No topic is off limits in the operating room. While we reconstruct, remove, or generally alter various body parts, my coworkers and I open up about our own lives and bodies to a backdrop of 80s love songs. Over time, I’ve realized that health care professionals are completely desensitized to topics that might wig out the general population—particularly the private blunders and triumphs of our own human anatomy.
Ever since I’ve started writing seriously, I’ve commonly heard the advice: write what you know. And, because of my job, there are few things I know as well as the reality of the human body. Consequently, I’m inclined to see it as a metaphor for so many truths and realities in life, including the change of seasons.
This morning I look out my window and I’m delighted to see the sun boldly streaming in. The brittle brown shrubs on the steep hill behind our house are rapidly filling with green; the tree branches are birthing white and red and yellow buds. No doubt, spring is here.
But when I look at the terrain of my own body, I’m inclined to think I’m existing in the climate of late August or early September, when the heat and vigor of summer has passed its peak and the leaves are reluctantly beginning to turn other colors. There’s a mirror hanging on the wall across from my bed where I currently write, and when I periodically look up from my laptop, I catch a startling glimpse of my own reflection:
Morning face. Glasses on. Greasy, fine hair pulled into a stubby pony tail. It’s been four weeks since I got my hair done and the grays at my frontal hairline are reflecting the morning light like metallic confetti, which reminds me to make my next salon appointment. My lips are pale and dry and my teeth need to be whitened. My brows and upper lip need to be waxed. My bikini line needs serious attention. I’m proud of myself for shaving my legs in the bathtub last night. My nails are short and naked and my cuticles are out of control. I need to run a pumice stone over my heels and I’m still trying to find a good retinol product for my face.
And then there’s the bigger surface area of my body, currently covered by my gray pajamas. My rear end has flattened and my hips have widened since childbirth. I have no bra on, and there’s not much left to support anyways, since my daughters sucked the plumpness out of my once glorious B-cup breasts. Now, I watch my daughters’ bodies changing, my twelve-year-old bearing the fledgling signs of womanhood. She’d be appalled by my writing this, but her body is like the view out my window: a bright and fresh bud, just on the cusp of glory.
I currently work with mostly women, taking care of other women who are navigating the various seasons of an aging and changing body. I have to warn my patients before I touch them that my hands are freezing. “Cold hands, warm heart,” I say almost every day, as I position their limbs on the operating table. Meanwhile, my other coworkers are hot-flashing under their scrubs and want the room temp turned lower. I know that I’ll be in their shoes in no time. We are like a sisterhood, a “red tent” of sorts, owning the often-hilarious reality of our physicality as we surgically care for our female patients in indescribable ways.
Whether we women want enhancements or revisions or reductions or reconstructions, I’ve realized we are all seeking to feel more comfortable in our skin as we evolve through the rugged elements of life.
The journey is different for each of us, and God bless it all. We all can feel glorious and vulnerable and sometimes plain ugly in our own skin, and regardless of what we do with that skin, we are bonded by this common plight. Paradoxically, this plight is also where the beauty is.
There’s obviously so much ruckus that flies around pop culture and social media regarding our bodies and what we should do with them, and as a nurse, I can say that I’ve seen it all done before. Ultimately, those types of conversations don’t interest me as much as what’s underneath the anatomy: the stories underneath the skin, the tension we all navigate as living beings with bodies that shift uncontrollably, according to the seasons.
What season is your body in, and how have you navigated the tension of these changes?
Libby Kurz holds a BS in Nursing and an MFA in Creative Writing. Her work has been published in The Poet’s Billow, Relief Journal, Driftwood Press, Literary Mama, and Ruminate. A veteran of the US Air Force, she now resides on the coast of Virginia with her family. When she’s not reading, writing, and keeping tabs on her three kids, she works as registered nurse and teaches poetry workshops. She loves a good cup of coffee, bohemian home decor, bumming on the beach, and finding meaning in the ordinary moments of life. You can find her at https://libbykurz.com
It has taken a long time for me to come to terms with my body. Looking back, I now know how skewed my image was and how I missed appreciating the “spring” and “summer” seasons of my body. Now, though, I am more comfortable in my body, in my own skin. I work in a cancer support center, and many of the women who have undergone surgeries that have “reshaped” their bodies have helped me accept my body as it is. I remind myself that I am a spirit inhabiting a body–it is just the vessel for who I am.
Thank you so much for your comment, Madeline. I’m learning so much by working on and with women who are in seasons ahead of me. I bet you’ve seen so much working at the cancer support center. Breast reconstructions are miraculous and also a massive cost and undertaking and I’ve been blown away by the stories each woman holds under her skin. Thanks for sharing xoxo
Libby, that you for writing this piece. A piece that all of us can relate to as women. As our bodies change and we learn to embrace or fight off those changes.
Libby – I had a longer replay written but it did not print. Basically it said, we are more than what we present on the outside – we all have stories, pasts, longings, experiences, joys, sorrows, gifts, on the inside of us – that never grow old. We are like a forest of trees – us women – some of us older than others, but together we make up a beautiful, thriving forest. You are an awesome writer and I thank you for your vulnerability and wisdom that you willingly share with us. God bless!
Thank you Barbara. I love the forest analogy. I always deeply appreciate your comments and encouragement. God Bless.
I always appreciate your writing, Libby. You make me feel something. I agree, it’s the stories underneath the skin and the tension of our bodies aging that propels us to ultimate questions. That’s intriguing, exhilarating and mysterious.
It also brought to mind Jesus’ words, “This is my body broken for you.”
I look forward to that resurrected body.
Thank you so much, Shawnee. Yes, I often think about the resurrected body and how glorious it will be. I love bodies, even our imperfect ones, and I see so much beauty in them. How much more glorious they will be when all things are redeemed!
Your pajama body sounds just right! I am living in my skin in new ways in my 50s. It’s a gentler and kinder season. Great job capturing nurses by the way!
Haha. Pajama body ✌🏼! Looking forward to gentler and kinder seasons xoxo
I am glad you started writing seriously.
Thank you, Jan 🙂