Health And Beauty

The Pink Room
She sat down in the waiting room. One wall frothed in large white and crimson flowered wallpaper. A pink terrazzo-topped table made her feel worthwhile and important. Each seat carried a bird motif pillow. While hers was of lorikeets the woman opposite had a cushion of laughing kookaburras. On a closer look this woman appeared to be in her early fifties with bold eyeliner, coral lipstick and glowing skin. She wore a scoop top blouse in lilac. It allowed her cleavage to peak out and display a heavy statement piece of silver coins. When she picked up a copy of ‘Vogue Living”, the lilac lady checked herself in the pick edged mirror, patted her hair down and applied new lipstick. The receptionist called out “Florence Gibson! there are two ahead of you.’ She nodded and wondered if the Lilac lady was a queue jumper. But then looking at the lilac lady the receptionist asked “Isabella Devereux?” ‘Qui arrr YES! ‘your appointment will be with Dr Jackson, and she is not back till after lunch.’ And on this news Isabella sniffled loudly. ‘I … I cannot wait … I insist you get me seen earlier!’
Florence sat down next to the Lilac lady “it’s shit, isn’t it? Waiting when your whole life and body is at stake… when your health is in the hands of some machine or some young well-educated young doctor…oh well never mind. What can we do? eh? My names Florence or Flo as my kids call me”. Isabella turned her head away and did not respond. A little later in the middle of a cup of tea it turned out she was a sought-after fashion designer. Waving her hands around she explained ‘for me… I must be in control. I must not be delayed. My next fashion show is tomorrow! And they expect me to wait, oh no! to have their wretched machines scan my breasts. I only come here because my lover…EE says I should! … yes, but I use alternative therapy’. And she went on to describe crystals, biological potions and various other diet approaches to treating Breast Cancer. She had tried all of this, and she was adamant there would be no mastectomy. ‘I worship physical perfection… I am a symbol for my customers …’. Both women stopped for a moment and made themselves another cup of tea. Flo picked up and savored a few of her favorite shortbread cookies. Isabella scowled at her with tears in her eyes. Flo was used to these emotions. Eight years of living with breast cancer and trying to keep healthy meant that very little in the way of emotions shocked her. As a creative writing facilitator ‘life’ was her business. Isabella’s tears flooded into her teacup, and she shared that Élodie, a former model friend, was trying to make Isabella see that survival and true health is more important than fashion aesthetics. As a result she and Elodie no longer spoke to each other. The receptionist signalled Flo to her desk. Busying herself with files she whispered: ‘That one is a handful! Between you and me she sees the surgery as a violation of her body, an erasure of the femininity she has spent a lifetime perfecting. She’s let our nurses know plainly that beauty is not vanity—it is identity. Losing a breast would mean losing herself. She’s telling herself she will beat this her own way: with alternative treatments, innovative therapies, anything but surgery… She’ll stress you out!
Flo nodded and walked back to Isabella who was now sitting on a pink boucle chair with her feet up on another. She pulled a pink chair close. ‘You know I had a mastectomy six years ago.’
‘Then I pity you!’ It took over an hour for Flo to describe her walk with breast cancer. She was running a meditation retreat in Bali and noticed fluid running out of her left breast nipple. It seemed weird given she had been through the menopause now for twelve years. The doctors picked it up straight away—a first stage aggressive breast cancer. And then came the fateful day when they chopped off her left breast, an action that to Flo was life saving and health giving.
‘I didn’t even remember going to the operation. Now of course every day when I have my morning shower, I can see that my left breast is not there. I’m used to it, but most of the time I feel her, my ‘leftie bestie’ as a presence instead of an absence, especially when I get little phantom pains, twinges, and itches just like I used to. It’s a comfort really.’
‘…. Its barbaric… leftie bestie. And are you cured?!’ mocked Isabella.
Flo smiled ‘Yes. I know this cancer business is tricky and unpredictable. So while I am not jumping up and down on the spot as if I’ve won the lotto shouting, oh my god oh my god, I am doing a little victory dance and quietly saying phew! Because my health has returned. And every day I thank Leftie Bestie’ for giving her life so I can go on living mine So now it’s just me and ‘Righty Tighty’ carrying on from here.’ Flo leant forward and pulled out a little go-slow lollypop sign. For now she had become the sign and lived everyday slowly just staring out into the distance, joking around with friends and as the sun set taking herself home for dinner and bed.
‘Don’t be scared to say goodbye to your breasts. They are happy to go, for you to live.’ With that message to Issabella she went in for her check up
As months passed, Isabella’s alternative treatments did nothing to stop her cancer. She began to feel weaker, her radiant complexion faded. Her beautiful body with its augmented cleavage and tan began a kind of meltdown. Elodie had called her and begged her to take a break.
One evening, she collapsed during a gala where she was presenting her latest collection.
For the first time, Isabella felt tired. She thought back to the pink room and Flo, she wondered about her life. Had she truly lived, or had she merely curated herself? And this devotion to beauty did it empowered her—or imprison her? After not eating or sleeping for days, Isabella made her decision: she would undergo the mastectomy of her right breast. But she refused reconstruction. Her friends in the fashion world were gobsmacked. She returned to the runways raw, new, and more powerful. She even modelled her next collection herself—scar and all—in a tee shirt call ‘Righty mighty.’ She received hundreds of warm letters from people who supported her love for her real body.
When asked if she regretted her decision to not have a reconstruction. Isabella simply smiled and said, "Beauty is not what I lost. Beauty is what I found."