The Lasting Trauma of Breast Cancer or It’s My Party and I'll Cry if I Want to

I had a strange experience a couple weeks ago, following an appointment with my dermatologist. It happened to be my birthday, which I communicated to him, kidding/hinting that it would sure be great if they gave out freebies in honor of such occasions.
 “Is it really your birthday?“ he asked.
 “No,” I replied. “I just lie about it to get free stuff.” (I don’t usually engage in smart-alecky repartee with doctors, but this guy has a sarcastic sense of humor).

He asked if I had a half hour to spare, then escorted me down the hall to the “spa” room where a beautiful blonde medical aesthetician awaited me for a free birthday facial! Wow! What followed was a variety of various high-tech procedures involving facial cleansing, exfoliation, micro-current and gentle waves LED treatments, and other stuff I don’t remember the names of, all accompanied by heavenly-smelling concoctions from plants growing above and below the sea.

For the finale, she stood behind the reclined chair where I lay totally at peace, free from pain or worry, and began a gentle facial massage. I thought I was already as serene as I could be, but her soothing fingers took my tranquility to another level. I was overcome with an unusually strong sense of being cared for, as well as a feeling of emotional release and a sudden urge to cry. I knew immediately that this was, somehow, related to the breast cancer.

Of course, I held back the tears. Maintained my control. I made it through the conclusion of the session with a broad smile. I profusely thanked the doc and crew, rode the elevator down to the lobby, out the glass doors, through the parking lot to my car, settled myself behind the steering wheel, buckled my seatbelt, and began to sob. I continued like that for a long time.

Later, after some research, including talking to my husband - a clinical psychologist - and one of his colleagues, I found that my experience was not an uncommon one. Especially for victims of trauma. What was my trauma? Breast cancer.

Turns out massage therapy frequently elicits responses such as mine. The theory is that repressed emotions can be held in our bodies. Massage may bring them to the surface. This is probably due to a combination of the physical manipulation and being in a safe, nurturing environment. It’s somewhat similar to the emotional release we might experience when a friend reaches out to us - taking our hand or giving us a hug during a time when we have all we can do to keep standing.

Massage may produce a general feeling of body relaxation that leads to the walls finally crumbling - the walls we erected to hold back the flood of fear and grief that threatened to knock us off our feet just at the time we needed to rise to fight the enemy. Perhaps we’re loathe to let down our guard, even years after our diagnosis and treatment. It doesn’t help that we need to revisit the beast each time we go in for another check-up, blood test, body scan, or notice a strange pain somewhere. No wonder we hold onto our defenses long after their usefulness date has expired.

My husband’s colleague also suggested that my reaction to the specific circumstances of facial message may have had to do with memories related to that part of my body. I certainly do remember many occasions of lying nervously on gurneys, being wheeled to operating rooms with medical personnel behind me, outside my visual field. I also remember the anesthesia masks. And I’m sure I had a smile plastered on my face right up until they knocked me out.


Maybe my real birthday present wasn’t the facial. Maybe it was realizing that it’s long past time to quit the smiling and just allow myself to cry.