True Beauty
by Janet S. Blake

When I was young, I was clueless how the world perceived me. Now everyone seems eager to tell me how old I look. On “Senior Discount Day” at Ross Dress for Less the cashier says,

“Ma’am, you don’t need to show me your I.D. No one would lie about a thing like that.”

Then, Brian, my husband of 24 years calls-out, “Hey, old lady” and means it. He also admits he’s unhappy. Says maybe if we had a dog our lives, or at least his, would be better. He brings home a puppy, a natural blonde, who joins our bed. Do not judge him. It’s been hard for him living with a wife who’s had cancer, twice, and little sex drive. When he coos and says, “Baby, I love you” and strokes Cooper’s back, I turn away… that used to be me.

I was at Vons when I lost it. A carefree, gum chewing bagger asked a simple question,

“Ma’am, can I help you to the car?”

“Look at me. Look at me. I have two rolls of Bounty and some broccoli spears. Do I look like I need help? Do I?”

You want to help? Bring back my breasts, bounce back in my hair, and the way my husband used to love me.

Instead I said, “Okay, let’s see if we can find my green Toyota.”

I was on edge because my annual PET/CT Scans were scheduled for the next morning to find out if the cancer had returned or spread. Since the last bout that almost killed me, my mantra has been, “God, thank you for this day.” I try to wear my post-chemo look as a badge of honor; grateful I have lived to be old. But I miss the other, sunny, outgoing me.

Home from Vons, I steam the broccoli and watch a re-run of “Dr. 91210”. You know, the hyper Dr. Rey who can fulfill a mom’s dream of having a stomach so flat she can wear a belly ring. Watching the surgeries and painful recoveries calms me. At least I’m not that shallow. The phone rings.

It is my youngest brother on his speaker phone too busy for conversation.

“Jan, a TV producer is looking for a cancer survivor who is in need of some beautification to enhance the healing process.”

Sounds a little pat.

“No thank you, Rob. I am healed. Find someone who really needs it.”

“I have,” he says. “I am hanging up. The Producer’s calling you.”

She does. “Listen, I’ve seen a picture of your pasty face, how dare you give up this opportunity? This is a gift from a renowned dermatologist who wants to do something special for a woman who has been through hell. Meet with her tomorrow--”

“--I can’t. I am having Scans tomorrow to find out--”

“--You don’t have cancer. I can tell from your voice. Meet with the doctor, and if you decide to go forward, and why wouldn’t you, we will film the before and after for a future show. Okay?”

I hear myself saying, “Okay.”

I return to Dr. Rey on freeze frame. The belly ring looks cute. Am I becoming one of them?

The next morning to distract myself from the pounding of the overhead scanner searching for tumors I think of the dermatologist who can erase years without surgery. But what if she rejects me because I am too old? A recorded voice commands: “INHALE, EXHALE, HOLD YOUR BREATHE”. I imagine I am swimming underwater the length of an Olympic sized-pool. “NOW, BREATHE.” When I am done, the technicians scatter before I can thank them or ask any questions. Did something show up and they don’t want me to read their faces? Official results come in two days, but I know if the news is good my oncologist’s nurse will call.

I travel six short blocks from the tower of healing to the palace of beauty. A lovely consultant has me fill-out many consent forms. Then, the dermatologist, petite, a thing of beauty, walks in, flips down her magnifying glasses and stares at my face. They exchange words, “Injections, fillers, laser? Photo facial? Scalp treatments? Definitely.” The face healer leaves. More appointments are scheduled when cameras will be rolling.

That night, I say, “Honey, How do you feel about me getting free beauty treatments?” He says, “At least the price is right.”

The next day my oncologist’s nurse does not call. I take it as a sign to meditate, give thanks for the life I have, and take the big blonde for a walk. Today all is well. Tomorrow everything can change.

The Producer is a fortuneteller…the scans are good. I am given more life. Bring it on. Inject me with Juvederm to fill-in the deep nasolabial folds, the vertical lines above the lip, and the puppet lines below. Sock it to me with Botox to take away decades of worry. Plump-up everything else. Then a man with strong, sensitive hands gives me a two-hour warm oil scalp massage. If he wasn’t in the room, I would have an orgasm.

At dinner, my husband says, “You know, JJ,” (a nickname he hasn’t used in years) “Your neck looks better.”

I’m thinking, motherfucker, they didn’t touch my neck.

After the 6th and final treatment, I feel like a red Ferrari and take my new face out for a spin. I beam at strangers and they smile back. I flirt with the parking attendant then give him a $10 tip. I wave forward jay walkers without my usual scolding. I go to the gym. I’ve lost my card, so the attendant checks my name against their records. When she finds me she says, “There is someone with that name but it isn’t you.” “How do you know?” “Because this person is very old,” then she whispers my birth date. “That’s me.”

When I reveal my good fortune to friends, one becomes jealous, “You were given free treatments just because you had cancer?” True. A cancer perk.

I know you’re thinking, “Janet, You don’t look all that.” It had a short shelf-life. Like an oil change…in an old car…with a leaky pan. But for six weeks I acted as though I was beautiful. I felt Visible and Wanted.

Best part, other than Brian no longer calling me his “First Wife”? Now at night, he holds me in the crook of his arm and the big blonde stretches out at the bottom of our bed. The three of us are happy to grow old together.