Beauty and the Beast
Last night I dreamt I was dancing with the devil. We swirl giddily around and around with music thundering in our ears in a huge ballroom; his vicelike grip holds me tight until, with one swipe & a grin, he rips my pink ballgown away from me.
I was feeling stylish, beautiful & happy. I don't feel beautiful now.
I look down at my chest & see a pink painful scar bruised & pulsing.
I wake with sweat pouring off my face. My body feels like it's no longer fit for purpose. I don't look down at my chest but I instinctively know that there is no scar, no pulsing, no bruising just my right breast trying to cling on. I've not looked at my right breast since I was diagnosed but I know it's still there. *I figure that if I don't look at it and pretend that it is already gone then I won't miss it once it is removed.
Note to myself *who are you kidding I've come to the conclusion that the devil is a handsome guy with a distorted sense of humour who lives off the pain of others. If I'm ever going to get one over on him I'm going have to beat this thing inside me. I need to get a grip. I'm half way through chemotherapy treatment. My new wigs 'Ursula' and 'Penelope',as I have named them, have become myself new BFFs.
Today is a 'Penelope' day- she's short, blond, stylish & sassy & I will grow to love her.