and my mother wore black for a year. Her friends chided her for it and told her it was “old fashioned,” and that she didn’t “have to” do it. I remember her responding, “I’m not doing it because I’m “supposed to,” I’m doing it because I’m grieving.” She avoided social occasions and wore her black dresses for a year, and then slowly, cautiously, re-entered life as we had lived it before my grandmother’s death. So I knew that grief deserved to be acknowledged, and when my daughter was killed I made no attempt to pretend that I could go on as if it hadn’t happened, and I’ve always been a champion of grief as a legitimate state of being, not to be brushed aside.
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Precisely, Samantha. Just now I was thinking that maybe a part of my inability to grieve came from the time(s) when I was a kid and I’d cry over something only to be told something on the order of, “If you don’t quit that crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” IOW, don’t cry, don’t grieve, and whatever it is, it’s not important, anyway.
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I hadn’t known that other parents were delivering that same bewildering command, “If you don’t stop that . . . . something to cry about.” That sure made me put a lid on it! But I did my crying in private, because my emotions are, apparently, naturally strong and would not be suppressed. I put up with a lot of ridicule for being “depressed, ” i.e. sad. We sure are a mixed up generation. . . . . no wonder good therapists have no trouble finding work! It’s really only now that they are gone that I can focus on my parents’ generosity, devotion, and good intentions, and love them more than I could when they were alive and trying to force me into that box.
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I think that “something to cry about” is fairly common, especially among my parents’ generation and a particular type of people. Your comment also made me realize that not only was I required to repress my emotions, but to disbelieve them. I remember something like, say, you had a very painful skinned knee or something and in an attempt to comfort you, your parents would say something like, “Don’t cry. It doesn’t hurt.” Well, it DID hurt, but now I was taught to not only to repress my hurt but to disbelieve that it even existed. Eventually I came to not know what I felt about a lot of things and when a feeling would get through I had to repress it or tell myself it was “wrong.” I think I have a lot to unlearn.
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Wow, Sam, what a rich opportunity this is for you to “come out” to yourself and to the world as the truly brave woman you are. We know that courage is NOT the absence of fear, etc. We fear, we hurt, we grieve, we rejoice, and we keep moving forward, learning and growing. I stand beside you in this new exploration, supporting you. I know you’ll do great, because that’s who you are.
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Any way you look at it, I’m going to be learning a lot – I hope! LOL Thanks for all your support, Samantha.
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