Precious and Inconsequential
How stitches and a loved one's birthday reminded me of the same truth.
Something is tugging at my mind, a small idea that feels comforting despite its paradox: we are infinitely precious and utterly inconsequential. I’m not sure where I heard it, although it hints at Mary Oliver, Martha Beck, Buddhist teachings, and Krista Tippett’s “On Being” guests. The thought followed along as the last few weeks brought situations where the tension between these two truths felt especially evident.
First came my adventure with my face. A tiny pale spot under my nose turned out to be basal cell carcinoma. The “good” kind of skin cancer; slow growing, non-lethal, nothing dramatic. Except the surgery felt dramatic, and the stitches look dramatic. The way I felt afterward was decidedly dramatic. One part of me was furious. Another was ashamed and deeply sad. One part of me was grateful for the medical care. Another accused me of vanity. My face matters deeply to me; it does not matter at all to the universe. Precious and inconsequential, the tension appeared in physical form right here on my upper lip.
In the midst of this, I kept noticing pairs of contradictions. I wanted connection, but I also wanted to hide, especially with a fresh line of stitches running across my face. I did not want to explain anything, yet I wanted to tell the story. I did not want to pretend I was fine or pretend I was not. One part wanted to be left alone. Another wanted reassurance.
And then there is the broader question of when or whether to speak up at all. When I read Substack or Instagram, it often feels like everyone is sharing some kind of healing journey, talking about their parents or their bodies or their grief. I worry that adding my voice is redundant or self-indulgent. A bid for attention. One part rolls its eyes at me. Another part wonders whether someone may be interested in hearing the story. Maybe someone else is dealing with a body they suddenly no longer recognize. Maybe someone else is pale and freckled, dutifully reporting for annual skin checks because SPF 8 was the height of sunscreen technology when we were kids.
Each spring I trudge into the dermatologist’s office, take off my clothes, make small talk while someone peers at every inch of me through a magnifier. Last year’s doctor was new to me, very late, and not especially attentive. He made an offhand comment about the spot under my nose, something like “must be an old mole removal scar,” and I, anxious to get on to my next commitment, simply nodded and moved on. This year, I asked for a different doctor because I still felt unsettled by last year’s interaction (but also heard a voice inside chide me for being too sensitive). This doctor noted the same spot and addressed it more directly, “If you do not remember why there is a scar, we should biopsy it.”
I keep thinking about that year between the two appointments. What his carelessness and my acquiescent silence cost. How many extra stitches. How much extra pain. Or whether it even made any difference at all. One part of me is angry. Another part is embarrassed. One part wants to minimize it. Another part refuses to. I have no shortage of competing opinions, yet none of them matter in the true scheme of things. The cancer is removed, and I am healing.
And now, a week later, it is my dead father’s birthday, and the paradox arises in a new way. Some years the date sneaks up on me. Some years it arrives with a long preamble of dread. A grown man who threw tantrums if his birthday was not celebrated “properly”, he displayed many contradictions. Charming and cruel. Quick to anger. Quick to laugh. One part of me grieves the father I did not have. Another part is relieved I no longer have the one I did. Another part is still angry. Another part wants to move on. Another part reminds me of his willingness to take me to water slides, to go river tubing, to drop to the ground to pet the dog. Precious and inconsequential, again.
Throughout the week since surgery, small moments reminded me that all is well. The sun shined. The cat softly kneaded imaginary biscuits on the fleece blanket in her favorite chair. The dog sighed with satisfaction as she curled up on the footstool. My husband did chores so I could rest. My coworkers laughed together. We ate sushi as a family, and I practiced going out in public with a stitch line on my upper lip. I read a book on the deck at sunset. My son sent a breathtaking photo of a woodland creek.
These small safe moments do not cancel out the difficult feelings. They coexist. Each of us is precious and inconsequential, held and hurting, all at once.
-Beth
If any of this feels familiar, I welcome you to share in the comments. How do you navigate the mix of big feelings and small steady moments in your life?
wow this is beautiful! thank you for sharing with us, Beth 🥰🥰