Beauty and the Beast

How this Makeup artist got the beauty lesson of her life

At 42 years old I thought I had finally arrived in my life. After my husband left when our son was born; after losing not one but two parents unexpectedly in the course of three years, I had finally picked up the pieces and put them together to create a happy existence for myself and my son. An attractive, makeup artist with my own cosmetic line, I had a fabulous five year old who lit up my world and most recently a new boyfriend I was crazy about. Life was finally good again.  I spent my days chatting with women about the newest arsenal in the age old fight against wrinkles and "must have" lipstick colors for the season. At the end of the day I would often slip into a steamy bath to perform pampering rituals passed down from beauty gurus before me. I would preen myself with body polishers and lotions until my skin glistened like a new silk shirt. Toes were always properly polished in red and the importance of looking my best was apparent right down to my matching lingerie. Yes, I was a real life "Carrie Bradshaw" minus the Minolos, and beauty mattered to me. Beauty had always mattered to me.

It was on one such occasion as I scooped the bubbles around my chest and began my monthly breast exam that I found the lump. The invader took up residence with little fanfare and I was baffled, considering its size, that it had gone unnoticed at all. I told myself it was probably nothing, but, like a trespasser on my premises I wanted it evicted immediately and I wasted no time making an appointment with my doctor to have it checked. 

A few days later, as I sat across from my doctor, those three little words were the last I expected to hear.  "You have Cancer". It was initially thought to be a simple cyst but simple it was not and nothing could prepare me for the conversation that would follow. My stomach tightened as she spoke about "options" with words like "chemo and radiation" and her voice became drowned out by the voice in my own head firing questions too frightening to utter audibly.  Would I lose my breast? Would I lose my hair? Would I even live and if I did, would I ever be "normal" again?   These are the questions that go through any woman's mind who has just been delivered into the hands of this kind of devastation, but for those who are single moms they are especially terrifying.    

 My boyfriend gently squeezed my hand, preparing for the tears that wouldn't come. I had always considered crying in public to be a weakness of character. I sat there numb while time stopped long enough for me to be changed forever. I hated the idea of being labeled a cancer victim or even a cancer survivor.  I wanted to live my life inconspicuously being defined by neither. In the time it took to say lumpectomy, my happy carefree world as I'd known it had been shattered.

 With my port in place to deliver the life saving poison into my body, I stepped on the medical treadmill that would become my life over the next 8 months. Step by step my appearances would diminish to the treatments. With no definitive outcome in sight, I would walk blindly through 16 cycles of chemo towards the hope of a positive outcome.  The thick red liquid that was known in hushed tones by the oncology community as "The Red Devil" made good on its reputation, assaulting my body and immune system without mercy. With every treatment the question repeated itself in my mind "would I ever be normal again?" 

Even at the tender age of five, I could see the confusion and worry in my son's eyes as my features metamorphosed into something neither of us could grasp.   My friends, doctors and coworkers rallied on my behalf. Some brought food, others brought financial assistance and some just brought themselves to sit with me through my treatments making me laugh and forget for a moment I had a life threatening disease. It was here, at 43 years old, that Cancer taught me that love is an action, not a proclamation.

Pain encased me and waves of nausea crashed on the shores of my body with a constant rhythm. My skin took on a sluggish gray cast and my hair fell out in matted clumps that looked like the SOS pads my mom used to use to scrub her pots. My eyes, sunken and hollow, watered unrelentlessly with thick gelatinous tears and my legs trembled and burned at the mere suggestion of having to hold up my emaciated 5'10' frame. I would swipe my fingers across my face only to collect an oily, gritty residue while my nails became brittle and discolored and then, just came off altogether. I would look in the mirror in utter disbelief. The woman that was heralded by many as the "beauty expert" was now held captive; a prisoner of a disease that not only took away her independence but her self recognition as well. I told myself that being concerned with the physical aspect of myself was petty, after all I was alive; but I couldn't convince myself of my own rationalization. Beauty had been my business for 22 years; it mattered to me and being sick didn't change that.

 According to the American Cancer Society (ACS), a woman in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes and studies have shown there is a direct correlation between how women look and how they feel during treatment.  As I continued with my treatments and met other women like myself, I began to realize the great need for this often overlooked aspect of Cancer. What started out as a fun job would expand the purpose of my company, Stella Bella, to helping other women feel better about the way they looked through cancer treatments.  I knew how it felt to avoid a mirror and I knew my products could invite them back to that personal gaze of recognition and feeling pretty again.  For the remainder of my "house arrest" I worked feverishly redeveloping my cosmetic line to accommodate women struggling with the effects Cancer and Chemo has on skin.  The response I got from women was astounding. Emails started coming in, sporadically at first then more regularly from women undergoing chemo and radiation. All had a unique story but with familiar chapters. Then one day in April, more uneventful than I'd imagined, it was over. I finished my last chemo treatment. Taking a deep breath, and on wobbly legs, I stepped off the treadmill and back into my life.

They say beauty is only skin deep. I couldn't disagree more. Cancer creates a lot of physical changes in a person, but the real changes take place on the inside and these are the changes that are permanent and most often create the kind of beauty that can't be seen from across the room or on the glossy pages of a fashion magazine. 

These days, "normal" has become just another setting on the washing machine, "beauty" is something I see with a different set of eyes and I no longer measure my progress on the growth of my hair but on the lives I can touch through my own experience. I have a new purpose for my passion of beauty that goes beyond the latest cosmetic trends of the season. I have learned the real meaning of what it means to be strong and I've learned that that strength comes complete with a full set of tears. Being a survivor isn't a label I got tagged with but an honor I accept with humility. It's an example that is set through sharing a story, a shoulder and in my case, a product that helped a woman with cancer feel like herself again and helps others in their own journey of discovering the beautiful survivor within themselves.