November 3
St. Wendelin, Luxemburg
Today’s gospel was about Zacchaeus who simply wants to see Jesus but it is Jesus who sees Zacchaeus. When the kids were in elementary school this story was part of their Vacation Bible School where I helped with snacks and games, the best assignment for me. Don’t you just marvel when someone is matched perfectly with their talents? At St. Wendelin, Father Ron delivered the Gospel like I have never experienced. Instead of reading the Gospel, he recited it from memory without missing a word then followed it with a deep and engaging homily, checking his notes only once at the beginning. He truly has the calling to preach and it was awesome to be in this church to witness it. His message had connections to saving the lost with the charge of both keeping ourselves connected and when ready, to provide help to those near us by being Christian role models and listening when they share their burdens.
Though just a wee tiny burg, Luxemburg was big in community. I met a coworker, Shelly, and her mom, Jeanne before Mass outside, then walked through the cemetery in front of the church to visit the grave of Peanut, Shelly’s infant daughter. After we celebrated Mass together, we celebrated with breakfast across the street at the Hayloft, where, like Cheers, everyone knew each other. Every patron was greeted at the door, many like us directly from church. Several diners rotated between tables, catching up. When I mentioned my relatives who had lived in Luxemburg, Uncle Pete and Aunt Lorraine, I earned immediate acceptance into the embrace of the close-knit community. It reminded me of the quick acceptance I felt in the Look Good Feel Better workshops.
Look Good Feel Better
Even though I was more involved in church than before, I felt like I had a lot more to do. Keenly aware that I needed to focus on prepping my soul, I also knew I could not live my life with too much focus on the end. Also, I was completely unmoored in the drastic shift from the hectic teaching life and busy scheduled life to so much time at home alone with hours to contemplate. Initially, I was not ready for the switch but grew to appreciate my situation. Some cancer survivors go so far as to appreciate cancer as a blessing for the change in perspective it brought them. Not me. I would not consider it a blessing. I wanted people to remember me as that peppy, quirky, spirited goofball, not Linda with Cancer. Barf. Honestly, I loved that most people I encountered had no idea I was chest-deep in a terminal disease. No matter how ugly it got, I never wanted my life to be based on the illness.
Appearance gets a mixed message. Looking well, especially having hair, seemed to bring an assumption of health regardless of the hideous cancer on the inside. The American Cancer Society’s Look Good Feel Better program offers makeup tips for cancer patients. I first attended at age 38. When I reached the CentraCare Plaza basement classroom, I was ushered to the back of the room as the facilitators assumed I was there as a driver until I made my way back to the front. I was the youngest participant by far. I sat next to a woman in her late 70s with a bright yellow knitted cap and sparkly blue eyes. “I’ve never worn make-up,” she confided in a raspy voice. By the end of the hour, she won the most incredible transformation with eyelashes that didn’t stop. “I’m not going to start wearing it now, sweetie,” she whispered as she passed a lot of the unopened makeup to me. While the instructors circulated through the group, we practiced with each product making sure to sanitize everything as instructed. Some of the colors were not what I would pick, very dramatic eyeshadow colors like Ferocious Jungle Green or Stunning Sapphire that I would pass along to the theater department at school. The session was helpful, but the most meaningful part was hanging out afterward and sharing our experiences, a mix of breast and lung cancer patients in various stages of hair loss.
Eight years later I justified attending the second Look Good Feel Better workshop because even at age 46, I still needed some beauty pointers. I remembered how to magically turn a t-shirt sleeve into a head wrap and felt confident I could still create a pretty decent eyebrow with the three-dot method once chemo took my eyebrows again, so admittedly the free make-up goodies and the camaraderie were the draw.
Once all the participants had arrived at the workshop in St. Cloud’s American Cancer Society building, we quickly introduced ourselves and our diagnosis. It’s not unlike the classic Alcoholic Anonymous meeting: “Linda, Stage III Breast Cancer.” Despite only meeting them once, I could recall each woman clearly. I felt a bit sheepish about attending again until “Marcie, Brain cancer” explained that this was her seventh session. Without taking away from the lovely volunteers, she provided great advice throughout the session and showed us several of the scars crossing her skull yet masterfully covered by hair. We commiserated over side effects in a weird worst side effect showdown until “Nancy, Stage II Breast Cancer” explained the horrors of shingles on her nether regions. All other side effects fell aside following her story that she conveyed with equal parts humor and horror.
In spite of the best efforts of the cosmetologists, I never did apply my mascara correctly. Brush down first, then up, wiggling the entire time. I only swept up and still managed to get more mascara on my face than my eyelashes. However, Marcie’s tips for covering patches of hair loss came in handy when brain radiation left my scalp looking a bit feral.
Unfortunately, the third Look Good Feel Better was not the most charming. I met with a good friend who was recently diagnosed, but no instructor ever showed up so I rescheduled. The instructors were the same as round two but the location was east St. Cloud where once again we started off with the same friendly introductions. “Linda, Stage IV Breast Cancer” was sitting next to “Amanda, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and also six months pregnant.” After many weeks of symptoms chalked up to pregnancy delaying the process, she was newly diagnosed and trembled as she explained her treatment plan was to stay on chemo, take a six week break after the baby was born and then resume chemo. Suffice to say, no mascara applies well when crying. I thought I had perspective, but my blessings wrapped around me twice when she bravely worked through the session. When people told me, “I don’t know what to say to you,” I always appreciated the honesty and now felt that discomfort not knowing how to comfort this young woman, just 29 years old. Methodically sanitizing as we applied the make-up, we carefully followed through the multi-step routine, but she balked at lipstick. “Ugh, I do not want anyone staring at my lips,” she said as she applied it and immediately scrubbed it off. It made me giggle. A little giggle. A nervous giggle. Keeping my reddened face down, I gave her an apprehensive and apologetic look. She met my eyes then threw her head back and laughed, with happy tears running down her face. No one needed to say that our appearances hardly matter when we are more worried about how ugly things are on the inside, nasty mutations and cells dividing at breakneck speed instead of dying. We all left looking good and definitely feeling better. Despite swag bags filled with make-up, feelings trumped appearance.
The makeup was external and the camaraderie supportive, but the real swag was in the sessions’ offerings of salvation to the lost–but the makeup was less of the savior than the connections made between the attendees.