At first the exhaustion was chemical.

The blurred, altered consciousness of anesthesia,

The floating unrealness.

The loss of inhibitions,

producing stories others can later tell me

of the unfiltered things I said

in the aftermath.

The tiredness of the unconsciousness

that allowed for cutting, and reshaping

My Body

while I was spared awareness.

Then came the dragging lethargy of recovery.

My brain still a bit numb

from pain,

and from pain pills,

and from sudden, severe restrictions on how I could use

My Body,

or not use it, in this case.

The insensitivity of forced inactivity,

blended with the utterly enervating effort engaging

my immune system

and cellular repair functions.

You never think about how much energy is needed.

Just to heal.

Just to lie still

and let the miracle of self-mending flesh slowly go about its work,

resisting any unnecessary movement, stretching, coughing, even laughing.

So that incisions can become scars.

Bruised tissue can release its swelling,

trusting me to coddle it

until it can return to some new version

of normal function.

And it has.

In the liminal time since one month ago tomorrow.

Thirty-one days of recovery,

of caution,

of pain, and restriction, and following Doctors’ orders.

One month of giving

My Body

the time and permission

to gradually move toward wholeness…

or at least a new shape that is shaping wholeness with the remaining parts of me.

I have followed the rules.

I have (mostly) healed.

The tiredness, now, is much less physical.

I can, again, roll out of bed without sharp pain.

I can get through a day without relief delivered via capsule.

I can drive and hour, and work a ten-hour-day, and drive the hour back without crashing my car.

I can walk my dog and prepare a balanced meal.

My Body

is working for me again

in most of the ways that I am used to.

But I am still. So. Fucking. Tired.

I am tired of wearing this compressing, chafing, irritating, and horrifically unflattering post-surgical bra

24-hours a day.

I am tired of avoiding looking at myself in the mirror without it on.

(Or even with is on, under concealing clothing, that, actually, cannot conceal how the shape of

My Body

has changed.)

I am tired of performing normalcy, with a spirit of gratitude.

Answering the same questions, with the same practiced smile.

Rehearsing the treatment plan and the positive prognosis

as though that script actually answers “how I’m doing.”

I am tired of pretending like

My Body

is the sum total of my functioning.

When, even as my cells, and scars, and energy are healing,

the weight of unspoken words and uncomfortable feelings

get heavier each day, each conversation, each in-out breath.

I feel pressed down.

By the non-nervous-system pain of feeling deformed.

By the shame of still caring about that deformation, when at least I still have my life.

By the isolation of a doctor dismissing my dysphoria because it has nothing to do with the pathology of cells.

By the awareness of how a nearly-50-year-old woman is already nearly

invisible…

so why does it matter if

My Body

no longer pleases the anonymous stranger’s eye

or mine?

I am tired of feeling like I am not supposed to care

about this non-medical part

of surviving cancer.

But I do care.

And I am tired of pretending like I don’t.

I need more than just

My Body

to heal.

I need my love for

My Body

to heal too.