Tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
I love what we do
In these windows of time.
I want to hear
Of your whole lovely life
The good, bad, and boring
And even your wife
I'll open to you
The things that you seek
I'll show my world
With no need for mystique
But don't be afraid
If some tears do sneak out
I feel it all deeply -
That's what life's about
So tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
Take my hand and my heart
In these windows of time.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Not Little Women
There are 4 of us girls, babies our mother had, each from a different father. We don't look alike. We probably sound a little alike. But it seems we are each almost more like our fathers than our mother, in appearance anyway. I'm as white as they come; my two middle sisters are half Mexican, and the oldest is white like me. I'm tall; the oldest is very short, and the middle two are average height.
When we were little girls, we naturally spent a lot of time together. We were all girly girls. Christmas in our house was like Mattel threw up - Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia everywhere. On holidays our mother would attempt to dress us somewhat alike. Our babysitter made us each a Holly Hobby doll, each according to our size. We each had a first holy communion in the Catholic church, complete with white dresses, tights, and veil.
When we fought, it was nearly always the middle two against my oldest sister and me. I don't know if it was because the middle two look alike and we didn't, or what. I didn't even realize my dad wasn't their dad until my parents split up. It just never occurred to me, even though they were brown. Their "real" dads were not a part of our lives, and I, an innocent kid never imagined they might have another father somewhere.
My sisters have always been a huge part of my life. From making me an auntie for the first time at age 13, to telling me about periods and boys, to sharing motherhood with me, they have been there. Of course with 4 girls there will be fights and drama; even with all of us in our 40s, that still happens. But beneath it all is love. You don't fight with people you don't love; it isn't worth the effort. At least, not for me.
We've all suffered our various trials, starting with losing our mother when I, the youngest, was 8 years old. And as we grew up, the tribulations added up. Mental illness, financial problems, abusive men, sick children. We've been through it. And yet, the four of us - we smile and shine. We laugh and drink and play. We tell the world, "Fuck it; I got this."
But make no mistake: we weep, we fall, we crumble, we melt. But the substance running through us, whatever that thing is that makes us wake up, take another step, another risk, another try - there seems to be a lot of it. Because through our darkest fears, our scariest realities, our driest seasons - we keep going, loving, doing, being.
I love these women more than I ever knew when I was younger. They were my first best friends, my worst enemies, my tormenters and my protectors. They can take me down, bring up, sit beside me and hold me in a way no one else in this world can.
They are
My
Sisters.
When we were little girls, we naturally spent a lot of time together. We were all girly girls. Christmas in our house was like Mattel threw up - Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia everywhere. On holidays our mother would attempt to dress us somewhat alike. Our babysitter made us each a Holly Hobby doll, each according to our size. We each had a first holy communion in the Catholic church, complete with white dresses, tights, and veil.
When we fought, it was nearly always the middle two against my oldest sister and me. I don't know if it was because the middle two look alike and we didn't, or what. I didn't even realize my dad wasn't their dad until my parents split up. It just never occurred to me, even though they were brown. Their "real" dads were not a part of our lives, and I, an innocent kid never imagined they might have another father somewhere.
My sisters have always been a huge part of my life. From making me an auntie for the first time at age 13, to telling me about periods and boys, to sharing motherhood with me, they have been there. Of course with 4 girls there will be fights and drama; even with all of us in our 40s, that still happens. But beneath it all is love. You don't fight with people you don't love; it isn't worth the effort. At least, not for me.
We've all suffered our various trials, starting with losing our mother when I, the youngest, was 8 years old. And as we grew up, the tribulations added up. Mental illness, financial problems, abusive men, sick children. We've been through it. And yet, the four of us - we smile and shine. We laugh and drink and play. We tell the world, "Fuck it; I got this."
But make no mistake: we weep, we fall, we crumble, we melt. But the substance running through us, whatever that thing is that makes us wake up, take another step, another risk, another try - there seems to be a lot of it. Because through our darkest fears, our scariest realities, our driest seasons - we keep going, loving, doing, being.
I love these women more than I ever knew when I was younger. They were my first best friends, my worst enemies, my tormenters and my protectors. They can take me down, bring up, sit beside me and hold me in a way no one else in this world can.
They are
My
Sisters.
