Battle of the Flesh
February 16, 2012, by Melissa Howden
As Melissa’s mind and body challenge her conceptions, her father faces the inevitable
There are wars waging. If it is not bad enough that the GOP war on women continues unabated, I am at war with my own body. My body has become a battleground. As a Feminist I am embarrassed to confess this fact. But then again maybe this is the absolute prerogative of a Feminist—to admit to personal war with his/her body. It is after all my own, and currently I am miserable in it.
I heard a talk show host say the other day that there are parts of her body she loathes. My thought at the time was, “Right now I kind of loathe the whole dang thing”. My physical self feels like a fickle lover, a phenomenon I am all too familiar with. She is one thing then another. She is here, then she is there—she is high, she is low. She loves me. Loves me not.
Let me just say that I have not always felt physical self-loathing with the exception of one thing: my lack of a defined chin or what might be referred to as a weak chin, a quality which is often used to describe a shady, unlikeable, distrustful character in literature. I want a chin. I always have. In a junior high art class after having my shadow profile done I took one look at it and said, “this will not do”, erased my lack of chin and added in the chin I wished I had. Carol Burnett was a big deal at the time and I later learned that she’d had her chin altered. Ever since then I’ve considered the same procedure.
This war, my war, has more to do with the havoc aging and menopause have wrought on my body. I have been reading a lot of Greek mythology and I am convinced there exists somewhere in the pantheon a crazy, God or Goddess to the Menopausal Galaxy. The etymology of the word after all comes from the Greek word men or menos for “month” and pausis “a cessation”—to cause to cease. At another time in history someone would have shipped me off to take “the cure” at an asylum. Me and my ever-enlarging boobs and body, my flaky and/or bumpy skin patches, and my tidal waves of depression, my sleeplessness and free-floating anxiety. Is it any wonder then that the fickle love of my life and I did not make it having slammed into menopause right at the same time?
I knew my psyche was taking all of this hard when in a dream, someone I did not know took it upon herself to tell me how sad and troubled I looked. She advised I should do something about the fact that the sides of my mouth point down. Completely irritated I tried to point out to this woman and her unsolicited opinions that another “delight” of this stage of life is the fact that everything on either side of my mouth and in fact my body, sags or turns down when in repose. On waking I remembered Jane Fonda talking about her decision to get cosmetic surgery. She told the story of passing a mirror and what she saw did not reflect how she felt in the least bit. When asked what she sees in the mirror now, she smiled and said “good work!” So maybe the woman in my dream was simply the last straw for my vanity. A call to action.
The really, really crappy part about my menopausal conceit is that it strikes at the same time as I sit with my father in a rehabilitation hospital watching him physically failing and trying to regain lost ground. His struggle is due not only to aging but also as a result of heavy-handed chemotherapy and an ill prescribed drug for sleeplessness. My father has great health insurance, which I’ve decided may be as detrimental as no health insurance at all. His oncologist prescribed Haldol to help him sleep. For the uninitiated, Haldol is an anti-psychotic with side effects that present as Parkinson’s’ Disease. A neurologist diagnosed my father with Parkinson’s and was then planning to prescribe yet another drug to help alleviate the symptoms of the disease. But first on some outside urging the neurologist stopped to review my father’s chart. It seems the oncologist who had ordered every test available to find out why my father was slurring and why he had tremors had never thought about the fact that the Haldol, the drug she had prescribed, had side effects, which looked JUST LIKE THAT .Needless to say my father does not have Parkinsons.
So now I spend the day with my father who has gone from 500 to zero in very little time. He is frail and often confused. He has lost so much weight that he needs physical therapy to build strength simply to hold himself up and to learn how to walk again. Today as I pushed him around in his wheelchair he was excited to show me the wooden platform they use to teach him how to approach a curb with a walker. He used to read three newspapers every morning and now he can’t be bothered. Nor did the Super Bowl cause even a blip on his screen, the man who loved football. I watch him try to feed himself, or to zip the zipper on his sweatshirt and I wonder if the dapper, astute and well-read father I knew is gone for good, or if he might still be recovered. His vitals are good and yet I fear he is going. I bring him protein shakes, he eats an avocado and I make him mineral broth otherwise known as Love Soup. Anything he eats is a victory.
I look at my body and I don’t know the “me” of me. I look at my father and ask, “Where is he?” We are both struggling to hang on to the life and breath of our familiar. I don’t want my father to go ever, but I really don’t want him to go anytime soon so I maintain a tight grip on him.
I’m not really sure what any of this means except the body is temporal, it needs advocates, and it need not be polluted with unnecessary drugs especially when time will eventually have it’s way with it. So that being the case, I don’t feel particularly bad about wanting to be a little bit happier in the body I have, for the short time I have it.
Update: As we go to post, my father is back in the hospital with pneumonia and he had to be reminded where he is.
February 16th, 2012 at 6:33 am
Melissa, your touching and brutally honest writing brings up so much for me…I, too, nursed each of my once-vibrant parents through debilitating diseases and the accompanying medical circus that surrounds the end of life. I, too, have stared down at what seems to be someone else’s body and wondered what, if anything, can be done to fix this? All I can offer is this: You are an amazing woman and we are all so fortunate to have you in our lives–despite any feelings you might have about your chin.
