I'm still here

I scheduled this post - by the time it is published I will hopefully be sound asleep in my hospital bed, with my newly reconstructed boobs. I will have had a double mastectomy and reconstruction - one of the last big hurdles to overcome in my personal fight against this disease.
I want to share a poem that I've been carrying with me for a few years, a poem that tells it like it is, that sums up the loss, the bitter fight, the pain, the scars. Beauty - yes, it exists in the eye of the beholder. It was written by Jen Hoffman in 2008. Unfortunately lost her battle with cancer a few months after this was written.

todavía estoy aquí (I am still here)

like a marred and tattered canvas - i stand

as if an unfortunate embodiment of an artist's satire

formerly known as youth and beauty

a road map of scars marks the long and winding roads of a journey

each one telling unspoken tales

and serving as a reminder of an uncertain future

the left breast - perfectly sized and eternally perky

nearly flawless but for the absent nipple

and the faded scar sweeping diagonally upwards

accompanied by tiny, nearly indiscernible circles

along the left side of the body where drains once existed

each mark whispering softly of a girl in her twenties

who had made mistakes - lost her way

and endeavored desperately to find meaning and hope

in what turned out to be the wrong places

the taut yet never impeccably flat abdomen seems a figment of the imagination

replaced by the still fresh marks left after removing traces of the demon

and the assurance of children never to be conceived

perpetual souvenirs of the ironically life-saving masses

that screamed for attention and started the whirlwind

that tested the body and soul once again

murmurs of a girl in the twilight of her thirties

who had taken the road less traveled still learning to heal scars deeper

than those able to be captured by a photograph or a paintbrush

untimely evolution of metabolism and elasticity

potentially unseen by observers

all too apparent to the soul that resides in the metamorphosis of the body

the alternate voice of these wordless tales spoken by the corporeal road map

tells of skin tougher than an ancient elephant's hide and

brass bound resolve to emerge the victor of each battle

only the closest observation exposes the eternal flame of hope

burning in the eyes that have seen more than they have ever wanted

sharing the quietly thunderous roar of faith and life and love with the willing beholder