Crucified

I remember the first phone call. I spoke to a very lovely woman named Amber who calmly and warmly asked me the pertinent questions.

“How many pregnancies have you had?” she asked with the patience of a highly-trained social worker.

“5 but only 4 delivered babies,” I whispered.

“Ok, and any C-sections?” she ticked down her list.

“Nope.”

“So we know you are interested in adominoplasty or rather a tummy tuck, are you also interested in breast implants?”

No. Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous and crossing a line I dare not cross.

“Yes,” I whisper.

I couldn’t let the neighbors hear my answers. I could barely let myself hear my answers.

And that was that. A consultation for plastic surgery was scheduled the following week with Dr. C.

For my first appointment, I took my youngest two children with me. The nurse in her sharp, black dress gave them a breast implant to play with.

“The kids like these. They think they are like a squishy toy,” the nurse announced with a cheeky grin and a wink. Winking is the least comforting act a human can do with their body.

Well, yes, they like to squish them. How do you think I ended up here?

Five pregnancies, 4 delivered children-all chubby and breastfed. Good Mommy. My tally count is 3 years and 1 month of being in the “family way” and 34 months of my breasts full of the good stuff. My husband used to call me “Bessie, His Best Producer”. He meant well.

All of my babies are seated firmly in the deepest part of my soul. I always knew they would be the ones I would get to hold and love and help usher into adulthood. I sat under my childhood willow tree writing one afternoon, I was 7 or maybe 8, and I scribbled in my little notebook of secrets, “4 kids” and drew a heart around it. The fifth baby was exquisite shock and then, brutal loss. I chose their names long before they were born. First and middle names, all of them held in my complete reverence.

What never went into my treasured notebook was the toll my babies would have on a girl emotionally and physically. I was tired of tucking my loose and sagging stomach skin (I called it my stomach puppet) into my jeans to make sure it didn’t catch in the zipper. My former dancer’s body had a hole the size of a fist in my abdominal wall. The medical people called it “Diastasis Recti”. I called it “I can’t wear a swimsuit or do a sit-up anymore.” I used to go to the gym daily to try to release my bone- tired, stressed body from the clutches of young motherhood. I would turn to the side and stare into the mirror. Did I even have breasts anymore? Or had they literally been sucked straight from my body in a kind of child-induced double mastectomy?

None of it mattered, and all of it mattered. I had them. My four. The ones who I loved so much it made me cry most days. They were human perfection. I was a flawed mess who sat up so straight at the edge of the pool while my kids swam. I couldn’t let that excess stomach skin flood out into the world. I was shattered so deeply inside all of the way out and through my hole-y stomach muscles. Dr. C. was going to fix all of that.

The night before surgery I was in Costco. I was bleary-eyed, exhausted from mundane tasks and trying to tuck all of my surgery preparation deep down into my stomach puppet, away so no one could see. Shame to be wasting time on this when there were hungry people and sick people all over this world. But I was doing it anyway. I stared at granola bars wondering how many mega-sized boxes could feed my family, for every meal, for a very long time. I took 5. It wasn’t enough.

I saw a friend. As she neared me, I was breathless because I felt the truth coming up like a necessary burp after a fast slug of seltzer water. And before I could jam it back down, I ducked my head and mumbled, “I’m doing my breasts, too.” There. Someone else to hold witness to my soon-to-be-expanded chest which I would have to hide anyway because I didn’t want anyone to know. I was so confused. How do you get breast implants to “look more appropriate” but yet not let on you have them? In that minute, I decided I would just wear a body binder for the rest of my life. And then I would go right back to looking like I did in the sideways mirror at the gym.

Early in the grey part of a morning, my husband took me to the “surgery center”. We left before the kids were awake trying to make sure they never knew. My answer to them when asked why Mommy was gone for a day and one night and why she couldn’t stand up straight for 3 months was “I needed to fix my tummy”. But don’t worry, baby, it’s not your fault. Oh no, I forgot I might have to justify to them, too. I had not even told my own parents. How do you announce to your mother and father, the ones who brought you into this world, that you needed silicone in your chest to feel better? We hired a nanny to help, part-time, at home as I wouldn’t be able to lift a thing for at least 4 weeks, and I wouldn’t be “back to normal energy” for 4 months. I had four kids at home, young ones, no family nearby, a massive house with stairs, at least 6 loads of laundry a day and a husband who worked long, hard days to pay for all of it, including my surgery which would cost more than I was worth. Ooph.

Upon arrival to my surgical skyscraper in the richest part of town, I realized it doesn’t take long to fill out the last bit of paperwork when you are having an “elective surgery”. Elective. Yep. I voted it in, willingly and ably. Elective is lucky because most paperwork gets done ahead of time, credit cards get slid across mahogany desks to full-lipped receptionists and doctors get to drive away in nice cars while you pretend your newly-elected body is not on fire.

