Yes, I'm proud of us. And not just of my 10-year-old Boy-Scout-in-training who insisted on shouldering a heavy pack, or my 8-year-old with her skinny matchstick legs and antelope grace, or my fearless husband who makes all the detailed arrangements on our behalf so our travels go smoothly. Oh yes, I'm very, very proud of them, but I'm also proud of me.
Let me explain why by telling you about my repurposed headscarf.
Here's me two years ago (telling Husband to please stop taking pictures of me and be the kids' paparazzi instead):
That brightly-colored cotton headscarf is protecting the fragile skin of my chemo-bald head. I'm on a short, easy hike with friends. And, even though the hike is short and easy, I slipped on a wet rock and split my chin open (after this picture). First stitches I've ever needed and further proof to me that my post-cancer body is fragile and no longer able to do what everyone else's does. A few months later, I fall off my bike (wheel stuck in a rut while cycling slowly) and bloodied up my left arm. A few months later yet, I trip on my shoelace (foot stuck through the loop while jogging slowly) and bloody up my right arm (seriously!!). Conclusion: I -- a former athlete -- need to take it easy and accept that I'm a damaged and frail version of my former self.
You see, having cancer changed my outlook. Before my diagnosis, I vaguely expected I could do anything if I just put my mind to it. My inner dialog probably sounded like something from a Disney princess movie ("Follow your dreams and you can go anywhere!" "Believe in yourself and you can do anything!"). I took for granted that I was only limited by my interests and intentions, not by any lack of physical ability. No, that's not an accurate perception of life but at least it's optimistic.
After cancer, I found myself focusing on what I can't physically do. My mind and soul came through intact -- stronger even and more focused -- but my body felt damaged, weak, and fragile; sometimes I feel like a ticking cancer bomb ("where will it reappear first -- colon? bones? brain?"). I no longer assumed I could do something just by trying hard or by setting my mind on it. I no longer assumed I'd outlive the rest of my family and spend my 90s scrutinizing the obituaries, changing my mind about which hymns should be sung at my funeral, and giving sour commentaries on how my grandchildren's generation is ruining America.
Now here's me at the bottom of the canyon a few days ago, about to hike back up:
Recognize that hanky on my head? Same one! But this time it's holding back my hair (HAIR!) and sometimes that day it got dipped in the cold creek
and wrapped around my neck to keep me cool in the brutal heat of the
canyon.My headscarf, a symbol of my weakness, became a hanky -- repurposed as a symbol of physical strength and endurance on this trip.
Our Grand Canyon hike was as much a mental exercise as a physical one. I did NOT go into this trip with excitement and anticipation. I went into it thinking, "I'm just humoring Husband, who's trying to get this trip in before I'm shriveled and cancer-ridden." [No, he wasn't really thinking that.] I dreaded The Hike and worried over it and wondered several times if we were being foolish to expect this of me or my sometimes-whiny 8-year-old.
But we did it -- WE DID IT! -- and I'm glad. (Thanks, Husband!) We enjoyed the beauty of the Grand Canyon and made great family memories. And, as we hiked, I thought about recovery and restoration and how I am not just a damaged version of my former self. Yes, I am more aware of my mortality and, yes, I have physical limitations -- I always did, and it's realistic to be aware of this. But -- through God's grace -- I am also strong enough to DO and BE. My outer body is not just a decorative floral headscarf, covering up the ravages of cancer; rather, it is has real utility. It is strong enough and useful enough to get sweaty and dusty and go places and be challenged and pushed and used to new purposes. I can thrive. I can ROAR!
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