Out into the light

I don't like to give the anxiety and grief that haunts me a voice, magically believing that if I silence it, it won't have power over me. I don't talk about these feelings with anyone, not even the Man. I banish them from conversation.

I force them to inhabit the shadows of my subconscious. I refuse to turn and give them my attention, but once a year, they get it anyway.

Tomorrow I go for my annual gyn checkup and mammogram, and at my age, this is a very big deal.

My mother died of breast cancer. My sister died at 33 from sinus cancer. At 33, I had skin cancer. My father and my brother had it first.

We are a family with malignant secrets--DNA that is ready and willing to mutate at any stage in life. In middle age, with my body showing visible wear and tear, I worry more about invisible damage, the type that shows up on x-ray film or in labs. 

I know statistically I am more likely to die of heart disease than any form of cancer, but that doesn't ease my mind on the day I'm going to get a mammogram and a Pap smear.

Caring for my mother during her final years, I saw the startling outline of ribs where her breast should have been. She had a large scar on her thigh where the doctors removed skin for grafts because when they removed her breast, they took everything with it.

I still remember how technicians put indelible black marks on the plane of her chest, mapping the path for radiation. She had IVs and chemo too. She had cancer in every lymph node they tested.

It eventually spread to her bones. The doctors replaced her decaying hip to buy her time and mobility. Still the cancer moved inward and outward, and the steady march of malignancies left my mother in constant pain and killed her when I was 30 years old.

I had my first mammogram when I was 35, and as I stood feeling naked and vulnerable in front of a cold  piece of equipment, I thought of my mother and all the suffering and fears she had endured and never given voice to. When I stepped into the sunlight outside the doctor's office, I took a long jagged breath and started to cry, retreating to my car so no one would see my tears.

So many years since then. So many visits to the doctor. So many moments when I've put on a brave face and wept in secret. So many perfect days when I've smiled with a lump in my throat, knowing how quickly and unexpectedly life and happiness can turn. So many bitchy days when I've reminded myself of what a real problem looks like. So many nights when I've paused naked in front of the mirror, stared at the milky skin and soft contours of my breasts and wondered what lies beneath, what lies ahead.

Tomorrow the professionals will explore my most intimate places. I will pretend to be detached as they clinically document the state of my womanhood, the source of my sexuality, the origin of my motherhood-- the places where love began and where love could end.

And when it's over, when it's all over, I'll slip out the door into the blinding light, retreat to my hot car, and have a good cry. And then, then I'll go home and take my daughter out for ice cream, because life is short, time is precious, girls grow up and mothers die and we need to savor all the sweetness we can.

Comments

[skcitygirl]

this post made me tear up. i don't know what else to say other than spectacularly written in a way that wrapped around me and through me and made me feel in some small way your pain.

[nikki hardin]

oh my god, thanks for putting my own fears into words. Every time I get a mammogram or read an article about Alzheimers, I go through the same thing. This journey we're all on is hard and beautiful.

[Susan Raihala]

Hugs, V-Grrl. Such a beautiful and sad post. Thank you.

[Granola-grrrl]

Beautifully written. Your mom and my mom's mom both... I know they say that statistically, I should not worry about having two grandmothers who had breast cancer, that it matters only about mothers and sisters. It still scares me.

Every year, my mom and her two girlfriends schedule their mammograms on the same day in Roanoke. They all go together, have lunch and make a girls' day out of it. I wish we could do that. There are some things we just shouldn't have to do alone, like you told me last summer when I went through that rough time.

Hugs. I love you. :)

[mamatulip]

This made me tear up, too. I'll be thinking of you today.

[Donna l. Faber]

(((hug))) I hope it all goes well.

[Jane]

Having been poked, prodded, cut, tubed, and shrouded in medical mayhem this year, I understand your fears. And though I had no mother or family of origin that I was close to, I have a daughter of my own and understand how tenderness can feel like a sweet assault.

I'll be thinking of you today, V, but I am absolutely sure you'll be okay. Not because I'm psychic, but because I'd totally breakdown if anything happened to you, and I know life just wouldn't be that cruel.

[Angelique]

What you've shared here was like having my own thoughts wrenched from my head and made all too visible. My mother and grandmother both died of lung cancer, which eventually spread to the bones and brain. I don't smoke, but that doesn't offer me much comfort while I try to live my life in a way that doesn't suggest I'm just waiting to be a statistic.
Reading this also made me recall going to see an exhibit called Bodies at the local museum of science and industry, just a few months after my mum's diagnosis. Among other things, they had an example of a cancerous lung there, and it was so powerful to see for the first time the THING that was actually doing this to my mother--because, pre-chemo, to all outside examination she appeared healthy. It was stunning, in a way.
You've really captured for me the previously wordless fear of something malignant happening out of sight, the shadow that turns your world upside down. Thank you for your words, for your brave sharing, and my thoughts are with you today.

[RD]

It will be okay, V. I just got a reminder in the mail to come in for my own. I hate doing it, but know that early detection is the secret. We do this for our daughters as much as for ourselves. Take care today.

[Shirl Grrrl]

Love you!

[Kim]

We're there, aren't we? Those years in which the physical "going wrong" is as likely as good health. Don't know how we arrived at this juncture (i feel so young!), but I'm awfully glad we did.

Enjoy that ice cream. It's what the Girl will remember. It's what's important. It's why we made it this far.

[amber]

You have said words many feel, it seems. And I think that helps to remove the fear, a little. To cut it out, like the cancer it is, that fear. I also kind of understand this fear, although it is with mental illness and addiction that I try to push fear away. But once we have lost, or saw someone we love lose such battles with things we can't control...I think it imprints on you.

I am sorry it has imprinted on you, my brave, dear friend. It is enough to have lost as much as you have,without fearing more loss. I hold you up in blessings. I claime some peace for you.

((hug)) ;)

[Nance]

Thinking of you.

[V-Grrrl]

Writing this piece helped, as did all your words of encouragement. Sometimes we just need to know we're not alone as we move forward.

Today things took quite an unexpected turn, and I'll write about that soon.

I'll get results from my mammogram and Pap within two weeks.

[Flubberwinkle]

..."Savor all the sweetness we can"

That is THE bottom line.
Be well.