1000 Words Meme - Prompt #8

To Be Perfect

They say that beauty is only skin deep. They say that there is more to the body than the outer shell, the perfect olive, flawless skin, the waist length, fawn-colored hair, so soft and silky, the deep blue eyes rimmed in violet, the perfect pair of lips just plump enough without having to resort to injections.

They say there is more to life than the shape of the breast or the thighs—the perfect size six for someone five feet nine and a half inches tall.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They say that what matters most in life is ones intelligence, ones soul, one's spirit, one's talents and god-given gifts.

When Analyn Nolan walked out of the doctor's office, on the 10th of May, a miserable, hot afternoon, so hot that the birds shouldn't have been singing, Analyn wanted to know just who the hell "They" were. Who deemed who to become They, the wizards of the medical community. The collective brain that decided it was okay to tell a woman in her early thirties, an unmarried woman who had not yet started her family because of her modeling career with the one thing, the only thing she had going for in her whole life, was her body, her looks, her ability to turn heads, that she had the big C. Her body, her hair, her dazzling smile, and perky breast, was her money maker, her livelihood, and her future retirement fund.

But the collective "They" could not answer her questions when she asked, what next? "What am I supposed to do when this is all over? How will I survive, put food on the table, marry and have children," she wailed. "Will I survive?"

After dozens of horrific test, needle pokes, MRI's, CAT scans, x-rays, a biopsy, and consultations with more Theys, Analyn was told that she had stage three breast cancer in both breast and that both breast had to be removed. For the next four months, once the breasts were reduced to skin and bone, she'd have to take poisonous drugs to kill the rest of the cancer cells still in her lymph nodes.

They had a diagnosis and a plan of treatment, but They had no clue as to how long she had, and if, after treatment, would the cancer return? All They could say was that when the surgery had healed and the chemotherapy was finished she would have to take hormone killing drugs for the next five years. The only good news They had to say was that soon after chemo treatments had ended, her beautiful hair would grow back, along with her perfectly shaped eyebrows, and her long velvet eyelashes. All of her body hair would grow back, too. The only chuckle that she got out of all the devastating things They were telling her, was that she wouldn't have to worry about shaving her legs, under her arms, or her bikini line for a while. Oh, joy, she thought. Freedom from the razor and creams.

"What about my breast?" She hesitated to ask the main They. The one They who was going to yield the sword to slice off her beautiful breast and put her cancer at bay.

They recommend reconstructive surgery at her age. Then she was told to go home and think about what she wanted to do, breast or no breast. Meanwhile, They would schedule her surgery for Friday.

As soon as she left the clinic a million questions popped into her head between heaving sobs. The inside of the car was like a furnace yet she didn't have the ability to turn over the key and turn on the air conditioner. Her life was over. There was no future. The collective, Theys, couldn't even tell her how her cancer had been missed in her last mammogram, just six weeks ago. She'd done all the self-exams, in the shower, lying on the bed, in front of the mirror. Nothing showed that she had cancer. No clues. How could all those Theys on TV, in magazines articles, all those experts be so wrong?

The only reason she had gone to the clinic three week ago was because she had found spots of blood on her camisole in the mornings. At first she thought she'd had a spider bite and scratched it. The second time blood spots appeared on the right side of her pajama tops, she looked for a pimple or a scratch. She had a cat and very easily could have been scratched on the chest. But a further examination in the bathroom, before her shower, the third morning of finding blood spots on her clothes, she discovered no insect bite mark, no pimple, no scratch, nothing anywhere on her chest at all that could be causing her to bleed. It was only when she squeezed the nipple did more blood appear. She expressed the other nipple, but only produced a thick, yellowish excretion.

After more horrific test, it turned out that Analyn had bilateral ductal cancer. Her biopsy hadn't been a picnic but They had, at least, made only small incisions around the areola of the nipples and only a small incision near each of her arm pits to test the centennial lymph node for cancer cells. They had not expected the scars to be visible or worrisome to her career.

It finally dawned on Analyn how hot the car was when her head fell forward and hit the steering wheel. She immediately turned on the cars air conditioner and sped out of the parking lot. She needed to go somewhere, fast. She needed to take a long drive. Perhaps to the coast and spend the whole three days They had given her to make up her mind about reconstructing her breast, or slicing them off for good.

She needed desperately to talk to someone, get someone's advice. Get someone's reassurance that all would be alright again. That this was only a nightmare, and for heaven's sake, cancer was curable now days, right? She needed a hug. A lot of hugs.

Analyn's mother had died of colon cancer when she was twenty-five. Now was a good time to talk to her mother but she wasn't there. Her father was off somewhere in Europe with his happy new bride, a buxom blonde with large white teeth. Suzy? Sandy? Oh, what difference did it make, Suzy or Sandy-whatever was ten years younger than she was. Her father was of no use to her at this moment.

