#10 :reminiscing
One of my most vivid childhood memories is performing the “lead” role in the classic rendition of ‘The Old Grey Goose” at my Montessori preschool.
I was cast as the Old Grey Goose.
The rest of the class sang the awkward verses about a poor old dead goose.
‘go tell Aunt Rhody that the old grey goose is dead.’
My role required me to patiently wait while the verses were sung by the rest of the class and then to POP up from the center of the circle to sing my dramatic solo.
To my memory, it was a Broadway-worthy performance with a hot white spotlight shining on me and some sort of bedazzled and sequined outfit. (It is possible that it might have been some sort of paper maché goose head, but it is my memory, so I choose to remember sparkles.)
I sang my solo from deep in my belly..
“I was only sleeping. I was only sleeping. I was only sleeping.
I wasn’t really dead.”
The audience clapped, cheered and roared at the cuteness. Each preschooler did their own bow at the end.
I perfectly executed the curtsy I practiced and threw kisses at my adoring fans. Were roses thrown? I believe so.
This is the part I remember the most vividly.
I loved the attention.
I can remember how proud I felt. I can remember the flush of my cheeks. It was exhilarating.
Look at me! Look at me! See how amazing and talented I am. See how special and remarkable and important I am! I am cute. I am smart. I am full of talent. I am a star…..
Fast forward forty some years and the attention seeker in me makes a declaration on social media about my health.
Within minutes, an embarrassing number of people responded with kind words of love and support. Old friends came out of the woodwork messaging me and texting me well wishes. I was given PRESENTS because I have cancer. Flowers. Cards.
l immediately felt embarrassed and awkward.
Oh god, please don’t look at me. Oooh, please, I don’t want the attention you are bestowing on me for this…
Updating the world about my poor boobie created a pretty intense vulnerability hangover. I screamed “look at me…I’m going through something” and immediately had terrifying internal dialogue. The thoughts ranged in ridiculousness from ‘uh, who the hell cares about my breast’’ to ‘is my cancer bad enough for all this love and attention?’
I know it’s silly.
It’s terrifying to be vulnerable.
Tomorrow is surgery day.
I am putting my life in the hands of a surgeon named Ashley.
I will lose a significant part of my breast.
I will lose the cancer that threatens my health.
I feel scared. Sometimes, really, really scared.
Tonight, in preparation, I took a long bath and slowly massaged fragrant oils all over my skin.
I spent some time reminiscing about all the good times my breast and I spent together.
I said to her…
Thank you for being patient while I pushed you up, squeezed you into uncomfortable fabrics, forced your shape with wires, flattened you down while working out.
Thank you for always being just big enough.
Thank you for feeding my only son. For almost a year.
Thank you for being an overly simplistic symbol of my femininity.
Thank you for being sensitive to touch and providing sensual pleasure.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
Thank you. I love you.
Tomorrow, I will say goodbye to a part of myself.
I will begin the healing process.
And as I do, I think about the cute little blond goose who joyfully popped out of the circle singing her lil’ heart out that she isn’t dead, and I smile.
