Perfect

“Like the lotus flower that is born out of the mud, we must honor the darkest parts of ourselves and the most painful of our life’s experiences because they are what allow us to birth our most beautiful self.” - Debbie Ford

I’m amazed how four seemingly benign words can change one so immeasurably …”You’re the perfect patient” … even more than the life altering four words that followed minutes later, “I suspect its cancerous.” 

I’ve fought with “perfect” all my life, it has been spoken over me, of me, and for me, so many times and meant so many things. Perfect has always brought some level of comfort and some level of rage. This day, dressed in a short magenta examination gown sitting solo in a dimmed waiting room, my head spinning from another such “compliment”, I was much more aware of my rage. 

After being called back the week before to have a closer look at the calcifications my annual mammogram discovered, all day long a nagging sense grew in me “I need to tell someone I’m even here.” That afternoon, I finally honored my gut instinct and sent a quick text to my three sisters as I pulled into the parking lot of the Breast Center. As I waited to be called for my exam my sisters sent reassuring messages that sounded exactly like what I had been saying to myself all day. “This happens all the time.” “I know so many people who have been called back before and its nothing.” “They are just being extra cautious.” “I’m sure its nothing to worry about.” I undressed from the waist up and awkwardly cooperated as a unfamiliar woman’s relaxed hands touched my tense unclothed skin. She contorted my right breast between plastic plates, my arms in unnatural braces, my ribs jamming into the cold metal of the machine…. She instructed me to tell her when it hurts too much. What did “hurts too much” even mean, I wondered? Images of my breast splitting open from the extreme pressure filled my mind’s eye. This scenario seemed like the only instance in which I could provide that information to her with any clarity. In an attempt to be kind to myself, I told her I wasn’t good at that and she should just do what she needed to do. I wasn’t qualified for decisions such as what qualifies as “hurts too much.” All of my life had been spent in “too much” pain and I had already split open more times than I could remember and I am somehow still ok. Relieved by letting myself off the hook from navigating such an impossible quandary, we managed to get the images the doctor had ordered without much more than significant discomfort. 

As I gathered my belongings, I tried to keep the gown closed. Noticing my full hands the technician offered to carry something for me, I politely thanked her and assured her I was fine. I could do it. I could carry all this; I had no doubt. As I followed her, she explained that I would sit, half-undressed in my magenta gown-top, to wait for the doctor to review the images and decide what to do next. She then offered me a warm blanket. I politely said, “no thank you”. I could only feel how badly I wanted to get out of there, the darkness closing in on me. I couldn’t be bothered with such trivial things as a warm blanket. How does a warm blanket help, I wondered? As she crossed the threshold into the darkened waiting room, her voice full of delight, she said to me, “You’re the perfect patient.” Her words and her tone hit me like a punch in the stomach. 

I took my seat, as scenes from my lifelong battle with “perfect” flashed before my eyes. Deeply disrupted and angry, I suddenly became aware of a knowing that I had just crossed another threshold as well. I instantly knew my life was about to change in a way where this war with “perfect” would rage out in the open. Heaviness settled on me as I began to realize that in mere moments I would be beckoned by the doctor in order to continue with the mammography exam. I began to imagine cancer becoming a part of my life. My life, cancer? Those things didn’t belong together in my mind, but my spirit knew it was so. As I sat there in the semi-darkness, I let the tears come…. and the sudden desire for a warm blanket. I saw the oven-like warmer full of white blankets across the empty room and argued both sides with myself as I wrestled with my need for comfort. I would no longer be anyone’s definition of perfect, I would no longer deprive or distort myself so that others can feel good about me; so that I can feel good about me. Thankful there were no witnesses, I dared to give myself permission to take the long walk across that small, dim room to get a warm blanket for myself; just because I wanted one. And it felt good.