Analyn pulled into the driveway of her condo a little faster than she had intended to. The drive's side of her new Electric Red BMW's mirror scraped against the garage door, sending her into another fit of angry, animated sobs.

Analyn crossed her arms over her chest and rested her head upon the steering wheel. Tears washed over her perfect makeup. Her waterproof mascara held, but the rest of her face was a disaster and she didn't care. She had no one left in this life that she could talk to. None of the girls at the agency were sympathetic…they just wanted her spot in the lineup. Her last boyfriend had become quite unavailable since her biopsy. There'd be no hugs or compassion from him.

The air conditioner blowing full blast muffled the tap on her window. When the tall man from the condo above hers tapped harder, Analyn jumped, hitting the horn in the process. Startled, the next door neighbor jumped backwards. Analyn wished she were dead. She turned off the motor and weakly stepped out of her car and wiped at her face with the palms of her hands as fast as she could manage.

"Are you alright?" a deep, male voice asked.

"Oh, yes," Analyn replied, stifling the urge to run screaming into the house. Barricading herself from the world for the rest of her life.

A strong hand reached out and took hold of Analyn's elbow. "You look a bit under the weather. How about I help you up the steps to your door?"

Analyn didn't want to look directly into his eyes. He was Robert Tanner. The new, good looking—no—handsome tenant that lived in the unit above hers. They shared the garage. Shaking from embarrassment at how she nearly ripped the side-view mirror from her car, not to mention possibly hitting the neighbor's silver Lexus parked next to hers, she let Robert walk her to the door. Analyn had only met Robert a few times as they were coming and going from their condos. They knew each other's names and smiled a lot, but that was all she knew about him.

When she couldn't get the right key inserted into the lock, Robert took the keys from her shaking hand and opened the door. "Let me help you inside. I'll get you something cold to drink. We can sit on the deck and talk. I'm a very good listener."

Analyn started to stammer, no thanks, not now, I want to be alone, but didn't. Instead she let Robert lead her to the lounger in the cool shade on the deck where she plopped down hard. She was afraid he thought she might be under the weather because she had been drinking. But she didn't drink. He had to know that about her. Somehow it was important for him to know that she didn't drink, smoke, eat chocolate, or red meat. In fact she lived off of practically nothing but fruit, salads and yogurt.

Robert filled two glasses with ice water and sat down beside Analyn. "You don't seem to have anything in your fridge but ice and yogurt." He'd also taken the time to dampen a couple of paper towels and handed them to her. "You look pretty hot. Maybe these would help."

The urge to run hit Analyn again, but she stayed put, thanked Robert for his thoughtfulness and dotted the damp paper towels about her face and neck. "I just want you to know that I don't drink," she said timidly.

"I don't either," he said.

Analyn took the ice water and carefully sipped at it. "I wasn't…I'm not feeling very well today. I'm distracted is all."

Robert stayed with Analyn the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. He had told her four magic words…well eight actually, "I'm a good listener" and "I can keep secrets."

Analyn didn't know why she blabbed on for hours about her cancer, her upcoming surgery, her fears of losing her lively-hood…her not having anyone left in her life to talk to, to get advice from, to get sympathy from. But he was easy to talk to and she so desperately wanted to talk to somebody. He was good for his word. He listened, and listened, and finally when she was all talked out, he put his hand on her arm and told her he'd like to see her through this. He told her she had a friend. Day or night, she could sob on his shoulder; she could depend on him when she needed help. He promised to stay by her side while she went through her treatments, and he even went so far as to say that he'd help her go wig shopping. But on the other hand he thought she would look very pretty, bald.

Before she heard the words escape from her mouth, she had asked Robert, a stranger really, if he thought she was beautiful…would it matter to him if she did or didn't have breast?

He smiled and took her hands in his and said those longed for words. "Analyn, you are the most beautiful woman in the world and quite honestly it wouldn't matter to me if you had three belly buttons and two purple horns. You're beautiful. And by the way," he blushed, "I'm a cancer survivor…and you will be one, too."

Postscript: One of my daughters thinks that my stories don't have happy endings. Well, for that daughter…this story has a happy ending. Analyn got through her surgery and cancer treatments with Robert by her side. She had her breast reconstructed and They did a good job at refilling her size B's to pass for a healthy size C's. Analyn didn't continue to model anymore. Not because she didn't have a beautiful body, but because, she and Robert fell in love and were married on the day her hair started to grow back in. They lived happily ever after as only two cancer survivors can do…one day at a time.

by DBB