We lock eyes.
This adorable little girl with tiny cornrows and colorful plastic clips, her face becomes crunched in crushing consternation as I drive by in a motorized shopping cart at an injured snails pace.
You see, I am very slow sometimes and fatigue can keep me from the grocery store. My mother makes me take the motorized shopping cart, against my vanity, but it does help me feel included. This is my first day, and I can't get used to turning, maneuvering, feeling like any moment I will run over toes and knock down elaborately stacked displays of canned peas. So, I barely press the go button, and I *put put put* down the aisles.
This little girl of maybe four, sits in a shopping cart outfitted with a racing car and flame details, turning the wheel, and racing the frozen turkeys. And then there's me...*Put put put*. Around her cart.
"WHY YOU SO SLOW?!" she belts out.
"Excuse me?"
"YOU SO SLOW!" It's no longer a question, but an accusation.
"I don't want to run anyone over." I am now twisting my body to justify myself to a four year old as I drive .01 mph around a corner.
For a kid in a shopping cart who can't move on their volition, this kid can throw serious shade.
This was the only time I had a serious interaction, but I notice kids now. I notice other people. When I go out now, you can tell something is going on. I wear baggy clothes to hide my swollen belly and colostomy. I wear a mask to protect me from infections and colds. I wear a hat and gloves because the cold can bother me. Some days I have a tube snaking out of my chest into a slung chemo bag. I look like a skinny, withering woman under all the accouterments of Sick Chic.
Little kids stare as they walk by. Grown people make nervous eye contact with me. I try to smile and be less scary, but they can't see it.
We went to see Body Worlds at the museum here because I was itching to go out after the surgery. My husband and brother took turns wheeling me about the exhibit. I enjoyed it, but was so painfully aware of how uncomfortable my presence probably was. I did see a preserved slice of liver with cancer- which was simultaneously cool and uncomfortable.
Last week, I got my hair cut. The lady in the seat next to me said nothing, but once I started talking to her stylist she picked up the courage to talk to me.
"Why do you wear the mask? Do you not like certain odors...or...?" (Odd notion to me.)
"I have colon cancer."
"Oh."
Her stylist, which I'm friendly with, jokingly says "I hope its not contagious!"
"Only if I rub my colon directly on you."
You want to go out. Rejoin society. Be normal, but people's looks remind you that you are not "one of them" any longer. Something is slightly off. Someday's I find myself with the weird wish that I had lost my hair, since its like short-hand that I'm not contagious or something.
I saw other people at the mall with wheelchairs, medical stuff, visible disabilities...and I can't imagine what they go through when I get this many looks with just a silly surgical mask on. I can't fix adults, but if you have kids...maybe explain to them that other people have wheelchairs, breathing tubes, and all sorts of medical equipment stuck to them. They aren't scary or weird. They just happen to be people who need these things to help them. Its seems like an invaluable conversation to me, so they treat others as they should, and god forbid, if they are facing that situation someday themselves.
Yesterday, I found some tight leggings I bought at Disneyworld that fit well. Put some eye shadow on, my favorite boots (with calves swimming in them)...and for the first time in a long time I felt "cute" again. I felt pretty normal despite the mask and I was strong enough to make it from one end of the mall to the other. So when the little girl wearing the fairy wings was dragged past me, eyes huge and locked on me, mouth agape, I just laughed about it.
This adorable little girl with tiny cornrows and colorful plastic clips, her face becomes crunched in crushing consternation as I drive by in a motorized shopping cart at an injured snails pace.
You see, I am very slow sometimes and fatigue can keep me from the grocery store. My mother makes me take the motorized shopping cart, against my vanity, but it does help me feel included. This is my first day, and I can't get used to turning, maneuvering, feeling like any moment I will run over toes and knock down elaborately stacked displays of canned peas. So, I barely press the go button, and I *put put put* down the aisles.
This little girl of maybe four, sits in a shopping cart outfitted with a racing car and flame details, turning the wheel, and racing the frozen turkeys. And then there's me...*Put put put*. Around her cart.
"WHY YOU SO SLOW?!" she belts out.
"Excuse me?"
"YOU SO SLOW!" It's no longer a question, but an accusation.
"I don't want to run anyone over." I am now twisting my body to justify myself to a four year old as I drive .01 mph around a corner.
For a kid in a shopping cart who can't move on their volition, this kid can throw serious shade.
This was the only time I had a serious interaction, but I notice kids now. I notice other people. When I go out now, you can tell something is going on. I wear baggy clothes to hide my swollen belly and colostomy. I wear a mask to protect me from infections and colds. I wear a hat and gloves because the cold can bother me. Some days I have a tube snaking out of my chest into a slung chemo bag. I look like a skinny, withering woman under all the accouterments of Sick Chic.
Little kids stare as they walk by. Grown people make nervous eye contact with me. I try to smile and be less scary, but they can't see it.
We went to see Body Worlds at the museum here because I was itching to go out after the surgery. My husband and brother took turns wheeling me about the exhibit. I enjoyed it, but was so painfully aware of how uncomfortable my presence probably was. I did see a preserved slice of liver with cancer- which was simultaneously cool and uncomfortable.
Last week, I got my hair cut. The lady in the seat next to me said nothing, but once I started talking to her stylist she picked up the courage to talk to me.
"Why do you wear the mask? Do you not like certain odors...or...?" (Odd notion to me.)
"I have colon cancer."
"Oh."
Her stylist, which I'm friendly with, jokingly says "I hope its not contagious!"
"Only if I rub my colon directly on you."
You want to go out. Rejoin society. Be normal, but people's looks remind you that you are not "one of them" any longer. Something is slightly off. Someday's I find myself with the weird wish that I had lost my hair, since its like short-hand that I'm not contagious or something.
I saw other people at the mall with wheelchairs, medical stuff, visible disabilities...and I can't imagine what they go through when I get this many looks with just a silly surgical mask on. I can't fix adults, but if you have kids...maybe explain to them that other people have wheelchairs, breathing tubes, and all sorts of medical equipment stuck to them. They aren't scary or weird. They just happen to be people who need these things to help them. Its seems like an invaluable conversation to me, so they treat others as they should, and god forbid, if they are facing that situation someday themselves.
Yesterday, I found some tight leggings I bought at Disneyworld that fit well. Put some eye shadow on, my favorite boots (with calves swimming in them)...and for the first time in a long time I felt "cute" again. I felt pretty normal despite the mask and I was strong enough to make it from one end of the mall to the other. So when the little girl wearing the fairy wings was dragged past me, eyes huge and locked on me, mouth agape, I just laughed about it.
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