Why I Wear Lipstick

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A year ago I saw the most amazing Lifetime movie on television. Now I'm not one for Lifetime movies (I'm a liar) and I hardly ever watch tv anyways (from 3am to 5am) but this movie touched my life forever.

Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy follows the life of Geralyn Lucas, a loving wife, hard working woman and list maker (I identified immediately) as she discovers that at the young age of 27, she has breast cancer.

The movie is based on the book and is a true story. I bought and read the book in one day and since I downloaded the movie on iTunes, I've watched it at least every other day. It's beautiful, and it's changed me. Here are some excerpted (is that a real word?) quotes from the book that show you what I mean:

I do love lipstick because no one is born with it. It is so demo-cratic. Applying it is such a willful gesture. Lipstick is confident and demands attention. I remember all the women I watched ap-plying lipstick in ladies' rooms Notice Me, I Deserve This, they were writing on their lips with every stroke. I think about Marilyn Mon-roe. I am channeling her lipstick, not her boobs. . . 

I am so scared that one of my second-opinion cancer doctors who told me that I needed to see a psychiatrist might see me now in the operating room area. Yikes. Those doctors would definitely say, "You still need to see a psychiatrist, especially because you are wearing lipstick to your mastectomy surgery." But I know that I'm not crazy. Since all the doctors told me that I am "living with risk' (risk of my cancer coming back, risk of dying) I have decided to become risque. . . .

My lipstick is all I have.

I'm clinging to that thin film of beeswax or paraffin or whatever ingredients lipstick is made of. That thin layer of color, of mois-ture, of hope is all I have that is mine when they put the oxygen mask on my face to put me under. I am holding on so tight to that hyper-red-notice-me-now pigment that is screaming that I am out of context because I do not deserve to be in this operating room having my breast cut off. . . .

 

I want my lipstick to tell everyone in this room that I think I have a future and I know I will wear lipstick again, but on my terms next time. But for now, I have my war paint. I think I am ready. I glide my tongue one last time over the smooth surface and I taste the lipstick in my mouth and it is mingling with the anesthesia cloud that has made me very sleepy and then-1 am out.

If I were awake I would see Dr. B slicing away the mound of flesh that was my breast and carefully placing it in the pathology container. If I were awake I would hear the beeping of my heart and the whirring of the breathing machine, because I am incubated. If I were awake, I might feel a little pride that I wore such a true red shade that it now seems to perfectly match the blood on the operating room table.

If I were awake I would tell them how proud I am that I decided to cut off my breast, to hopefully save my life. If I were awake I would tell them that I know I will still be a woman. For anyone who does not believe this, that is why I am wearing lipstick. In the sterility of the operating room I am laughing. In the blood and gauze I am dancing. Under anesthesia, with a tube forced down my throat, I am hopeful and maybe even a little sexy. And slightly in control, just knowing that my lipstick might last.

So what does this have to do with me? I'm a person that's very into symbolism. I'm a girl who watches movies, television, reads books and listens to songs and knows that they were written for her, at least a small part. I'm the girl who changes her life to reflect it. For crying out loud, I'm the girl who had the word "Chosen" tattooed on her back to honor my seven season dedication to Joss Whedon and Buffy, and I'm not shamed to admit it. I was Chosen then, I am now, for many reasons.

And now I wear lipstick.

I've been sick to death of doctors who tell me that I'm overweight and that it's my fault I can get pregnant. I'm tired of the misdiagnosed illnesses, and the instant prescriptions that come from doctors hands before I finish telling them what my symptoms are.

About a month ago, in addition to all the other fun loving symptoms I have regarding fertility and hormones and junk, I was having problems with my right breast. It's a scary thing to go through for any woman because the media, doctors and our families have created this terrifying image of breast cancer that the second you feel any difference in your breasts you instantly see the giant pink ribbon in the shape of a noose hanging over your head.

After being shooed away by doctors all over the city who weren't taking new patients for months, I searched for OBGYNs in my area and made the earliest appointment that I could. I didn't sleep much the night before. While my symptoms weren't too similar to breast cancer, they were still there and were not normal. Did I have some infection, a cyst, would I need surgery to remove something? I woke up Monday morning, preparing for my appointment, adding lipstick just before walking out the door.

I took one last glance in the as Matt and I were lead down the hallway into my new doctors office, making sure my lipstick hadn't faded. I felt calm and assured that all would be fine. Symbols do that for me.

My new doctor is a gift sent from God to tell me that He's sorry for all the other doctors in my life that I've had up until now. The man not only believes in alternative medicine, but he tells me that he's not going to treat my symptoms, he's going to find the problem. My physical exam looks normal, and he found no lumps in my breast. However, my ride isn't over yet. He told me that he believes I have a pituitary tumor. He says most are non cancerous, but this tiny thing may be the reason I've had hormone problems for the last ten years. He describes the symptoms it causes, the problems that arise, and I have them all. Matt held onto my hand. The word tumor is no better than the pink noose at this point until my doctor says that medicine can fix it and that the medicine has few side effects, the typical nausea and headache type of thing. We booked a second appointment next week to go over lab work and see what my hormones tell him we need to do. And then he says it . . . "This could be the reason you can't get pregnant. When we get rid of the tumor, your fertility problems should begin to turn around for you."

I waited until I was home to let it sink in, and I'll admit that I cried.

Matt went to work and I went on with my day. When my mother in law returned home I told her what happened. "Wow," She says. "It's almost like you were lead to that doctor." It was true. I felt lead. "It's amazing that I finally found a doctor who believes the same things that I do," I said referring to the practice of preventional medicine. My mother in law interpreted it a different way. "Well of course he does, he's Mormon." This simple fact had escaped my knowledge, but sure enough, according to my doctor's website, he's a Bishop and member of the High Council in his Stake. While I agree that there are probably non-Mormon doctors out there who aren't idiots (though I've yet to find) I find it somewhat miraculous that after dealing with a decade long illness, seeing over 10 different doctors for the same problem and given over 5 different diagnosis, after being turned away from 8 different clinics and doctors, the first OBGYN on my health insurance listing was this doctor. A member of the Church, a priesthood holder who knows the importance of health, who knows the importance of truth, who is a healer himself, and who understands why at only 24 years old I am concerned about fertility problems. A doctor who understand how my decade long illness has until now changed my eternity.

Gods blessings wash over me abundantly. And my lipstick is still there.

Update: So there is no tumor and still no complete answer . . . but one day, there will be.