Dr. C was a unique man. I’m not sure that is his word, but there is no other way to describe this lightly-botoxed, former soap opera star-looking guy who didn’t gasp in horror at my stomach puppet. He was so soft-spoken but was definitely a surgical cowboy. He knew how to let a gal know this was not his first rodeo. He had this- even if I did not.

“A little lipo on the flanks is probably a good idea and definitely won’t cause too much bruising.”

Ok, Dr. C. That works. Are you calling me fat?

I wore my black bikini bottoms to surgery. It was funny to dress that day. No bra, loose shirt and pants. It was like a lazy Sunday but with no deodorant. Oh, now, what if I stunk during surgery? What if they laughed at my stretched-out lady parts? I knew they were going to be right down in there. What if they screwed up and actually put in the double D implants instead of my modest B’s? Ok, phew, they had a Sharpie and wrote my numbers on my chest. My branding. Pretty girl, B’s, keep her athletic looking, she wants to look natural. My husband begged the doctor so many times to “please make certain they got the right implants into her”. He was so paranoid about incorrect, bursting pornographic mounds of silicone being shoved underneath my pectoral muscles I almost cancelled surgery 11 times. I was paranoid, too. But mainly about dying.

Headline: “Shallow, Strung-Out, Privileged Mother of 4 Dies in Unnecessary Bad-Choice Surgery”………. In other news, there is war and hunger and global warming, and we have so many unclaimed dogs in shelters. Let’s focus on the important stuff.

Dr. C gently drew black marks on my body. Every incision, push, pull and tug was marked in serious detail. I gave him credit for his artistry. When I proclaimed in my nervous, sweaty black naked bikini bottom to please take that scar as “low as she would go” he easily replied, “I’m already there, Cecily. It will be perfect.” But I wasn’t there. I was silent screaming my way back to home with my confused babies and dirty tile floors and 72 loads of laundry and 5 boxes of granola bars. Then Nurse J gave me what is titled “equivalent of 3 glasses of wine” and Nurse J was the best damn friend I had ever had and may I have another?

The last face I saw was the kind man, my anesthetist.  He told me he had five kids at home. I remember sleepily pleading, “then you will understand why you can’t let me die and you must make sure I get home.” Bring me home, Dr. C., Nurse J, and kind anesthetist. Bring me all of the way home.

************

“I’m going to barf,” were the first words I spoke to my husband and to the new Nurse K. Post-surgery feels like a concrete mixer driving over your already dead-lifeless body, repeatedly, until it runs out of gas and the guy driving needs a sandwich. I didn’t barf. I have an uncanny ability to control barfing. I can count on 10 fingers the number of times I’ve thrown up. Control. I do it well.

“She needs crackers,” exhaled my nervous and relieved husband. I didn’t die. That was going to be a serious problem if I had. At the very least, he would have to explain to the newly-hired nanny how she was now full-time, indefinitely, and could she please do the bedtime stories the right way? Harry Potter was the best choice and don’t forget the voices for each character.

Elective surgeries lead to sleek, black Lincoln town cars driving people, usually one or two at a time to undisclosed “recovery centers”. My husband had to leave and go to his surgery-paying job and pretend his wife hadn’t just been cut wide open for the entire world to ogle. I was wheeled out and then in my most charming way, I put my hand up to Nurse K and said, “I can walk from here.” I hoisted myself up from my sticky wheelchair while straightening my black movie star shades. It was quite possibly the worst attempt in history at pretending to be somebody famous. My bursting chest and fully-seamed together abdomen were all wrapped in a tight corset like an over-stuffed burrito of shame. Then I walked like a goddamn lady to my car.

I don’t remember the driver’s name. I was busy trying to swallow bile and sobs and wondering if the kids still had granola bars left. There was a woman in the front seat. Her entire face was bandaged. Put us together and she and I would have made a complete and fascinating Egyptian mummy bringing visitors to a museum for decades. Why is it always the women carved up for the taking and the dude in a shabby tuxedo driving? She rambled the whole way about her ex-husband. I was drifting in and out of delirium from fatigue and numbness but I remember her slurring this, “I’m gonna be ok….mpmmphmph…..it’s just today.” Yes, babe, let’s torch this Lincoln town car and run. We are handling our electives just fine. It’s just today.

