One month after my lumpectomy I returned to my surgeon to discuss my next steps. My partner Sam came with me, to offer moral support and take notes.
“You’ll want to consider radiation” said the doctor, her voice soft. “And you’ll want to really nurture yourself. I bet you spend more time take care of others than you do taking care of yourself.”
I lowered my head and Sam said “She does.”
“Listening to your body and putting yourself first is an important part of healing,” she said. “Do you rest when you’re tired?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Do you schedule time to read and relax?”
“I try.”
“This is a priority now. You have to make time for yourself.” She took out her prescription pad and wrote me an order for “Rest, relaxation, and self-nurturing.”
That prescription was the beginning of my emotional and spiritual healing. \
I was in my late fifties. My father had died the previous year and my mother, deep, in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, had passed away only months earlier. During the past several years, I’d worked hard at my career and equally hard at helping my parents, my grown daughters, and my friends.
Of course, I’d read about self-love and self-care. I’d often attempted to incorporate such practices into my life. But if a friend needed nurturing or a daughter needed assistance or a client had a tough deadline, I set aside my self-time, figuring I could catch up later.
I now had an official order from a physician whom I respected to put myself first. Instantly, I discovered that showing up for radiation and taking the daily handful of nutritional supplements was far easier. Putting myself first went against my upbringing and my tendencies to help others.
“You can still help others,” my doctor assured me, on my next visit. “But you’re helping yourself first. Ask your body , ‘What do you need?”
“Rest,” my body told me, the very next day, I was on day ten of radiation therapy. As soon as I asked myself that question, I realized I was totally exhausted. I was proud to be a writer who never missed a deadline. But that day, I was proud to be a woman who called my client and renegotiated the deadline. Instead of working through the day and into the night, I put down the phone, curled into bed and fell asleep.
When I stopped to check in with myself, I realized I also felt fragile and contemplative. The idea of going out and cheerfully interacting with people, even people I adored, was daunting. Normally, I would push through such feelings, straighten my spine and soldier on. But I struggled to follow my doctor’s orders.
One evening, I stayed home instead of going out to a dear friend’s poetry reading. As I sank into a bubble bath, relief overcame my regret at missing the evening, I needed the time with myself. I needed to quiet my mind, soak, daydream, pray, and visualize my healing. I needed to wrap myself in a large warm towel and fall into bed, way too early, with a delicious book and a cup of herbal tea. I needed to let Sam bring me dinner and rub my shoulders. As I let go of my desire to achieve and to be there for others, I embraced the child-like part of me that just wanted to be loved for being exactly who she was.
The radiation ended but my self-nurturing continued. Every time I visited my doctor, she quizzed me on how I was taking care of myself. She reminded me of the importance of truly caring for and about my body. She gave me the permission I needed to begin a healing process that I’m still practicing, a prescription that went far beyond the issue of breast cancer and gave me back an integral part of myself.
