She is Me...

Eyes close and words appear.

A quote by T.S. Eliot, framed on a wall in my childhood home, "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

And a whisper comes...she is me and I am her.

Early in chemo, I lie in bed one morning. Running fingers through long hair, too many strands come out. It is happening, I think to myself. Within minutes I stare at the pile of hair on my lap, a bewildered creature then. But while this loss is shocking, I do not have energy to fret a bald head. And I love the feel of a cool pillow, body hot from poison in my veins. Waking some nights, I peer into the mirror, to see a beautiful but strange one.

I know her, me...and I do not.

One month after chemo. Two months, three months...18 months later. And finally today, now. My hair longer with each passing photo, I have kept a record of this time. So I put photos side by side, looking for changes of expression - weariness, fear, grief, acceptance, relief and hope too. And those gorgeous ringlets, a surprise gift from chemo. But recently my fingers go to twirl those curls, slipping to straighter hair instead.

A deep sweet sigh: I have returned.

Then I watch a younger woman study her new prosthetic leg, speaking to our clinician with technical and nuanced concerns. Our language isn't the same, not at all, mine only able to communicate big things like pain and "it just doesn't feel right." She steps out with a stride that leaves no clue of a missing limb. My heart leaps to see this possibility, hopeful my gait might match hers someday. And I look into the mirror, to see a woman in baggy pants staring back.

I know her, me...and I do not.

After my call of praise to the young woman, she smiles generously and comes over to me. My gaze enviously falls to her skinny pants, as I ask how she manages to put them on. Kindred spirits chasing obstacles, she gives me a lesson. In my closet, I grab a pair of bright orange pants, not worn for two years. Sitting on my bed, I run through her instructions...put your leg on, then your pants, not the reverse. My breath holds as I pull and tug...until those pretty pants slip on.

A deep sweet sigh: I have returned?

Eyes close and words appear:

Yes, Mr. Eliot, at the end of my exploration, I know her for the first time. A return to straighter hair and cute pants, no matter. Because some long and too arduous journeys change us beyond recognition...

...almost, but not quite.

For the familiar is there, when we look at ourselves. Mirror mirror on the wall. Our shapes might change and shift, but we are still us. Something constant, someone eternal.

Then she winks and beckons to me.

With her new gratitude, hard won after too many poisonous nights but a sweet recovery, finally. And her big faith, not in a sure tomorrow but in our blessed forever.

So I follow her....

...for she is me and I am her.

Always and forever.

P.S. Sift and sort your memories, gently, friends. Loving yourself in all versions...past, present...and onward too. xxoo