One night in an overly-decorated apartment run by a registered nurse was what you got. A hospital bed awkwardly placed in a normal-looking bedroom and a beautiful young nurse’s assistant to make you feel ok about yourself. I had to push a button to call her to help me up to pee. She was 22. Oh my darling, just hold steady, shit gets real very, very soon. My husband came and sat in a wooden chair in the corner to once again make sure I wasn’t dead until I told him to please leave and just put the television on HGTV. Maybe I could re-think the blue kitchen paint while my body swelled to killer whale proportions. Funny fact about the “mommy makeover”, you swell like an over-blown pool floatie for about two years. Good grief, maybe I was meant to swell until I popped and the realness just exploded all over the sky and rained down onto humanity like a wet prayer. Ahhhhhhh, feel that rain? That’s a Mama Rain full of pain and vulnerability and joy and madness and love. That’s the real thunderstorm.

I made it home. My chivalrous husband picked me up the next day, and I remember thinking immediately, “he’s looking at my boobs.” Isn’t that why I got them? He was stunned into silence, and I was wearing compression hose, a breast and abdominal binder and two bags of liquid. My body was leaking out through two teeny holes. I had no idea the amount of leakage that can come from an elected woman. The kids backed away from me in disdain. Why is she bent and swollen and crying and telling us she’s so glad we are all alive? My husband bought me an extendable camping chair, so I could sit and stare at my family while they ate real food and occasionally flicked their nervous eyes my way. I walked halfway-up for weeks. Something about walking to the point where you can barely meet eyeballs allows a girl to see that nobody is actually looking at you because if they were they would say, “Oh honey, bless you, you didn’t need to do that because I liked you anyway, and granola bars are fine for dinner.” I needed to clean my bloated body, so I took showers with a gold necklace around my neck. I could clip my “fluid bags” to the O rings of the necklace and continue to drain my waste. I needed an inside-out bath.

A close friend who knew what I been through took my children for a few days and brought me gifts. She knew I wanted to get back to my writing, my childhood scribbles and maybe with a new body I could do that. I sat with my newly-gifted lap desk and writer’s manual and sobbed and watched every single episode of Sons of Anarchy instead. Maybe Jax would steal me away on his motorcycle and drape his embellished biker’s jacket over my slumped shoulders and ignore my sagging, swollen body. I took Xanax and Tyenol with codeine and wondered if my husband noticed or was concerned about the explosive gas booming from my readjusted innards. His wife with a hot new rack now just had horrible farts. I was just a giant helium balloon with liquid bags attached underneath my oversized men’s sleep T.

My arms hurt. So badly. For so many days. Actually I had deep dark bruises around my new breasts and underarms. I looked like an emaciated starving child who had been beaten and fed far too many white carbs. I lost weight and tried to do laundry without bending or lifting. It was like a lonely game of stiff Twister. At last it was a four-week checkup with Dr. C., and I was a wee-bit better. I was sleeping in my camp chair without horrible anxiety, and the pain was manageable as long as I didn’t breathe, lie down or eat. I suppose that is fair. I chose it, now deal with these elected consequences. He gave me rave reviews for my recovery. Amazing, actually. I was well on my way to a full-blown bikini body and well-done, you, you are healing beyond the expected rate. I was a perfect patient. Could they use me as a before/after patient in their practice brochure? No.

When I casually mentioned the bruising and asked why my arms still hurt, Dr. C raised his eyebrows with a proud surgeon smile, “That is totally normal! It is to be expected and your bruising looks pretty good! Well done, Cecily. You see, in order to make sure you are “even” at the end of your surgery we flip the table upright with your arms pinned straight out like a “T”. I stand back and observe carefully, and we all make sure you are perfect. A bit like Jesus on the cross.”

Oh.

I had been crucified while I slept.

What does not happen after one has been fully elected is anything at all in the mental repair department. The supermodels still stare at your bad hair in the checkout line and your husband still has meetings and football games and your human perfection children need more granola bars and now dental appointments. Resentment and frustrations continued to run thick in the veins of my new and improved body. My stitches may have come out as I was downgraded to compression underwear, but none of it did anything to hold my heart together. Bruises faded away into smoothness and my breasts softened to a more natural state, squishy, but still I sat straight in my cover-up at the edge of the pool feeling lost in the pieces of my newly-reconstructed body. I still couldn’t jump in.

Three years later, I only now realize Dr. C gave me this new figure, but I have only just begun the rising. Laying out my demons in neat piles like the years of laundry I’ve toiled over, less stiff but still a lonely game. I stare at myself in the mirror and see my hip to hip scar now, a fading and gentle reminder that motherhood and womanhood can never be held together with stitches and butterfly tape. Just because I allowed a steel blade to carve away the ruin, I have not yet walked fully into my light, where the deeper healing happens. So I fall to my knees to release the swallowed sobs, like Mary at the foot of the cross, and then with a little more ease from my newer, stronger abs, I get up with grace on my side and begin again.

Amen.