by Heather Plett | Mar 12, 2010 | Uncategorized
I was awake at 4:30 in the morning. After sleeping almost steady since my breast reduction surgery at 10:30 the previous morning, there was very little sleep left in me.
I lay there in bed, on my back – my least favourite position, but the only position that works when your breasts have road maps of slices across them. My hands moved down to my chest… and I started to cry.
No, it wasn’t the pain – that was mostly managed by the painkillers. Partly the tears were just about the beauty of that moment. For the first time since the day I ballooned out of a wimpy training bra, I was putting my hands on my breasts and feeling small, firm, normal-sized breasts, even under the layers of bandages. Nothing flopped to the side or hung down to my belly-button. They were PERKY!
But there was something deeper behind the tears. A release. A forgiveness. A realization that I am okay and that I didn’t make a mistake.
All of the baggage I’ve been carrying? The reason it took me so much time and contemplation to get to the place where I was ready for this surgery? It’s all because I believed that wanting smaller breast was just too selfish.
If there’s one thing I’ve been raised to fight against, it is selfishness. After all, isn’t a good Christian woman supposed to be the embodiment of selflessness? Especially once you’ve become a mom? Doesn’t that verse in the Bible really say “Do unto others. Period.” ? At least that’s the way my internal monologue seemed to interpret it.
Oh, it’s not that I haven’t learned to be selfish in my life. I can be VERY selfish. Often. But… it usually comes with a good helping of guilt. Or I manage to justify it because “others are benefitting too – not just me.” Or, if nothing else, I get to be kind to myself once in awhile just because I”ve EARNED it – through hard work, pain, diligence, whatever.
Not only was it selfish, but it was… oh that dreadful word… frivolous.
What’s a mature 43 year old do-gooder feminist in management in a non-profit organization who has been known to stand on the soapbox of simple living, justice, treehugging, and compassion now and then doing contemplating something as frivolous as plastic surgery? Sheesh! Aren’t there people to feed in this world, HIV orphans to look after, injustice to stamp out?
And yet, there I was at 4:30 in the morning, knowing that I’d made the right decision. And crying happy tears because I was okay. I had given myself permission and I had worked past the many ways I judge myself, and I was not going to hell for it.
I have a pretty good feeling God’s not standing in judgement somewhere shaking her head in my direction. Probably the only person judging me all this time was myself. And I’m letting that go, bit by bit.
And soon… I’m going to buy myself some lovely, frivolous, fitted blouses. And they might not even come from Value Village.
by Heather Plett | Mar 10, 2010 | Uncategorized
This day wasn’t easy. There was the “clean up my desk before disappearing from work for a few weeks”. And the “put out the fires and make last minute decisions” that the staff require of me every day but even more-so when I’m about to leave. And on top of that, the “sign these documents, wire this money, make sure you submit your outstanding expense forms”. Oh, and then the “calm some of the uneasiness among new staff about being leader-less for a few weeks”. Plus the “notify all consultants, make sure they know the next steps in the process and who to contact in my absence.”
And then at the end of the day, there was some potentially disappointing news about some things I want to do this Spring that might not work out after all.
Boo.
The hardest part? I was trying to cope with all of this with a raging head cold. One that I can’t take medication for because of pending surgery. AND one that could potentially postpone said surgery if they’re uneasy about putting me under general anesthetic if I can’t breathe through my nose.
Ugh.
But… here’s the good part… it’s the end of the day, I’m about to head to bed, and I’m feeling quite relaxed. And peaceful.
Why? Because YOU lift me up. Yes you.
Each of you who reached out to me in one way or another – you’ve made a difference. The dear friend who phoned me at work to wish me luck. The other dear friend who met me for lunch. The two members of my staff team and my colleague who gave me gifts and lovely cards. The other staff people who wished me well. The kind members of my family who sent emails and said prayers. All of the people who commented on my last (rather vulnerable and raw) blog post and/or sent follow-up emails. And then all of you lovely Twitter friends who sent me good vibes when I admitted to feeling low. And my mom who’s getting up early and giving up a couple of days (of her busy social calendar) to be my nurse-maid.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or the next day, or the next. But I know that it will be easier to bear because YOU lift me up.
NEVER underestimate the power of an encouraging word. Or a prayer.
(And never be afraid to ask for it when you need it, because it really does help.)
by Heather Plett | Mar 9, 2010 | art, Beauty, grace, journey
He stood there. Naked and unflinching. Stared at by a dozen eager art students. Each of them trying to capture the curve of his belly, the shadow between his butt cheeks, and every flaw and imperfection on his face. Not even a hint of shame appeared – not a wince, not a clenched muscle in his jaw, not a discrete turning to hide any part of his body – he simply posed as the instructor told him.
It seemed fitting and somewhat ironic that in the middle of this particular journey that will lead me (in just 2 days) to lie beneath the surgeon’s knife and give up a part of my own profile, I was sitting in an art studio staring at a naked man.
What did his nudity have to do with my upcoming surgery? Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about the human body in recent weeks. Trying to come to terms with how I feel about my own body. Trying to determine just what my personal body image is. Trying to hold each of the body-related thoughts along this journey captive while I examine what they mean and how their stories shape me.
I have never been very comfortable with my own nakedness. I dress quickly when I emerge from the shower, never stopping to look at myself in the mirror. Even before the children were born, I couldn’t leave the bedroom unless fully clothed. Much to my husband’s chagrin, I wear pajamas to bed and cannot sleep unless I am dressed. Taking the above photo was one of the most awkward things I’ve ever done.
I don’t want to be naked. I don’t want to be reminded of my flaws and imperfections. I don’t want to see the way one heavy breast hangs nearly an inch lower than the other, or the way the cellulite bubbles on my hips. If I keep it all covered, I can pretend I don’t hear the screams of “unworthy” sounding off in my head.
Years ago, there was an artist visiting the Winnipeg Folk Festival who was displaying the most beautiful sculptures of pregnant women. I longed to be sculpted by him, to be made beautiful in my nakedness at the hands of an artist. But I wasn’t pregnant at the time. He told me how difficult it was to find women who were willing to model for him. He gave me his card and said if I were ever pregnant again, I should call him.
I was pregnant again. Twice. But I didn’t call. Part of me ached for it – wanted it so badly. But part of me couldn’t get past the shame and awkwardness of knowing someone would see my every flaw. I don’t even like the way my husband stares at me when I’m naked, how could I let an artist do it?
In two days, I’m having breast reduction surgery. You might be thinking “perhaps you should get your body image issues in order before you do that” and maybe you’d be right. But the truth is, this feels like the right time for me. It feels like something I need to do to feel more free and alive in my body. That might seem messed up, but it’s my truth and it’s the journey I’ve chosen.
It’s about having the freedom to run down the street without holding my chest tight with one of my arms. It’s about not feeling the ache in my shoulders or back. It’s about not having the underwire cut into my ribs under the weight. It’s about being able to buy a “normal” bra and not being told by the sales clerk for the umpteenth time “we don’t have anything in YOUR size”.
Will it make me feel more comfortable with my nudity? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure it won’t be a cure-all, but maybe it will help me take baby steps. And maybe someday, a little further along the journey, I’ll let an artist sculpt me, flaws and all.
As I got lost in the meditative act of outlining and shading the muscles, the bum, the groin, and the slightly drooping stomach of our model last night, I couldn’t help but sit in awe at the wonder of the human body. It’s a beautiful thing, this mass of sculpted muscles, skin, hair, sagging bellies, protruding birthmarks, imperfect lips – all of it. We are indeed fearfully and wonderfully made. In the likeness of our Creator.
Even me.
by Heather Plett | Mar 8, 2010 | India
It’s International Women’s Day. There are days when I get complacent and think “what’s the point of a day like today? Haven’t we succeeded in changing our place in society? Do we still need a day to mark the need for change?” And then all I need to do is remember that day in India, and I know that we (the global “we” that recognizes that what hurts a young woman in India hurts me) still have so far to go.
(following is a re-post)
The List of the Missing
Pharmin Khatun, age 16, missing. Manila Purkite, age 14, missing. Raksha Khatun, age 11, missing.
Pages and pages of names. Listed under the current status for most of them was one word – “missing”. Only one or two on each page said “restore” or “rescue”.
Each name represented a young girl missing from the villages we visited in Mandir Bazer, West Bengal, India. All of them were presumed to have been taken to the big cities and forced into the sex trade.
Lost in the never-ending grip of poverty, families in the region look for whatever hope they can find to help them survive. Girls are expendable. Girls cost money. Girls require dowries when they reach marriageable age.
A trustworthy-looking man visits the village and tells the family, “Send your daughters with me. I will take them to the city and help them find good jobs. Then they can send money home to their families. Your lives will all be improved. Trust me.”
They trust him and send off their girls. Fourteen year old girls. Eleven year old girls. Girls just like the three carefree daughters I would be going home to in a week’s time.
The young and dedicated staff of HASUS sat around the table and told us stories of the girls they were trying to find and rescue. They showed us the home they were building to house those that were lucky enough to be found and returned to the village. We met a deaf girl who had little chance of survival except for the compassion of the staff of HASUS. We met some of the young women who were part of a retraining program – learning sewing skills so that at least they would be employable. In most cases, their families don’t want them back when they return as damaged goods.
Learning sewing skills
Two years later I am still shaken by the horror of giving up my daughter because the poverty wraps me so tightly in a cocoon I can’t imagine any other way out.
How can we change the world so that THEY have a chance to celebrate International Women’s Day?
by Heather Plett | Mar 7, 2010 | Uncategorized
Two years ago, I was lucky enough to be in Bangladesh for the Hindu Holi festival in March. It’s a day when people chase each other around with coloured water or powder and splash it on each other in a gleeful cacophony of colour. By the end of the day, everyone is as colourful as these boys (whose shirts started the day white). This picture was taken from a small boat while we were floating down a canal. These boys were chasing the boat, hoping to baptize us in colour.
I think at this time of year, Holi would be the perfect festival to adopt in North America. Think about it – all of that grey slushy slow that no longer looks pristine and white like it did a month ago, would be transformed into a burst of random colour. And all of those grey, black, and brown winter coats that we can’t put away just yet, because March is too unpredictable, would now be pink and purple and brilliant blue.
I don’t know about you, but this is the time of year that I most desperately start craving colour.
Postscript: It just occurred to me that the day this picture was taken followed the hardest night. Which is a rather fitting metaphor, isn’t it? After the darkness comes the dawn? After the bed bugs/wild dogs/cockroaches/diarrhea comes the day when you float down a canal with young laughing boys trying to douse you in colour? After the unholy night comes Holi day?
And today I have to remember, after winter, comes SPRING!
