When I was deciding whether to go to film school in New York or Los Angeles, I did not choose New York, because at the time, I thought it was important that I didn’t wear black, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes or appreciate dark comedy.
Now, more than 20 years later, I have learned that humor in the darkest moments may be what heals us. I did not write during the three months of my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, because I write like a twelve year old when I am sad. But looking back, the things I remember most are not the fear or sense of loss, but moments that made me laugh.
Here are two from visits to the cosmetic surgeon (who is otherwise awesome). It is important to note that for both, my husband was in the room for moral support.
In the weeks between diagnosis and surgery, the cosmetic surgeon explained the options, and while pinching my stomach fat, said, ”there is enough fat here to make boobs, but they would be very small A’s. Smaller than you are now.”
Enough fat on the belly. Small boobs. Feeling super sexy. “Hi, honey!”
A few months later, IV in for the final implant surgery, the cosmetic surgeon stops by before we head down the hall.
Recall the husband in the room… again.
“Okay now, remember, we are working with the deformity in your chest wall….”
Chest deformity. Yep, that’s me. And don’t forget the belly fat.
Just the visual you want for your husband minutes before you go under.
And I know it only because the surgery went well that it cracks me up every time I think of it.