How Cancer Stole My Butt

There are so many casualties due to cancer; precious things that have been taken from me.  With my first 6-months of chemo my hair fell out, my nails bloodied and prepared for exodus, my love of food was at first smeared by the taste of metallic – thank goodness that ultimately dissipated, I lost my ability to problem-solve, and on some days to even remember my name. My sense of rightness in the world was obscured and that is not okay, and now this.  Cancer you are not taking anything more from me!  To quote the late great Whitney: HELL TO THE NO!

Yesterday for me, started out like many other days.  The exception is that I actually woke up in a really pleasant mood. And since this next round of treatment seemed to be busting my balls, I’d decided to take a bus ride to Seattle to test my endurance with a little trip to the Emerald city.  And of course, I'm always excited any chance I get to stop at Dilettante Mocha Café in the Rainier Square for my favorite large cocoa with milk chocolate.  Should be a sin it's so good.

I walked into the bathroom for a shower smiling for no reason at all.  I allowed the hot water from the shower to ease away the tension in my tired and tense muscles then wrapped my body in a large towel and stood in front of the mirror to wash my face and brush my teeth.  When I was done I took tally of myself, liquid gold-brown eyes, a nice smile that mirrors my mom's, with crevices from all my years of smiling, and high cheekbones with some dimples too.  I’m not liking that rooster thing under my chin but I decided to ignore that itty bitty little flaw and accept it as a talisman that comes with age.  After taking inventory I came to the conclusion that for everything that has happened to me over the last few months, I wasn’t looking so bad for a lady in the fifty-ish age range.  Shoot, Madonna -- who is the same age as I am -- may still have the body of a thirty-year old, but hey, my face isn't anything to sneeze at – in my thinking, and as my thoughts are the only ones that count considering I’m the one who has to live with my face, I looked damn good. Even after dropping another 25 pounds since my surgery in July, I'm still sturdy. It was when I turned to leave the bathroom that my world rocked on its now questionable axis.  My hand reached for the door knob at the same time my towel slid to the floor.  I still don’t know why things unfolded the way they did but instead of just bending over and picking up my towel and putting it back in place, I did the unthinkable; I looked behind me into the mirror.  I don’t know why because I hadn’t looked-- hadn’t truly looked, since I was in my early forties.  But the last time I did look everything was where it was supposed to be.  I think there’s an unwritten law that says if you are a normal everyday woman subject to gravity  – without means – like Madonna with a butt-load of money to fix those broken parts,  or blessed beyond belief like Beyonce – you just should not look back.  But I was compelled by something wicked and I peeked.  And it was Sodom and Gamora all over again.  I didn’t turn to stone, but I was wishing I had.  I screeched, if only in my head.  'Holy shit! What the hell is that!'  My gluteus maximus (a.k.a. butt) – my pride, my bootylicious, had literally and figuratively melted!   

Many black women, including me, since the beginning of time have taken pride in their ample butts.  Now I may be wrong, but I think now women of all races have a renewed appreciation for this particular area of their body. I mean famous butts by Kim Kardashian, Beyoncé and J-Lo are testaments to this. Now don't quote me on this, 'cause I'm not one to be spreading gossip but - and I'm kind of whispering -- I do remember hearing a little something about Nicki Minaj getting implants to give her butt more POP!  True story. I think.  Sonnets have been sung in honor of a nice butt -- remember Destiny Child's, Bootylicious?  Yep.  And even though we try to forget, but can't, Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back practically became a National Anthem to shapely butts everywhere.  Let's see, it went something like this - and sing along 'cause I know you know the words:

I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung, wanna pull out your tongue...baby got back!

Now those are lyrics that'll make a gal weak in the knees. Yeah. No. But my point is the butt matters. Even petite women take pride in the bubble that is their defining attribute.  My sister, at 61, was once confronted in a public place by a woman who stopped and asked, "How did you get your butt like that? It's so round." True story. I was floored. Nobody had ever complimented me on my butt in public.  Well, there was that one time -- oh wait - no, no, that wasn't a compliment.

Right now as we speak and I write, I’m doing my butt crunches, and I will continue to do them, in the chemo chair on Friday, while I’m watching back to back Christmas movies on Hallmark, on the bus ride to Seattle, and in church -- as soon as I get myself back in church that is.  Cancer can’t have any more of me.  'Cause of all the things that I’ve lost to cancer -- my butt? I’m getting that one back.

 

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." (Truvey Jones)”