I hate having my picture taken. That thing about the camera adding 10 lbs has always distressed me, although at times I’ve used it as an excuse for why I look so terrible in photos. This past year there have been no photos of me whatsoever, other than a few selfies I’ve taken to chronicle what I have sometimes called my most difficult year. But really, it’s been a year made more difficult by pride and self-centeredness. Isn’t that often the case?

The absence of photos has been by choice. Embarrassment really. Which is pride.
A year ago today I was recovering from surgery to remove a tumor. A lump I never would have found because of where it was located. Miraculously found on a mammogram. A lump that turned out to be breast cancer. The recovery was much more painful than I expected. But the worst pain only lasted a few days. In the months that followed there was chemo- only 4 rounds, but strong enough that hair loss was pretty much guaranteed. I said it wasn’t that important in the overall scheme of things; got a short haircut to “prepare”. I had no idea how much of my identity was tied up in my hair. So cliché, but in a lot of ways my hair became a way of identifying me. And there were a lot of people who didn’t recognize me once I lost my hair and began wearing hats. (I have to say there were times when I welcomed that anonymity as my treatment went on and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone).

That was followed by 7 weeks of radiation. I bemoaned the fact that I had to travel almost 30 miles each way, 5 days a week, taking up most of my summer. Again I experienced unexpected pain, some of which still lingers. And I’m sure my rants of self-pity did little to instill sympathy in those closest to me.

Then came the weight gain. At first I rationalized that I should eat while I could; it was good that I didn’t have nausea or lose my appetite, right? Then it was that awful fatigue that kept me from exercising. And now there’s the excuse of the medication. True, one of the side effects is weight gain, but that doesn’t give me carte blanche to consume endless amounts of cookies or stop for that daily package of Zingers at the Dollar Store.
My struggle with weight and how it affected my self-worth has been a lifelong one. Food has always been my go-to for comfort (except when alcohol was) and this past year has been no exception.
So now, after surviving surgery, chemo and radiation; after follow-up mammograms showing no evidence of cancer; even after my hair started coming back, the self-loathing begins. What? Where is the gratitude that should accompany enduring a year like that? Where is the recognition of how much more fortunate I am than so many others? Try as I might, I can’t seem to muster up the proper, spiritually mature response that makes others comment how strong my faith is.
Instead, I look in the mirror and see an overweight, weary woman who looks older than her years, hating the gray curls poking out from under my hat. I cringe when I struggle to get out of my chair or walk up the stairs, knowing the extra weight is adding to my lack of mobility. And thus the “no photo” policy.

Instead of being grateful for the friends or family who reached out and offered help during this past year, I choose to focus on the ones who weren’t there without considering their reasons or extending the grace I have repeatedly been shown. I have isolated myself physically and emotionally from everyone, and then complain that I’m lonely.
The worst part is that I didn’t even realize how miserable I was. I really thought I was handling things well, showing a brave face, saying and doing all the right things. But in the last few weeks I have been confronted with the ugly truth that my attitude has contributed greatly to this being my “worst year ever”.
I am ashamed when the widowed husband of a friend who lost her battle to cancer this past year makes an encouraging comment on a Facebook post. My “no photo” policy seems arrogant when I see the posts of a Facebook friend facing her second battle with cancer in as many years- smiling, unashamed by her hair, encouraging others.

There are a few writers I used to love reading. Their stories about faith in difficult times gave me encouragement, grounded me, even inspired me to write. But lately I’ve avoided reading anything intended as encouraging, dismissing those essays as rhetoric, as tired platitudes. I guess I got comfortable in the muck and mire, clinging to my martyr status as a way of not acknowledging my part in my misery. But an email made its way into my inbox. It was a weekly devotion from Sheila Walsh, one of those writers I used to love to read. A few months ago I was looking forward to her new book “ In the Middle of the Mess”. But then I decided I didn’t need to read one more book about overcoming depression and anxiety by trusting God. Oh, that beautiful arrogance! After all, I’ve spent over 30 years trusting and believing, and still managed to end up riddled by fear and anxiety. And because of the fact that through most of those years I have experienced peace in spite of circumstances, I concluded that the failure must surely be mine, not God’s. Then I read this: “Grace doesn’t come with a sell-by date…it’s possible to be healed and to fall again and again and again.”
I think I believed that, somewhere in the recesses of my chemo-wearied mind. I know without a doubt that I am not the person I was before I turned my will and my life over to the care of God as I understand Him. I have fallen many times since then but have always gotten up, never without the help of that inexplicable grace. Sometimes those lapses into selfishness and pride have lasted longer than others. This last tumble into the pit of darkness was a little messier and longer than others. But I am choosing to trust that “He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ”. A day at a time.
So why share this ugly side of myself which many of you wouldn’t have noticed? Why tarnish that heroic image that I’ve tried to create of this stoic woman who has endured a lifetime of challenges? Truth be told, there are plenty who have endured much worse, with much more grace. But Sheila Walsh said something else-“We are all broken, all a little lost in this strange land. We need to see one another’s scars, to see where the light shines through”.
So here I am, scars and all, crawling up out of the pit, grateful for the ones who have patiently waited for me to return to the light. Maybe I’ll even post a photo now and then.