My Lotus Tattoo
The stem is a representation of the Buddhist path to enlightenment. Even though I’m not a Buddhist, the twists and turns of the line remind me of life.
It is late Thursday morning and I have spent the last few hours in my pajamas, in bed, binge watching “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on Amazon Prime. It is the mindless kind of drama that I need — nothing bad ever really happens and the teen angsty relationship between Buffy and the vampire, Angel, takes me on a nostalgic trip back to high school. There are so many other things I should have done but didn’t.
It is time to get ready for work. I pull myself from the bed and head to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Once the water has heated, I step in and let the steam envelope me and fill my lungs. I bend over and touch my fingers to my toes — stretching my back, my right hamstring which is always tight because of overuse and then my left weaker one before turning to the business of washing my hair, my face and my body. I want to languish in this warm cocoon, but I can’t. I wasted too much time with Buffy.
I get out of the shower, sit on the marble ledge that surrounds my over-size sunken tub, and stretch out my legs. I grab the green bottle of olive and mint scent body lotion and squeeze white cool drops down my legs, paying special attention to the lotus tattoo on my right inner ankle. Angela, who waxes my legs and has many tattoos told me when I first got it, “You need to baby that so it will last. Extra sunscreen when you are outside and plenty of moisturizer on it every day.” I rub another dollop of lotion into the dark meandering lines of my tattoo.
I decided to get the tattoo for my 50th birthday. The lotus is cliché, but I don’t care. For me, it represents strength, beauty and resilience — every day the lotus flower grows out of the mud to bloom and drink in the sun before sinking back into the mud as the sun sets. A lotus seed can survive for more than 200 years. The stem of my tattoo is a representation of the Buddhist path to enlightenment. I can’t remember what it is called, and I am not a Buddhist, but the twists and turns of the line remind me of what life does.
But today I do not feel strong or beautiful or resilient. I feel deflated. After my appointment yesterday with my neurologist where he told me that despite the every-6-month infusions of the latest and greatest drug for MS that I have been receiving for the past 2 years, the weakness in my leg caused by an MS flare 20 years ago is progressing. Because of the pandemic I have not seen him in person for over 2 years and he is not telling me anything I don’t know. But I have kept this knowledge wrapped up in a neat little package of denial and tucked it away. His words crack me wide open and it is real.
Today, I do not want to be positive, upbeat or strong. Today, I do not want to be grateful for the fact that I am doing as well as I am despite having MS for 22 years. Today, I do not want to be told that I have a great attitude, that I am amazing or that I am brave. Today, when I am walking with my limp down the long hallway that leads from the staff parking lot to the elevators that will take me to my office and someone who I don’t know asks me “What did you do to yourself” I want to answer:
“I didn’t do anything to myself. My body betrayed me; my immune system turned on me and decided to poke holes in the insulation of my brain so the messages it sends to my muscles are weak and ineffective. And now, my muscles have atrophied over time and little by little have begun to work less effectively. And by the way it is none of your fucking business. And who the fuck are you anyway?”
But I won’t say this. I don’t want to make them uncomfortable — they don’t realize. Instead, I will look at them and say, “It’s a long story.” It has taken me a long time to realize that I don’t owe them more than that.
And now I have to go to the office and provide care for women of all ages when I am in need of care myself. I don’t want to listen to young women complaining about their vaginas being too wet or my menopausal patients’ vaginas being too dry, although I empathize. I don’t have the energy for them today. To answer the exhausting questions of my first-time pregnant patients for whom all common-sense and reason seems to go out the window as soon as they conceive:
“Can I wear make-up?”
“Can I listen to loud music?”
“If I bend over, will I crush my baby?”
“Is it ok to drive my car when I am in the 3rd trimester?”
Normally, I am patient and understanding. But today, listening to them lament about tiny stretch marks, or a few zits or the fact that they gained an extra pound, drains me. I want to shout at them,
“This doesn’t matter. Women have been having babies for thousands of years and if all this mattered, we would have gone extinct a long time ago. You are healthy and the last time I checked pregnancy is not a disease.”
But I won’t. After all, they have never been pregnant before and the state they find themselves in is both exciting and terrifying. I remember. Instead, I will muster the energy to reassure them that all will be well.
In my darkest moments, I have sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to have cancer instead of a degenerative neurologic disease. That is not to say that the treatment for cancer is easy but, in the end, you are either cured or you are not. You live or you die. And of course, I know it is not that simple. For those who survive, the specter of a recurrence is always lurking and for those who are not, it can be a long, painstaking road to the end. I know because I have been through it with my dear friends…twice. Both times metastatic breast cancer. Both times grueling and painful as they jumped from one experimental drug to the next over several months, fighting to stay alive to attend a high school or college graduation; to celebrate one more birthday or anniversary; to spend one more day with their loved ones. Both battles lost. In these moments when I am filled with self-pity, I can hear my dear friend, Roberta, scolding me:
“You Jackass. So, you might not be able to walk your children down the aisle, but you will be at their weddings. And maybe you won’t be able to chase your grandchildren around the playground, but you will know them. And when you and Jake retire, maybe you won’t climb Kilimanjaro or hike in Patagonia as you had planned but you will be able to travel the world, explore different countries, cultures and cuisines. Every day that you are alive, you will be able to watch sunrises and sunsets, to smell ocean breezes, to listen to music, to appreciate works of art. You will be able to argue, to yell, to laugh, to cry. You will be able to love and be loved.”
I know she is right, and I feel pathetic for having these thoughts, but I also forgive myself. MS is not cancer and it will not kill me, but it will slowly eat away at my physical abilities and my future is uncertain. But human nature is to turn towards hope even in the face of adversity. I have seen many instances of this in my time as a physician and so I know that tomorrow or next week or in a few months from now, I will once again feel beautiful and strong and resilient just like the lotus in my tattoo.
But not today. Today, I wallow.
