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I Am the Phoenix Copyright Audrey Shaffer, April 2001 I’ve gone over and over things in my head, and I keep coming back to my mastectomy. I know I changed. That was damned hard on me. I felt like I wasn’t a woman anymore. When I found out that you were out having dinner with a friend while I was in the hospital, I felt betrayed. Not that I thought anything went on between you and her (or did it?), but that you could go out and have fun while my body and my life were being ripped apart. But I didn’t say anything, because I was afraid that I was being irrational. A few days after the surgery, you came over to visit. (Why weren’t you with me the whole time?) I was horrified at what I saw of my chest. I felt like a freak. I was afraid you wouldn’t love me anymore, mutilated like that. I needed you to tell me that you still loved me and wanted me, but I didn’t know how to ask. I told you that my daughter said it was looking better, but that I couldn’t bear to look at it. What I wanted was for you to look at it and tell me that it didn’t matter to you. But you said "Don’t show it to me!" and I was devastated. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But I just shut up. I didn’t know how to explain. You had to have known that I would need reassurance. How could you have been so repulsed when you hadn’t even seen the wound? I pushed to get back on my feet, because I wanted to look and act as normal as possible. I tried to pretend that nothing was wrong with my body, but I had such a hard time even looking at it. It horrified me. And I was afraid to show you. I wanted you to ask to see it, and to comfort me. But you never asked. You didn’t even want to hear about it. Once I started getting well, I needed you to make love to me, so I could know that you still wanted me. But you didn’t want to. Maybe you had a reason, I don’t know. You wouldn’t talk to me. All I know is that I felt that my body was so disgusting that you couldn’t stand to touch it. I felt like I was dying inside. We did finally have sex, but it was rare, always quick, and I didn’t take my shirt off. I was afraid to, afraid that you would turn away and tell me I was disgusting. I just kept pulling more and more inside of myself, because I was afraid to share my feelings with you. I didn’t think you would understand. I felt that I disgusted you. The mastectomy and learning to live without a breast was a major thing for me. I had always been proud of my breasts. Gaining weight didn’t help me either, but I didn’t have the strength to do much of anything. I had just had major surgery, remember? And then going through the expansion process for six months was exhausting and painful. But you didn’t want to talk about it. So I tried to shut up. I didn’t want to remind you of what a freak I was, for fear you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore. Then I took the plunge. I completely undressed in front of you. That’s when we stopped having sex altogether. For four months, we slept together every Saturday night, and you never even tried to touch me. You even stopped holding me in your arms. I would snuggle against you, and you would roll over to face the wall. I kept hanging on, because I loved you and I didn’t want to lose you. I kept hoping that after the reconstruction, we could get back to normal. I told myself you wouldn’t mind the scars so much, as long as the breast looked fairly normal. But the day that the doctor took my drain out, he made me look. I stood there and cried, because I’m still a freak. I knew then that I couldn’t save us. I knew that you were getting ready to leave me, that you were just hanging in there because you felt it was "the right thing to do". Or maybe you were just afraid of what people would say if you walked out on me after all I had been through. You claim you don’t care what people think, but you care very much. I’ve seen that over and over in our two years together. I waited almost two weeks after the surgery to bring up the subject of us. I was hoping we could discuss what happened, but you jumped right in and said that we were over. So I let you go. That was the last thing I wanted to do, but I have no desire to hold on to a man who can’t stand to look at me, let alone touch me. Then, less than two weeks later, you came to comfort me after Aunt Lynda died. I wish I had known that it was just sympathy. But you said that you still loved me, and wanted to get back together. I thought that we were going to work things out. I was devastated over losing her, and needed someone to lean on. You decided to be there for me, but only for one night. You promised that you would be there Sunday night after the funeral, but you didn’t bother showing up. You didn’t even call until Monday night. That was the last straw. I trusted you. You say you are a man who keeps his promises. But you didn’t even care enough to call. My self-esteem has taken some real blows this past year. I know I’m not the woman you fell in love with. I miss her too. Of course, she wouldn’t have put up with the shit you handed me over the last year. The woman I used to be would have told you to hit the road when you refused to look at the wound. She didn’t let people put her down, or make her feel bad. She stood up for herself, and let the chips fall where they may. That woman is coming back. I feel her a little more strongly every day. I’m making arrangements to have a phoenix tattooed over the scars. You do know I’m the Phoenix, don’t you? I’ve told you before, but I don’t think you were listening. Now you keep calling, and showing up where you know you can find me. What is your game? Do you figure that no man will want me, and if you’re bored or hard-up I’ll be there waiting? Just your little spare woman, hanging around being lonely without you? Do you really think that losing you will break the Phoenix? Think again, buddy. I am the Phoenix. I have survived a childhood full of neglect and lack of love. I have been raped and abused. I have discarded three husbands, and more boyfriends than I can count. I’ve even buried two men. I raised three great children, on my own. I’ve survived cancer twice. I was dead for five minutes during surgery back in ’94. Hell, I’ve been struck by lightning twice! And you think that losing you will destroy me? Well, you’re not nearly as smart as I used to think you were. Matter of fact, you’re must be pretty damn stupid. You can’t destroy me. Yeah, you burned me, burned me bad with that last little fling after the funeral. But you better keep your guard up. Do you know what happens when you burn a Phoenix? I come back stronger than ever. (Published in Babel Magazine, April 2001)
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Audrey Shaffer Enterprises Marion Center, PA 15759 724-397-8606 |