Monday, October 12, 2015
A Brief Interruption
I won’t go back
To that place
Where I thought, hoped
That you might be
Him
I can’t erase
The things you said
Critique without
Compliment
Judgment without
Understanding
You only care
About You
You are the center
of Everything
Everyone
And when you’re not
the world is wrong
You fuck
and then judge
And let no one
Truly close
You delight in being vague
Your communication currency is
Grey
Or Twilight
- Neither clear nor good nor bad, just
Undecipherable
So I ask questions
I open my heart
And you crush it.
Or at least…try.
But I know this:
I am better than that
I deserve more
I demand it
And someone luckier than you
More open than you
More loving than you
Will have the prize that is me.
To that place
Where I thought, hoped
That you might be
Him
I can’t erase
The things you said
Critique without
Compliment
Judgment without
Understanding
You only care
About You
You are the center
of Everything
Everyone
And when you’re not
the world is wrong
You fuck
and then judge
And let no one
Truly close
You delight in being vague
Your communication currency is
Grey
Or Twilight
- Neither clear nor good nor bad, just
Undecipherable
So I ask questions
I open my heart
And you crush it.
Or at least…try.
But I know this:
I am better than that
I deserve more
I demand it
And someone luckier than you
More open than you
More loving than you
Will have the prize that is me.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
I just don't know
A song I have been listening to over and over again lately (so much so that I spent an hour trying to pick it out on my piano and finally got some of it) is called Jericho, another song by Mary Chapin Carpenter. It is hauntingly beautiful, with nothing but a piano accompaniment. But the words, as usual, are what gets me...and especially the very last line:
"For if love is a labyrinth, then my heart is Jericho."
That has never been me. But given my circumstances lately, I wonder if it is. But maybe I need a little bit of Jericho to protect me in the labyrinth.
The problem is I don't want protection. I want the twists and turns and dead ends and peril that makes the glorious prize at the end worth it. And I want someone who feels the same.
"For if love is a labyrinth, then my heart is Jericho."
That has never been me. But given my circumstances lately, I wonder if it is. But maybe I need a little bit of Jericho to protect me in the labyrinth.
The problem is I don't want protection. I want the twists and turns and dead ends and peril that makes the glorious prize at the end worth it. And I want someone who feels the same.
Friday, October 9, 2015
Grief
I don't know what got me to thinking about grief the other night. For a long time, it was just so much a part of who I was, that I didn't think to name it: grief was life. Life was grief. And then...then the rest of my life happened. And it really wasn't too bad: lots of additions, fewer subtractions.
I learned grief at such a young age: when I was 8, I learned my father had done some Very Bad Things. As a daddy's girl, it was devastating. And yet, I loved him. And this revelation came in the midst of my mother fighting breast cancer, which she ultimately lost. They split a few months before she died. A defining moment in my childhood, indeed.
Then when I married for the first time, I was lucky to have an amazing mother-in-law. I was ecstatic. I was sure that was my 2nd chance at having a mother. And not long after my wedding, she fell ill as well. Just over a year after my wedding, and 3 weeks after the birth of my first child, we lost her too. I was devastated. It was a good year before I didn't often spontaneously burst into tears, missing her.
And then...then a long time passed, with no serious losses. A divorce, yes, a loss. And grief. But not the grief that comes with death.
And then my father died. To say our relationship was complicated is probably an understatement. But the things that happened when I was a child had dimmed in my memory; he was a wonderful grandfather and a good dad to an adult daughter. I couldn't have asked for more: generous, fun, kind, and had chosen a lovely partner who I am closer to than ever before. And then he left - far too soon. He was supposed to see his grandchildren grow up, and know his great-grandchildren. But he can't.
He.
Is.
Gone.
I was not prepared for how much I would miss him - for how his death would bereave me. Though his death was sudden, it shouldn't have been completely unexpected: he'd been ill off and on with various ailments. And during those times of serious illness, I thought in a way, I might be relieved if he died. But I have not, not for one minute since he passed away, felt relieved. All I feel is loss and grief, and the sense that he was not finished. WE were not finished. But we are, and I can't change that. I cannot put him back together, and hug him and talk to him and hear him shout "Jessie!" the way that only he could.
One thing I have learned is that grief will not wither on the vine. You can ignore it, you can pretend it doesn't exist, you can move on in smiles and jokes and trips to the grocery store and episodes of your favorite TV show. But grief will always find you.
It found me in the grocery aisle when a Lynyrd Skynyrd song came on. It found me late at night when I found a selfie he'd left on the computer I inherited from him. It found me in a photo of him as a young man. It found me in the moments of my sons' lives when all I could think was, "I wish he was here." Grief finds you; do not be fooled that you can trick it into never unlocking your front door just because you've gotten on with your life.
