When the Body Becomes an Object of Care

This article is part of the “Healing in Two Voices” series developed within the e-QuoL project, which brings together survivor voices and professional reflections on life after childhood and adolescent cancer.  In this series, professional contributions do not aim to add explanations or conclusions. They create spaces for reflection — ethical, psychological, and clinical — opened by the testimonies themselves.

1

During treatment, my body became a territory of care.
Poked, palpated, cut, stitched, observed, measured.

Day after day, it turned into a medical object —
something to be handled, examined, evaluated — sometimes without even asking.

Gradually, I began to feel that it no longer belonged to me.

And yet, this body is still mine.
Even if it has changed, even if it bears the marks,
even if it sometimes feels a little distant.

It’s normal to need time,
normal to feel like a stranger to it.

But this body was waiting for me.
After treatment, I had to learn to inhabit it again,
to look at it without judgment,
to thank it for holding on, for making it through.

Doctors speak to the organic body —
the one that needs to be repaired, preserved.
And they do their best.

But I had to learn to speak again to my symbolic body —
the one that feels, that loves, that hopes,
the one that was afraid,
that went silent just to survive.

That body never disappeared.
It was simply waiting for me to come back.

Slowly, a fragile sense of complicity returned.
A breath, a softness, a kind of recognition.

The body you once thought had betrayed you —
or that you had betrayed —
becomes, little by little, an ally again.

And one day, something softens.
You begin, once more,
to breathe together.

Delphine Remy – a survivor, Belgium

2

What Delphine describes is a common experience.
During treatment, distancing oneself from the body can be a way of coping.
When procedures are repeated, invasive, and necessary,
the mind may step back a little.
It is often a protective mechanism.

But after the illness, that same movement can make reconnection more delicate.
The body is not only the one that was treated.
It is also the one that was afraid, that waited,
that sometimes learned to stay silent in order to endure.

Certain sensations may return without warning.
As if the body retained the memory of experiences that words alone cannot fully hold.

Another important aspect concerns consent.
For months, medical consent is essential — vital.
One “lets things happen” because it is necessary.
Over time,
the boundary between what one accepts and what one truly feels can become blurred.

After illness, rediscovering what feels right for oneself,
learning again to sense one’s own limits,
can be part of the healing journey.

Healing does not only mean getting better physically.
It also means reclaiming a lived-in, sensitive body —
a space that belongs to us once again.

Louise Hinckel – Psychologist in long-term follow-up survivorship – CHU Angers, France

3

In my work, what I often hear is a discomfort that is difficult to put into words.
Something related to one’s image.
The way one looks at oneself.
The mirror sometimes avoided.

After illness, it can happen that one no longer fully recognizes oneself.
The body has changed. The face too, at times.
And these changes can remain unspoken.

Many people keep this to themselves.
As if it were not really important.
As if it did not deserve to be said.

Feeling out of sync with one’s image is part of the human experience.
It can concern anyone — women, men, adolescents, adults.
The relationship to one’s image is not a women’s issue.
It is a question of identity, of place, of how one sees oneself.

Sometimes, simply having this experience welcomed — without judgment, without comparison —
already opens a space.

In some pediatric oncology departments, support around body image is now offered from the very beginning of treatment (medical esthetician, art therapist, sophrologist…).
Being able to talk about it early on helps prevent facing these questions alone.

And when no dedicated professional is available, it is still possible to lean on other forms of support:
reaching out to an association, a trusted healthcare provider,
or a loved one with whom one can share what one is going through.

The path can also involve very simple gestures.

• In the shower or upon waking, firmly passing your hands over your skin, starting at the ankles and moving upward toward the heart. The same can be done on the arms.
  The intention is not to massage, but to feel — to truly sense one’s skin, one’s bodily envelope — and simply to redefine one’s body schema.
• Colors directly influence our mood and the way we see ourselves. Choosing what to wear can be a way of reclaiming power over one’s image and reappropriating one’s personal space.

1. To restore a sense of radiance:
   If your skin feels dull or tired from treatment, choosing “healthy glow” colors such as coral, peach, raspberry pink, or turquoise blue can bring natural light to the face.
2. To soothe yourself:
   Sky blue, soft green, or lavender can evoke a feeling of calm and serenity.

• Taking a moment for oneself. For example, a foot bath: simply settle comfortably in a space where you feel at ease, perhaps with soft music in the background, prepare a basin of warm water to cover your feet, and a towel. Then apply a moisturizing cream with slow, gentle movements to your hands, feet, or face before going to bed.

Repeating these small acts of kindness toward oneself can help rediscover a sense of pleasure that may have been forgotten, and gradually reconcile with the body.
Gently rediscovering pleasant sensations.

These are small movements.
But little by little, they help us move closer to ourselves.

Delphine Noel – Medical esthetician, Pediatric oncology, CHU Caen, France

4

During treatment, the body inevitably becomes a shared space.
It is looked at, touched, examined — often with little room left for modesty.
It’s necessary, sometimes vital.
But after the illness, I’ve noticed that this body often needs time –
Time for modesty to return,
time for it to feel possible — and permitted — again.

For some people, more often young women in my experience, this phase of reconstruction is delicate.
When the body has been exposed, examined, or even dissociated for months,
How does one find the right distance again?
How does one relearn to live in a body that so many others have touched and repaired?

I don’t always know.
But I notice that this story of the body can sometimes resurface elsewhere —
in relationships, in intimacy, in the difficulty of saying no.
Maybe because “letting things happen” was, for a time, a way to cope, to survive, to keep moving forward.

In life after cancer, it can take time to feel what is right again,
to recognize what feels intrusive,
to rebuild personal boundaries —
not against others, but for oneself.

It’s not easy.
But this slow, quiet reclaiming of the body – and of permission
May also be part of healing.

Dr Charlotte Demoor-Goldschmidt – Survivorship Medical Doctor expert -Radiotherapy oncologist, CHU Angers, CHU Caen, Inserm U 1018, France