Lumpy - the disfigured eighth dwarf?

About three weeks before I was scheduled to have surgery on the tumor in my breast, I found another lump. Running my hands over my middle and lower back, I caught a round bump about the size of the tip of my little finger. I didn't quite know what to think of it. It was only palpable in certain positions, and it seemed to be inside of me, not a simple cyst in my skin.

Can this be canceritis? I thought. "Canceritis" is an obsession with looking for lumps on your body that is a common affliction among cancer patients. Totally understandable, not at all helpful.

I didn't say a word for weeks, wanting to spare friends and family members the news that I had a new lump. I could hear the chatter, "Geez, all Melissa does now is talk about her lumps! She's such a downer!" Seriously, though, I was especially worried about freaking out my mom. I'm sure it was hard enough for her to go through the process of finding out that the first one was cancer; I didn't want to bring up a second one.

As the weeks passed by, the lump weighed on me. If I could grow one cancer, why not another? Was it a metastasis? Why is my body failing me?

Thinking I could not take another day without knowing what it was, my oncologist sent me to have a fine needle aspiration (biopsy). Used to all of the needles, I lay down in front of the doctor, submitting to being stuck one more time.

In the past two months, my body has not felt like my own. It has belonged to the imaging machines, the endless pricks of needles, the sterile hands of doctors. It has become everyone else's property it seems. You know the "community chest" cards in Monopoly? Well, that's what my chest has become. The UCSF Breast Care Center's community chest. Oh look, I've landed on that space again! What does this card say? An ultrasound? Another MRI? Could it be another radioactive injection? Biopsy? Definitely no "won second prize in a beauty pageant" card here.

The lump turned out to be a lipoma, or a benign fatty tumor. Interestingly, my dog Winnie has about ten of them all over her body, and I now joke that my tendency to call her "Lumpy" has been the reason that she can now consider her mom "Lumpy" too.

In addition to my new lipoma, I have two big lumps beneath my incision scars. Though my surgery went well and the incisions healed nicely, the unexpected chunk of scar tissue just under the surface is impressive. Before my surgery, I was surprised at how worried I became thinking of the possible disfigurement from having part of my breast cut out. Would I be able to feel comfortable looking at myself again? Would someone else feel comfortable looking at me? The fears struck me as superficial, but they ran so deep I couldn't ignore them. Like most women, I've struggled with body image issues, but, as I've gotten older, I've come to accept or even be proud of my body. With all its faults, it's still given me the greatest gifts: to walk, run, dance, cry, laugh, play with my dogs, hold the hands of loved ones, embrace my friends. Until recently, I didn't fully understand how much I've truly loved it, and how much beauty it possesses.

When I lived in State College, there was a particular big, old oak tree, which stood at an intersection on campus, that I'd pass on the way downtown. Each time I'd get stuck at a red light, I'd study it. The trunk split into two like a wishbone just above the ground: one section growing into the yard behind it, the other trying to reach out over the intersection. At some point, years before I first noticed it, the section of truck growing out into the intersection was sliced off completely. Over the years, the yard side of the tree flourished while the naked trunk gradually began to cover the wound with its bark. The sharp circle of the sliced trunk was enveloped by the soft curve of its protective cover; slowly but surely, it was trying to heal itself. The tree's effort to mend always struck me as beautiful, miraculous. Here at this busy intersection full of speeding cars, honking horns, and a haze of invisible toxic exhaust sat a tribute to the adapting, evolving power of nature.

I don't specifically remember any of the other oak trees on campus, though I saw them all countless times: walked by them, sat under them, was blessed by their shade. But I remember the one that was special because of its scar, because of its effort. It wasn't beautiful in spite of it; it was beautiful because of it.

Throughout this process, I've been reminded that our bodies are miracles. Our scars are beautiful. And resilience is vastly more interesting, more powerful, more inspiring, and more lovely than perfection.