February 16th, 2012 at 7:30 am
Thank you for illustrating the mind/body/woman/aging conundrum so beautifully and for reminding me that we are not our bodies, especially with what’s going on with your dad. I wish you and your amazing father strength and stamina at this time. I suppose that saying “keep your chin up” would be in poor taste, but sometimes a bad joke is all that works in a difficult situation. Did you hear the one about the duck who goes into a bar…
February 16th, 2012 at 7:37 am
Sweet Melissa, this age you have reached has many challenges and you have eloquently described some of them. Know this, Dear Friend, you are about to enter a period of grace and charm when your body settles into a new knowing of itself, and, secondly, all your fathers are present in this man you now attend with loving care even if you can’t see them anymore.
February 16th, 2012 at 8:08 am
Your story could have been mine. I recently went through the cancer nightmare with my father. I saw the cancer as a cowardly adversary — a common bully who hid in the shadows and jumped out at inopportune moments to hit us over the head. I saw my father go from brilliant architect, prize-winning athlete, successful businessman, and dry-witted conversationalist to a frail shell of a person. The cancer didn’t have the balls to take him from us without first stripping him of his mobility, his vision, and his dignity. At the end, only the wit remained. I count that as a victory. Cancer took the body, but it failed to kill the mind.
It’s funny how you mention hating your body — in high school I hated mine too. I remember thinking, “God, I wish I had Melissa’s gorgeous red hair.” I wonder if, as women, we are conditioned to want more than whatever it is we have. I dunno. But I still envied your hair.
My thoughts and prayers are with you in this journey.
February 16th, 2012 at 8:58 am
Yesterday the decision was made for hospice. I think
I’ve dreaded this particular time all my life.
I am not afraid of my own death but I have always
been afraid of my fathers. In discussing Hospice he did ask,
“What happens if I get better?” This gave me a glimmer
of hope that he is there and maybe wants to stay
awhile longer .
February 16th, 2012 at 9:37 am
Thank you for sharing this journey you are going through with your own body as well as that of your father. You amaze me with your courage and wisdom and tenacity to talk about difficult things with such intelligence, vulnerability and grace. You let us see you raw and uncensored. You may not see yourself this way but all I see is someone that I respect and admire and think gets more beautiful the older you get.
Your dad sounds like he’s still fighting. Maybe he’ll make it, maybe he won’t. But he is trying. I remember when my father got sick, he gave up without a fight. I think to this day I’m still mad at him for not fighting. Your dad is lucky you are with him just the way you are.
February 16th, 2012 at 10:52 am
Melissa– I was graced with the opportunity to be with my mother at the moment of her passing. I see now, that it was the single most profound moment of my life, but also in my relationship with her. I love that your dad still twinkles with “a what if I get better” moment. He is with you still and you are so lucky.
As to our changing bodies–if my boobs get any bigger I’m going to rent them out as billboards.
February 16th, 2012 at 3:13 pm
My lovely friend, you are suffering with too much at this time and need to know you are far more valuable than you feel and far more beautiful than you think. I admire the strong feelings you have shared with us all. Hang on baby!!! This too shall pass and we will soon share new and different pains and what is more important JOYS!!
XO
Thea
February 16th, 2012 at 5:27 pm
dear Melissa,
Today when I was working with a homeless man he said “I am beginning to know how to handle my disappointments. I talk to my friends and they listen.”
Having our bodies morph as we age, having someone we are born of, possibly leave us, taking a torch and exposing our dark corners….if we didn’t have friends …which of us would survive?
Maybe it is the way we all heal….to deeply talk to our friends and they deeply listen.
Your experiences are raw and truthful….. thank you for their revelations.
February 16th, 2012 at 6:03 pm
Beautifully written. I am sorry to hear about your father’s health, no matter how old we are it is difficult to watch our parents falter. I can so relate to your emotional body battle, I just picked up a passport photo I had taken today and actually let out an audible gasp when I looked at it! (not in a good way) After four kids and creeping age, I feel the same sense of body betrayal, and such guilt at thinking of spending money to maintain my beauty when I could sent it off to a charity, and what kind of message would I be sending my daughters!? But still the desire is there to fix the aging process, that is when I hold my hand in front of me and think I have two hands and two working legs, the ability to see this beautiful world, hear music and feel the embrace of the children this body brought into the world. It distracts me for a while, until I pass by the mirror and surprise myself again!
February 16th, 2012 at 8:46 pm
A friend of mine once told me that when she looks in the mirror and sees a “dry, saggy, baggy elephant,” she smiles at herself then turns and walks away. I do that all the time now, and I swear it helps.
February 16th, 2012 at 8:48 pm
It’s me again, dear Melissa. I hope these comments help you realize that you are surrounded by so much caring and support. We are here for you with much love, Cathy
February 17th, 2012 at 6:55 am
Dear friend,
Thank you for sharing such a moving and personal story. I lost my father last April, and it was and still is tough. We were very close. I hate all the pain you are going through and I hate the pain for your dad. Ihave no answers. I am sure your dad is grateful you are with him these last days and it will be soemthing you can cherish forever. In the end, the good memories prevail.
February 17th, 2012 at 6:23 pm
What an honest post. Rare to read these days. I feel the same about my body. I honestly don’t know who I am these days. Sometimes I feel nothing. Which is scary. I attribute everything to not having any sexual energy. There, I said it.
Thanks for the chance to share Melissa…maybe honesty is the new hope.