手術(shù)后沒多久，我去醫(yī)院復查。我躺到檢驗臺上，拉蒙娜用手撫摸著傷疤。我開始輕輕地啜泣。她用關(guān)心的眼神看著我，問道，“你還沒有碰過它，對嗎?”“嗯。”我答道。于是她把金褐色的手掌輕輕地放在我蒼白的胸口上，溫柔地說道，“這是你身體的一部分，這就是你。摸一摸它吧，沒關(guān)系的。”她就那樣替我撫摸著正在愈合的傷口。而在那下面，她愛撫著的是我的心。

最后，拉蒙娜建議道：“我握著你的手，你去撫摸它。”然后她把手放到我的手旁邊，我們都安靜下來。那是拉蒙娜送給我的禮物。

It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt’s office for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.

My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts - now lovingly known as "the breast and the chest."

As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blood drawn, again - a terrifying process for me, since I’m so frightened of needles.

I lay down on the examining table. I’d worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.

Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out in contrast to my fears. I’d first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier. She wasn’t my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behind that medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at a time like this? So I decided she wasn’t serious enough about the whole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.

This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar on my chest could be seen.

She said, "How is your scar healing?"

I said, "I think pretty well. I wash around it gently each day." The memory of the shower water hitting my numb chest flashed across my face.

She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examining the smoothness of the healing skin and looking for any irregularities. I began to cry gently and quietly. She brought her warm eyes to mine and said, "You haven’t touched it yet, have you?" And I said, "No."

So this wonderful, warm woman laid the palm of her golden brown hand on my pale chest and she gently held it there. For a long time. I continued to cry quietly. In soft tones she said, "This is part of your body. This is you. It’s okay to touch it." But I couldn’t. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound. And beneath it, she touched my heart.Then Ramona said, "I’ll hold your hand while you touch it." So she placed her hand next to mine, and we both were quiet. That was the gift that Ramona gave me.

That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on my chest and I left it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn’t alone. We were all in bed together, metaphorically speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona’s gift and me.