Happy February!!!! Although unconventional, I am going to share a personal story about why the arrival of February is hailed with such glee at Dermatology of East Texas. In October, my “routine mammogram” took an unanticipated twist, and set me upon an unexpected path of ridding myself of breast cancer. After a bilateral mastectomy, I chose to pursue reconstruction. For me, this entailed the placement of expanders, what I visualize as rubber sacks with metal plates affixed, into my chest wall. Fluid is gradually added over the course of weeks to months, expanding the device, and the skin and muscle overlying. It’s about as comfortable as it sounds.

On February 2, these charming instruments of elective torture will be removed, and in their place will be a glorious mixture of silicone, fat, and surgical creativity. Throughout this process, I have been the recipient of many acts of kindness, and I would like to share just one of these with you. As craziness and tempers collide in our world on all too regular a basis, take a moment to relish that there is good here, and celebrate February, the month of LOVE!

 

Helen's Orchid

The moonlight was beginning to filter in through the window, it’s great October glory a globe hanging just over the horizon, beckoning on the night. The white-blue paleness splashed on my blankets and I heard the gentle closing of a car door followed by carefully placed footsteps. The softest knock, followed by an entrance and warm, whispered greetings of concern, prompted me to locate the button on my electric chair, bringing my body to a position closer to upright. It is the tradition to bring food on occasions such as this day of celebration of a cancer eliminated, a body compromised, and a recovery in the making. I did not grow up in a family that practiced these cherished pearls of society. I was not schooled in the proper thank you note, the babies’ gifts, the showers, the societal strings that knit together a fabric of caring and concern. Perhaps it’s a southern thing, but I have adapted well to the south and have now been here longer than my northern exposure. “y’all” is officially my favorite term of endearment . Helen, the ultimate southern lady, had swept in with her aromatic roast chicken, green beans, and potatoes, a feast welcomed. The richness of the scent, and the richness of the giving, mingled as tears of appreciation welled. But she was gone in a blur, never to overstay, and only as the door closed did I see it, nestled in with the reparative protein; the loveliest of orchids, and what I would come to think of as my soul food from Helen.

 

Packaged in a plastic pot and wrapped with unadorned clear wrap, the simplicity of its presentation daunted not its exquisite beauty. The exotic nature of its glossy, verdant leaves, so sharply demarcated and firm, dared anyone to describe them as delicate. I could much appreciate how, in their true environment, they would battle for space, nutrients, and the flickering sunlight, pushing up through the dark, rich soil and making their fierce and defiant claim. There were five of these, the topmost larger than the ones below, the powerhouses doing the hard work of photosynthesis, busily converting the sunlight it was given into the glory of the blooms above. It had no option other than to work where it was situated at the whim of some outer force, placed/planted wherever may be decorative or fancied. And yet it continued its work, paced, predictable, and without anger at its dictated circumstance.

 

Although I could not see the roots, I could only imagine them curled and tangled below the surface, wedged tightly into their potted universe, despite their very nature to reach out and explore new territory. I felt my own chest tighten against this restraint, my breaths pushing against the plastic and steel devices now implanted in my chest. The epinephrine began leaking out, and, with quickening pulse, anxiety fell over me as a heavy shroud. With tight fists I pounded out the number of days until my release, each motion assuring my determination was not without value. I promised the orchid a new pot, as soon as I was able.

 

Two thick, pole like stems pierced the soil in such an unnatural fashion, it seemed they had just been placed there as one would place a wooden support stick in a spring garden. Yet defying the utilitarian nature of these main supports were the blooms that danced on each of the gentle nodes projecting outward at a soft angle. Glorious, violet and pink and purple velvety petals placed in a delicate pinwheel of a swirl, I wanted to gently blow on them to see if they would circle. There were twelve blossoms altogether, and it was only after educating myself on these delicate beauties that I would discern they would be nature’s clock for me. Three months the orchid would bloom; three months until my reconstruction.

 

I placed the orchid close to a window in the pantry, where light would filter through the magnolias outside, a tethered wish of reminiscence of ancestral origins. As my strength and mobility grew, so too did the beauty of the orchid. The leaves became more glossy and fat, rising up and out of the soil. Each week, without fail, I placed the required number of ice cubes onto the soil, as per instructions, and secretly begged for it not to die. Please, please, do not die. And each day it survived, and so did I. And the days, then the weeks, then the months passed.

 

It was a subtle gesture, the lime tone of the stem giving way to a warm, buttery yellow, that signaled my time was drawing near. With mixed emotion I watched each day the strength of the blooms give way to time, the bold fabric of purple taking on a wispy tissue paper consistency. But not all blooms at once; rather one by one, waiting their turn, in a progression so steady and certain there was no point in arguing or trying to cling. Even as they fell they were beautiful and evanescent, resting on the leaves below their previous perch, and then making their way to the soil below, the resting place until they would rise again, recycled, renewed.

 

Now, as I am just days before my reconstruction, the last bloom has fallen. The leaves and roots are alone now, no showy trophies of effort well spent. The bittersweet memory of each petal lost a measure for me of a journey unfinished. I have repotted as promised. The roots singing and reaching, the leaves busy with energy conversion, and always the expectation of completion to come, despite the difficulty of the endeavor. I will carry this, the thought of my lovely orchid, with me as modern medicines sing their gentle lullaby in my veins, surgeons sculpt and create, and the work of wholeness begins anew.