A song I listened to over and over again shortly after losing my dad is called "Learning the World," by one of my favorite songwriters, Mary Chapin Carpenter. Mary gets it in a way that I wish more people would:
Grief rides quietly on the passenger side
Unwanted company on a long, long drive
It turns down the quiet songs and turns up the din
It goes where you go, it’s been where you’ve been
And pushing your empty cart mile after mile
Leaves you weeping in the wilderness
Of the supermarket aisle
And in the late night kitchen light it sits in a chair
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there
But it is, so it is and you ask
Are you predator or friend
The future or the past?
It hands you your overcoat and opens the door
You are learning the world again just as before
But the first time was childhood
And now you are grown
Broken wide open, cut to the bone
And all that you used to know is of no use at all
The same eyes you’ve always had have you walking into walls
And the same heart can’t understand
Why it’s so hard to feel
What used to be true
What’s now so unreal
But it is, so it is and you say
I wish I were the wind so that I could blow away
Grief sits silently on the edge of your bed
It’s closing your eyes, it’s stroking your head
The dear old companion is taking up air
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Moving on, through, under, over
Oh, but life can be cruel and difficult.
My coworker moved house last week. She had been trying to buy the home she was renting, but her financing fell through (to do with something she discovered during her recent divorce after a very long marriage). Now, normally moving house is just stressful and expensive. But in her case, it was downright heartbreaking. Soul consuming. Gut wrenching.
See, she and her family moved into that house about 5 months before her middle child, her only son, was killed in a plane crash at the age of 14. She was forced to leave the last place her son lived. Even though they'd only been there a few months, leaving the last space he dwelled in was devastating for her.
She and I have talked a lot about this and about how difficult it is leaving that place where she last saw, heard, touched her beloved boy. My heart absolutely goes out to her. I can't tell you the number of times I have just wanted to put him back together and present him to her, so she can once again hear him call her "Mom." Oh, how I wish I had that power.
On top of the moving, she got a cold, so she was dealing with physical illness as well as a stress so deep and so engulfing that she wondered if she needed to quit working and go on disability. Her losses run deep - her son, her marriage, and her eldest daughter going away to college 8 hours away. But she is making it through, day by day.
I brought her a bottle of wine today, along with a card. I found the card from some that the Epilepsy Foundation had sent to me; the cards were all paintings done by people with epilepsy. This particular one featured differently colored human shapes, piled up in sort of a pyramid, lifting up the one on top. I felt it appropriate, hoping she is feeling lots of support.
I specifically picked out a wine from Chile, and I told her the reason why: it is one of my favorite places on earth, and holds good memories of a place filled with beauty, kindness, and the friendliest folks I've ever met. And I wrote that I hope she finds that in her new place - a place to build new memories and fill with amazing people. I think she will, if she can make it through this really, really difficult time.
After all the devastation and loss she has endured, I want that for her, more than anything.
My coworker moved house last week. She had been trying to buy the home she was renting, but her financing fell through (to do with something she discovered during her recent divorce after a very long marriage). Now, normally moving house is just stressful and expensive. But in her case, it was downright heartbreaking. Soul consuming. Gut wrenching.
See, she and her family moved into that house about 5 months before her middle child, her only son, was killed in a plane crash at the age of 14. She was forced to leave the last place her son lived. Even though they'd only been there a few months, leaving the last space he dwelled in was devastating for her.
She and I have talked a lot about this and about how difficult it is leaving that place where she last saw, heard, touched her beloved boy. My heart absolutely goes out to her. I can't tell you the number of times I have just wanted to put him back together and present him to her, so she can once again hear him call her "Mom." Oh, how I wish I had that power.
On top of the moving, she got a cold, so she was dealing with physical illness as well as a stress so deep and so engulfing that she wondered if she needed to quit working and go on disability. Her losses run deep - her son, her marriage, and her eldest daughter going away to college 8 hours away. But she is making it through, day by day.
I brought her a bottle of wine today, along with a card. I found the card from some that the Epilepsy Foundation had sent to me; the cards were all paintings done by people with epilepsy. This particular one featured differently colored human shapes, piled up in sort of a pyramid, lifting up the one on top. I felt it appropriate, hoping she is feeling lots of support.
I specifically picked out a wine from Chile, and I told her the reason why: it is one of my favorite places on earth, and holds good memories of a place filled with beauty, kindness, and the friendliest folks I've ever met. And I wrote that I hope she finds that in her new place - a place to build new memories and fill with amazing people. I think she will, if she can make it through this really, really difficult time.
