Cancer makes you see yourself as two bodies, the one you must fix and the one that will take over. I recently saw The Substance, the body horror film with Demi Moore as a 50-year-old TV star who, upon hearing she’s aged out of the business, gives herself an injection to release the younger version of herself so she can continue to enjoy the spotlight. Things fall apart of course, and blood and gore prevail.
Before my double mastectomy, my mother would often say, “I can’t believe they’re going to cut you up,” even after I told her to stop saying that. I was stuck on the not-dying part, while my mother was preoccupied by the horror that awaited me.
The movie is an in-your-face-allegory for attitudes towards the aging female form. But it is also a story of flesh and bones, and the ripping apart of everything that no longer serves us. The blood and gore in The Substance reaches a point of absurdity, reminiscent of the barfing scene in Triangle of Sadness.
When I was in pre-op and the surgeon drew on me with Sharpie, it hit me. My body was a piece of meat to be carved and stuffed and sewn back up. Post-op, my body started to separate from me, becoming an object that belonged to me rather than the Me itself.
At one point, my mother used the words mutilated and baby girl in the same sentence.
Horror movies were never my favorite. I squeezed my eyes and ears shut during Poltergeist, Saw, The Conjuring, Rosemary’s Baby, even Scream. But during The Substance, I stared straight ahead at the screen as Demi Moore’s naked back split open and birthed Margaret Qualley. I watched calmly as a body was kicked relentlessly until both the victim and attacker were soaked in blood. I felt more gratitude than horror.
I asked to see photos of my breast tissue after it was removed. At my bedside, the surgeon opened her phone to show me two perfectly round meat patties. Impossible Breasts.
I asked to see photos of my ovaries. Teensy tiny worms. They were removed through my belly button.
My mom might be tactless, but her words were an alarm bell for her daughter.
After the first few surgeries, it took me weeks to look in the mirror. I didn’t want to see the blood and the bruising. After the most recent one however, I examined myself as one might an artifact. I felt curious. This body was no longer me. It had transformed to something that simply held me. Plus, the fact that my breasts no longer had much sensation contributed to me seeing them as Other. Imagine your arm falling asleep and you poke at it as if to say, what is this strange limb doing on my pillow?
Three years later, my naked form looks like a body intact. I spend a lot of time in a sauna with women of all ages. If cancer comes up in conversation, many are surprised to hear that I have been cut up and remade. But I’m a monster, I could say. A mutilated baby girl.
Near the end of The Substance, a disfigured, fleshy corpus splits open to allow a bloody blob to fall to the floor. The blob is revealed to be a breast. It is by all accounts, revolting. I laughed. After cancer, I’ve been a bit lost in my body. I’d say I’m on a journey but that would involve saying the word journey. What pleased my old body no longer pleases this one. I’m still not sure what this one wants. But it might be horror movies.