I�m starting to wonder if the surgeon cut a chink in my emotional armour the same time he cut out that cancerous skin.

The swelling has gone down some more. Once I got on my hat to head out the door for a morning of errands, I had myself convinced that the black eye and bandages weren�t really that noticeable. If I had only walked among adults today, I probably could have held on to that illusion, but children don�t have any social graces.

Every child I passed stared openly at me. I found myself staring back, wondering why this child didn�t have a hat on and whether that one was wearing sunscreen. I am about ten minutes away from being the crazy lady on the corner muttering incoherently about hats, sunscreen, sunglasses, long sleeves.

I live in a very small place so anonymity is impossible. At each stop�the bank, the post office, the hardware store, the grocery store, I got buttonholed and asked what happened.

Mostly I told it with humour, starting out with that classic line, �If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy� and then explained that it was skin cancer. Some folks wanted lots of details and prevention tips. Others heard the �c� word and they shut down.

I managed to keep it light and airy until the grocery store. I was explaining to a casual friend what had happened. Behind us was a very elderly man shuffling along behind his grocery cart, using the cart for support as much as for moving groceries. Explanation finished, good wishes dispensed, my acquaintance moved on. The elderly man pulled up beside me.

Out of the blue he reached out and put his hand on my forearm. Startled, I looked over at him. Although we didn�t know each other, he was staring at me intently. �Bonne chance, madame,� he said softly. I stammered my thanks for his wish of good luck for me. He gave my arm a quick pat and shuffled on.

The only reason I did not burst into blubbering tears right there is that big girls don�t cry.

It�s a rule.

I�m a big girl now.

My final stop was the hardware store. A family friend works there so the explanation I gave her was not the skin cancer lite that more casual friends had received. I was open about the fear, the pain, the worries that tip toe through my mind.

I am ashamed to admit that I fretted about what my nose will look like. Sometimes my own shallowness and lack of perspective is truly stunning.

She told me that if even if there was some scarring, well what�s the big whoop? The important thing is that they�ve killed the cancer, right? I must have looked surprised at her vehemence and the fact that I didn�t get the expected �now, now, there, there� because there was a pause and then ...

She told me she�s just learned that her beloved husband�s second remission from prostate cancer has ended. The cancer has flared up again. They have told him that this time they don�t think there is a lot they can do for him.

Oh man.

Big girls don�t cry, so we didn�t cry. But we both did that goofy twisting thing with our mouths that people do when they have to fight very, very hard to keep the tears dammed.

I touched her forearm, as the stranger had touched mine. �They�ll find something. I�m sure they will.� She nodded. She couldn�t trust herself to open her mouth because if she unclamped her lips, then the tears would come.

Big girls don�t cry. Well, they do cry, but the deal is that they have to do it when they�re alone and nobody will see. Because tears? Tears are like acid for emotional armour. Damn tears eat huge, gaping holes and before you know it, crap, you�re standing in a hardware store and you�re feeling a neutron bomb�s worth of pain from someone else and who wants to feel that?

Exactly.

When I came home today and unloaded the groceries from the car into the kitchen, I was greeted by a lovely bouquet of flowers that sits on my kitchen table. They came yesterday from Queer Scribe and Freddie.

By a fluke, they came during a very low point in the day, right after I could feel pain and fresh bleeding under my bandages. When I opened the door to the delivery man he did a double take over my swollen, bruised, bandaged face and gave me a big grin. �Well, I can see why you�re getting flowers,� he teased. I had to laugh, even though it hurt.

Flowers and laughter. Much easier to take than tears, eh?

--Marn

Here are the Generous Souls Sponsoring me to Run to Limp the 2004 Jog for the Jugs In Montreal on Oct. 3, the few, the proud, the Bazonga Boosters: