It
was July 4, 1998, just a little more than a week after my mastectomy and breast
reconstruction surgery, that I got the good news from my doctor. According to the pathology report and the
results of a variety of imaging tests, my body showed no further evidence of
cancer. I was officially designated NED. No Evidence of Disease: The best possible
outcome to a situation where few outcomes were promising. Thereafter I’ve
considered July 4th my personal holiday - my Independence (from
Cancer) Day.
Each
year on this date I stop and reflect. I feel grateful. I feel relieved. I feel
hopeful. I feel lucky.
But
I also feel something else.
I
feel ripped off.
With
all the technological hoo haa my body has been put through, I should damned
well have developed some super powers by now.
Peter
Parker gets bit by ONE teensy radioactive spider and turns in to freakin’
spiderman.
Meanwhile,
I’ve been injected with chemicals that light my internal organs up like
Christmas trees and shoved inside gazillion-dollar pieces of machinery that
have bombarded me with every type radio, light and ultrasound wave known to
science.
I
have had so many radioactive isotopes injected into my body that my pee glows
in the dark. Geiger counters spike if I get within 10 feet of them . I can rent
myself out at barbeques as a combination street lamp/patio heater/bug zapper.
But
do I have heightened senses? Incredible strength? Can I climb the side of
my garage or shoot a web out of my butt? Do my spidey-senses so much as tingle?
No.
All
those waves, all those isotopes, all those chemical dye injections, and I got
buttkiss.
I’m
not asking to become IronWoman or SuperRedhead or SpiderGirl.
I
don’t need the dexterity to scale a skyscraper. It would be fine if I could get
something off the top shelf of my closet without falling off the stepstool.
I
don’t care if I ever have xray vision. At this point I’d settle for being able
to read a menu in a restaurant without my cheaters. Or to be able to find my
cheaters in the first place.
I
don’t need to be able to run faster than a speeding bullet or have catlike
agility. It would make me happy to get to and from the mailbox in a reasonable
amount of time and to not bang my shin on the side of the bed every morning.
I’m
not asking to be able to bend steel with my bare hands. I’d consider it a major
coup to break into a bag of potato chips. And would it be too freakin’ much to
ask to be able to open a CD case or “twist off top” bottle without calling for
backup?
I’m
not looking for genius-level intelligence or phenomenal mental acuity.
Remembering where I put my car keys on any given day would be a good start. So
would not having to go back into the house three times after I’ve already
locked the door because I’ve forgotten stuff. Making my checkbook actually
balanced – just once – would be
enough.
I
don’t need to have six-pack abs or look good in a neon superhero leotard. I
just don’t want to have to solder myself into an iron foundation garment to
keep from spilling out over the top of my jeans. I suppose my ability to blind
people with my lily-white legs in summertime is something, but unless I can
distinguish between blinding the Good and blinding the Evil, it’s value is
limited.
I'm
not giving up. I still hold out hope that I will one day morph in to some
semblance of a super heroine and develop some sort of power or ability that
will at least make a good party trick.
Until
then, I do admit that I haven’t gotten COMPLETELY shortchanged by cancer. It
has imbued me with a few strengths.
I’m
fearlessly immodest. I will whip off my shirt and allow anyone who flashes a
medical credential at me to cop a feel without embarrassment. Ask me about my
scars, and you’re going to get to see them for yourself.
While
I can’t see in to YOUR body, I’ve got full color images (some of them in 3-D)
of all my internal organs. I like to
bring them out when people start making me look at photos of their grandkids or
their vacation trip to the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum. “Look, here’s the
world’s largest ball of twine.” “Look,
here’s my liver. I win.”
My
man-made side (which I affectionately call the Bionic Boob) is permanently
perky and sag-proof. It stands proudly, stoically refusing to succumb to the
ravages of time and gravity. While it’s not resilient enough to, say, deflect a
bullet, it will serve as a floatation device should the airplane I’m on have to
ditch in the ocean. I’m sure that my innate radioactivity will also provide and
handy locator beacon to guide rescuers to my location.
I
can hear the conversation now: “Um, sir, we’re picking up a radio signal from
the ocean – it appears to be coming from a woman.” “A woman? Is she in a raft?” “No sir, she’s just bobbing up and down like
a buoy. We’re dispatching a rescue boat.”
“Well keep a close watch on her, these waters are infested with
sharks.” “Sir, she’s a redhead. Sharks
are leaving the area almost faster than we can follow.”
I
can't be counted upon to save you if the bus we're riding ends up teetering
helplessly on the edge of a cliff. I can’t save you if the elevator we're in
malfunctions and plummets 50 stories. But… if we ever end up traveling on the
same trans-Atlantic flight? Well, you might wanna forego sitting beside the
emergency exit and take the seat next to me.
