Cancer + The Wonderful World of Body Image Lousiness...

Growing up, I was always average everything. I was also shy and picked on, so none that probably helped matters. As far as my physicality goes, it's a long story, so buckle up.

I guess I never noticed it until a group of girls mocked me for it, but my head tilts to the left a bit. Now, mind you it was just a "thing" until they did a body scan when I was diagnosed with cancer. That's when the doctor discovered that my neck is missing a few pedicles (the little wings that stick out of the vertebrae) and that's why it favours that side. I also have an asymmetrical face, which I really notice and think is terribly extreme and it bothers me. But that's my face and there's not a whole lot I can do about it and I'm probably seeing it wrong anyway, so whatever. 

When I hit puberty, my dad's "farm stock genetics" came to the fore and I was a husky kid until I was 19. I wasn't huge or anything, but I never experienced that lanky "all arms and legs" stage that a lot of kids go through. Again, I was pretty average, but relatives felt I would be a good footballer... if I had even the remotest interest in the sport, but I didn't.

So, I turned 19 and I mysteriously dropped 25 to 30 pounds without even trying. It was weird and I accepted it for what it was. I was really active, but I still had an average body. I didn't like taking off my shirt and even though when I did, some folks would comment that I had a nice physique, but I didn't see it. It also didn't help that on at least one occasion, I heard my mother say "he takes after his father and has his love handles". That was embarrassing and perpetuated my body image issues. I guess if your own mother can't say something nice about you, it has to be true. 

Because I didn't have the amazing muscle definition or the statuesque height of a circuit queen, I was generally overlooked when it came to finding dates. I was always the "adorable and funny friend". One friend who was a handsome bartender knew a lot of people felt bad for me, so he'd set me up with dates with different people. When the dates didn't work out, he'd say "oh, honey... you didn't want to go out with him anyway because he has a drug problem" or some other ridiculous, but frighteningly concerning issues. Despite that I should have taken these failures as warning signs, I would continue to allow my friend to set me up on dates until one eventually worked out for a little while. I really liked this guy. And then he moved. The end.

Okay, it wasn't actually the end. I really started working out in 1997 and I added muscle size in about 6 years, but I was bulky even though I did a lot of cardio. Dad's genes again--the gift that keeps on giving! I wasn't fat, but I was what we jokingly referred to as "gay fat", which means you're better than the average male, but not 3% body fat or hugely muscled. Since I wasn't huge, as in stocky or fat, I wasn't a bear, but also wasn't a gym queen, and I certainly wasn't a twink. In all honesty, I didn't understand any of the labels or the definitions of what one needed to look like in order to fit into one of these "classifications", so I essentially had "no people". If you liked me, you really liked me as the adorable and funny guy, but I pretty much stood apart from the crowd again. Oh, and one time, a massage therapist was working on me and said, "you shouldn't feel bad about your body. Many men like husky guys!" Hey, thanks for that boost of confidence, I really feel pretty right now. Please don't touch me there because that's apparently a "fat part".

Remarkably, I got to a place where I made peace with the way I looked and that made me happy. I don't know if it was age or that I had no fucks to give, but I was "this" and "this" was perfectly fine. And then I got sick.

This is the awesome part where Multiple Myeloma caused me to lose about 2 1/2 inches of height due to compression fractures in my spine!

What that means is that everything has shifted downward 2 1/2 inches. Examine your body. Do it. You have shoulders, comprised of the scapula and clavicle. They hold things up like a coathanger and below that, you have ribs, which don't really move. Then you have your abdomen and that's the only real spot where your body can make adjustments for this loss of height. Unfortunately, it's given my abdomen a weird shape and it matters not how much ab work I do, it's just going to be a weird shape. And it gives me super hot love handles, which makes me think of that comment my mother made when she thought I was out of earshot. And my back and neck always hurt, which makes me think of the shitty mocking I received from that group of schoolgirls. The mind is kind.

Finally, there's my good friend, dexamethasone. It's a steroid that has properties which help keep the Myeloma at bay. I should be grateful for that benefit, and I guess I probably shouldn't complain because most people gain anywhere from five to fifteen to sixty pounds from it. I've gained zero. Unfortunately, because it's a steroid, it causes your body to experience bloating or puffiness and you get "moon face". A few months back, my husband and I had lunch with a friend and her husband. The husband kept examining me and insisted that I'd gained weight. Of course, this should be something that any normal person would want to hear, so it should be fine, right? Okay... that was total sarcasm. I know it's hard to read tone on the internet, but I will just say it again: sarcasm. I cheerfully told him that I'd actually lost weight, but he insisted that wasn't true and went on to describe how he could tell I gained weight. His wife, also a cancer thriver and on steroids, experiencing the same problem, came to my aid. When you share a journey together, there are just some things you do for each other... especially when the explanation is 100% true. He finally stopped insisting. I didn't feel like eating anything for lunch, but I did and then hated myself for it. 

To top things off, the Coronavirus certainly hasn't helped matters. Even though I still lift some weights at home a couple times a week and go on frequent long walks, it's nothing compared to the 5- or 6-day-a-week gym routine that kept me fit and my head in a better space. So back I go again to the well and drink copiously from the ladle of physical self-loathing and see something hideous in the mirror. There are times where I think I look OK and then I change my mind later in the day when I see myself at a different angle. I have to confess--I honestly don't really know what my face or my body looks like because I've been fed these disappointments, images of how I should appear, and unexpected physical expectations for so long. I really don't. And I'm not saying this because I am fishing for compliments, but I am going to be frank and tell you that this occupies my mind far more often than my illness dues. And how sad is that? I worry more about how I appear to people than what this disease is doing to me. But that's the reality of it. 

I think the dumbest thing about all of this is that I have dated people who are all shapes and sizes and I enjoy them all. I just don't enjoy "me". I am attracted to both men and women whose bodies run a vast range of types. To me, an attractive person is just an attractive person full stop, but this is not a rule I apply to myself. That is really messed up.

And yeah, all of us have this to one degree or another, so I know I'm not alone, but I appreciate that you gave me a few minutes of your day (or night) to read all of this. Thank you.