Mismatching Trim

I feel like I’m a little behind on writing (not that I have a deadline or anything. Although…) Unfortunately, the week was a little more chaotic than I anticipated. On Monday, it started raining in the kitchen. One of the brand-new water lines to our bathroom sink wasn’t tightened properly by our (former) plumber and this caused a leak of epic proportions that led to a five-day remediation. We had multiple humidifiers and fans blowing in the kitchen and master bath at all hours of the day. It kind of sounded like a giant sound machine… 4-week-old Peter loved it.

During the B.C. (Before Cancer) era, this would have shaken me to my core and sent me into a furious pity party. It would have been the main topic of my therapy session. But yesterday, when Dr. Sanborn asked how things were going, it didn’t even come up. Post-cancer, I suppose my threshold for panic is much higher than it used to be.

When I found out I had cancer, I imagine it was sort of like a near-death experience. My life flashed before my eyes. And only what mattered most rose to the surface—my family. A wave of gratitude crashed into me, forcing me to my knees, thanking God for the beautiful life I had been given. Fortunately for me, this wasn’t a typical near-death experience, and I wasn’t obliterated by a bus two seconds later. This flash has persisted over the last few weeks, allowing me to remember what’s truly important. It’s allowed me to live with intentionality and not get hyper-focused on all the little things, as I did before.

B.C. it was all about the little things. And I don’t mean the good little things, like appreciating a nice warm cup of cocoa on a fall evening. No, I’m talking about those pesky mental gnats that eat away at you. At our old house in Tennessee, for example, I remember how anxious I was over the fact that some of the trim color didn’t quite match. The trim pieces were all white, but slightly different whites. This literally (not figuratively, literally) kept me up at night and I eventually hired painters to repaint the trim. Losing sleep over things like minorly mismatching trim is almost certainly why I have cancer in the first place.

When Winston came into the picture, the worrying got a whole lot worse (if I give him too many graham crackers will he get diabetes?)—but at least a child’s well-being is worth stressing over. Now, if you’re an esteemed interior decorator, then sure, having the trim match would be a worthy concern. But I’m not a decorator. I just needed the trim to look perfect because… because…… because what?

My therapist asked me this seemingly simple question. “Why do you need your house to look perfect?” she asked. “Is it because you want it to look a certain way? Or is it because you want other people to like it?” It stopped me dead in my mental tracks. I had never considered this before. After thinking it over for a bit, the honest answer I came to was… “Both.”

I’m a perfectionist. I’m hard wired that way, no matter how hard I try to circumvent this most prominent and horribly inconvenient fiber of my being. But it’s just the way I am.* I need other people to see me as perfect, because if people see me as perfect than I see myself as perfect. It’s a chicken and egg sorta thing. *Using the phrase “just the way I am” is an efficient way to avoid the complicated specifics of my childhood that caused perfectionism to take root. How my childhood turned me into a perfectionist could be its own post. More accurately, it could be its own book.

But for the first time since I can remember, this perfectionism has started to loosen its grip on me. Since getting my diagnosis, I’m starting to go a little easier on myself—something my husband, mother, and a horde of therapists have pleaded me to do since long before the cancer formed. That inner critic has started to nag less and praise more. I’m even experiencing something my therapist calls, self-compassion. It’s a term I’ve seen scrawled on the walls of AA meeting rooms, but that’s about as far as my experience with the concept went. Until now. Who knew that getting a deadly disease would be my path towards inner strength?

I think my shaved head perfectly symbolizes this bizarre evolution and that’s why I love it so much (though not having to blow dry or style my hair is an extremely close second). I freaking LOVE my shaved head. It makes me feel like a badass. I bought a wig the other day—a really nice one—but it just doesn’t match this new confidence I seem to have found through all this cancer muck. Maybe I’ll feel differently once my hair actually falls out, but for now, I’m gonna rock the buzz cut. I’ll wear it like a piece of armor, protecting me from all the mismatching trim that’s out there in the world and all the mental angst that comes with it.

PS In the time that it took me to write, edit, and publish this piece, I lost it on an electrician, my husband, my older son, and a horsefly. So I guess I’m not totally impervious to small hangups. But maybe with time, I’ll just keep getting a little better at managing.

Or not. Hey, no one’s perfect.