I am wondering how this grotesque, angry, twisted red appendage can actually be attached to my torso, something I lovingly held my newborn baby with as I breastfed him and rocked him to sleep with only two years ago. This limb I used to climb trees, to sculpt clay, to do yoga and plies, back dives, handstands, cartwheels, and back handsprings, this arm I used, night after night, to hold the palette of colors while my right arm held a dancing paintbrush. This arm I hugged my long-gone Daddy and mother with — now a gnarled and mangled mess of twisted and stitched pieces of flesh grafted from the lengths of my stripped upper and lower back.Scratching, scratching ’til it bleeds, at that very raging, reddened landscape of a back — once smooth, supple and tanned from years of biking in the sun by the sea — I am at a loss.
I am at a Complete. And Utter. Loss.
My Arm. My arm. My. Arm.
I repeat these words in my head until they no longer makes sense. My arm. My arm. Myarm. Myarmmyarmmyarmyarmyarm. Army. Arme. Arm Me.
Dear God, please arm me against the trials I must face now. I am so, so scared.
I am crying.
my entire left arm. Half of the existence i lauded being able to live mostly with my hands.
“You are beautiful. and courageous to let us see what you look like in these changes.”
This one sentence, in the instant it took to read it, profoundly changed not only my life, but my whole view on aging, experience, and wisdom as related to true beauty.
TRUE beauty. From the INSIDE, out.
Thank you so very much, my friend.
I shall attempt to sleep now, still itchy, but much more at peace.
and there is more and more and moreandmoreandmore it hurtsithurtsithurts.
no sleep for the wicked, no rest when there are dues to pay
and…the question du jour: