~:T H E • S K I N • I'M • I N:~
So I had a really creepy dream last night.
There was this preteen boy who was born without skin. All of his organs and tendons and muscles were showing. It was scary to look at. His Aunt had decided to help him. She gave him the skin on her face. I didn't see him after the transplant surgery, but I saw her. She used to be an attractive woman. But now looked very strange with scars and stitches and transplanted pigskin stretched over her face, neck and head. She was in the mall, shopping. She had no more hair. And I remember admiring her for such a sacrifice. To live the rest of your life out looking like a burn victim, just so your nephew could feel a little more comfortable, was remarkable. She was out shopping for scarves and hats and wigs. She was happy to do it. The way she looked didn't seem to phase her. It was her maternal instincts that kicked in to try to help this boy. She saw the bigger picture.
And here I am, worried about how I look. Feeling fat and bloated. My face doesn't look like my own anymore. At least not to me. My hair is too think to style it the way I want to. My thighs are twice the size they used to be. I am thinking I'll never be the same. Envious of people jumping in and out of their cars, zipping around, standing tall, in movement, getting things done.
I am still. I am heavy. My back hurts constantly. I am getting tired of eating the same thing. I am tired of eating. All I can do is sit. And wait. And complain. Rather than bask in the joy of maternal love and sacrifice, I cry because I am afraid of the worst outcome and I complain about what I am giving up and about how badly I feel. I can't do half of what that Aunt in my dream is doing. Or maybe I can and don't know it yet.