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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

The story of your grandmothers
It is the stuff of tragedy and myths and fairy tales.
By Susan Straight
[03/22/00]

Pack of wolves
When my son joined the Cub Scouts, I didn't expect him to learn about peckers, pedophiles and Jesus Christ.
By Stephen G. Bloom
[03/20/00]

I miss lesbian reproductive sex
Little purple sticks, big metal tanks and doing it whether we wanted to or not -- now that's hot.
By Laurie Essig
[03/17/00]

Power play
What kind of kid would break up with his mother? Mine, apparently.
By Amy Sunshine
[03/16/00]

Divorce karma
My husband dumped me for a very young, very beautiful woman. Then his new love dumped him -- for another woman.
By Lee Uttmark Wicks
[03/15/00]

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I called some of my co-workers to prepare them for my altered appearance, to make it easier for myself. "Listen, I look really different," I stammered. "Really terrible." People laughed. "Come on. We can't wait to see you!"

I bought a new dress for my first day back at work. It billowed to my ankles, a size large where I usually took a small. My hair was gray, too fragile, too sparse, to color, and the few strands I had left, I had tucked into a small tail in back. I put on some blush, some lipstick, some mascara. I can do this, I told myself.

On the subway, two thin women in black Lycra looked at me and whispered to each other. A little girl frankly stared. And a man, a concerned look on his face, stood up and helped me into his seat. When I got to my office, everyone seemed to be crowded around my desk. They blinked at me. "You look great!" one woman blurted overenthusiastically. People hugged me, they had presents, but I saw how every once in a while, someone averted her eyes, a tiny gesture that struck me like a slap.

My favorite story -- now, not then -- is about the time I had to pick up a freelance-writing job at another company, known for its line of sexy lingerie. I had worked for the account executive before, a thin, stylish woman with a waterfall of blond hair, who told me she had months of work for me.

"Don't warn her about your looks," Jeff pleaded. "You have to give people a chance. And anyway, it's her problem if she reacts, not yours." So I didn't tell the woman about my changed appearance, but when I walked into her office, she flinched, and then quickly composed herself. She was perfectly pleasant, but she never gave me work again.

Daily, I lost more and more hair. I kept swelling. I called wig places. I begged my doctors to make me look normal again. "Hair grows back," the doctor told me. "Your belly can be surgically fixed. But not until you're off your meds and well."

"When am I going to look normal?" I cried to my husband. "Everyone is looking at me."

"Screw them," Jeff said. "You're alive. The baby and I love you. Who cares?" He began gathering things from around the house. "Come on," he said. "We're all going out."

"I can't go out looking like this."

But he shook his head, adamant. "We're going," he insisted.

It was a beautiful spring day and we went into the city. We pushed the baby in the stroller, and after a while, I was having too good a time to notice whether anyone was staring. I felt happy.

"What did I tell you?" Jeff said.

It still wasn't easy for me, but I felt as if I had turned a corner. I began venturing out, more and more, and each time felt as if I were immunizing myself against shame. And then, a week later, when I was carefully arranging what hair I had left, I felt something poking through. A new silky tuft. I stared delightedly at myself in the mirror, and I suddenly noticed the contours of my face again. A peach tone in my gray skin.

And then, one sweltering day when we were out, when I was in my usual long sleeves, and long pants, I suddenly couldn't stand how hot I felt. I knew I still looked terrible, so what did it matter if I looked even more terrible‚ if I bared my bowed legs, my gangly arms? Looking genuinely off-kilter made all my imagined body slights seem, well, ridiculous and petty.

I veered into a store and bought a sleeveless minidress to wear. I walked out wearing the dress, ridiculously triumphant, as if I had scaled a great height. "Look at you!" Jeff said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. All that summer I wore that dress. It was cool, comfortable, maybe even symbolic. Every time I even touched it, I felt good.

In all, it took me about a year to recover. My hair, thicker and glossier, shot down to my shoulders again. My skin turned luminous. Only my belly, disfigured, puffed out as in pregnancy, remained. "You can get that fixed now, if you want," the doctors told me. It was what I had been waiting to hear, what had kept me going for nearly a year, and now, I realized to my great surprise, I no longer wanted to. It no longer seemed to matter.

It has now been more than three years since I got sick. I look normal. People don't stare at me anymore, unless it's an occasional man who wants to flirt. Even my belly has gone down enough so that the only thing someone might think is: "Boy, she needs to do sit-ups."

And I have come to love my belly. For me, my belly is almost a badge of honor, my very own purple heart proving I've been through the wars and come out victorious, reminding me how silly worrying about blotchy skin or graceless arms is in the face of having something really wrong with your body.

It's a reminder to me, too, about what appearance really is -- not something to be taken too seriously. Who cares, my husband had said, and he was and is right. Love my belly, love me. I've come to love both. And I keep the big-shirt companies in business.
salon.com | March 23, 2000

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