After all the devastation and loss she has endured, I want that for her, more than anything.
Monday, September 14, 2015
How Much Time Do I Spend in Nature? (another prompt from the NYT)
The short answer? Not enough.
I think my love affair with nature started when I was very young. I was born in a small town in West Virginia called Big Chimney. There was a river behind our house, and creeks in various places. Being outside was a fact of life when the weather was nice (and even when it wasn't). Some of my earliest memories are with my older sisters, catching crawdads in a creek or sucking on honesuckle flowers we plucked from vines during an evening walk. In fact, the scent of honeysuckle to this day takes me back to my very youngest days that I remember - it positively transports me to a place I loved.
With 4 kids, my parents couldn't afford lavish vacations. We spent our free time camping, fishing, or at the beach. We were constantly interacting with our natural world - digging worms in the yard for bait, wandering the woods on a camping trip or being dragged around a botanical garden so my photographer-hobbyist mother could take a million pictures.
And even when I moved to my grandmother's house, her little town offered many chances to interact with nature. She kept a huge garden and several fruit trees - we rarely bought fruit or vegetables because we grew it all, and canned or froze everything we couldn't immediately use.
I spent my free time riding my bike out in the country. I was outside every chance I could get.
And now, as an adult, living in the most beautiful place I have ever lived - it's all around me. The Sandia and Manzano mountains still captivate me. I love hiking in the foothills - I delight in the occasional lizard sighting, I marvel at the desert flowers, and inhale air that is so fresh and clean and pure.
There is so much beauty in this world that it makes me want to weep at times. The colors, the sounds, the textures and tastes and sheer aura of it all together is just incredible. If there is a church for an atheist - nature is it for me. It's my church. And I wish I had more time to worship there.
I think my love affair with nature started when I was very young. I was born in a small town in West Virginia called Big Chimney. There was a river behind our house, and creeks in various places. Being outside was a fact of life when the weather was nice (and even when it wasn't). Some of my earliest memories are with my older sisters, catching crawdads in a creek or sucking on honesuckle flowers we plucked from vines during an evening walk. In fact, the scent of honeysuckle to this day takes me back to my very youngest days that I remember - it positively transports me to a place I loved.
With 4 kids, my parents couldn't afford lavish vacations. We spent our free time camping, fishing, or at the beach. We were constantly interacting with our natural world - digging worms in the yard for bait, wandering the woods on a camping trip or being dragged around a botanical garden so my photographer-hobbyist mother could take a million pictures.
And even when I moved to my grandmother's house, her little town offered many chances to interact with nature. She kept a huge garden and several fruit trees - we rarely bought fruit or vegetables because we grew it all, and canned or froze everything we couldn't immediately use.
I spent my free time riding my bike out in the country. I was outside every chance I could get.
And now, as an adult, living in the most beautiful place I have ever lived - it's all around me. The Sandia and Manzano mountains still captivate me. I love hiking in the foothills - I delight in the occasional lizard sighting, I marvel at the desert flowers, and inhale air that is so fresh and clean and pure.
There is so much beauty in this world that it makes me want to weep at times. The colors, the sounds, the textures and tastes and sheer aura of it all together is just incredible. If there is a church for an atheist - nature is it for me. It's my church. And I wish I had more time to worship there.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Do you think you're brave? (writing prompt from the New York Times)
Ah, of course I picked an easy prompt: yes, I think I'm brave. No question about that.
The funny thing is, it is things least likely to really hurt me that I tell people I am afraid of - scary movies, snakes, and zombies - that I actively avoid. Shut up, I know avoiding zombies is not an active decision!
I started off brave - I had to be. Watching my mother fight cancer and her husband, watching my family explode when I was just 8, moving to a completely different part of the country sharing a classroom with kids who'd all known each other practically since birth? That was scary.
I navigated my way through a serious trauma in my childhood to what was, as I look back on it, a pretty idyllic upbringing. I didn't have everything I wanted but I certainly had everything I needed. And I had the best thing of all: a fearless grandmother to raise me.
Oh sure, she was not one to take risks - she warned us all the time about all the mights and woulds and coulds. And whenever someone asks me what is something I'd change about the way I was parented, that's about the only thing I would change. But she stood mentally healthy and optimistic despite life really trying to knock her down.
I'm the same way. I think I'm brave because at my age, I know the hard things that happen. I know there are a million ways to break a heart, and plenty of them have nothing to do with romantic love. I know living means a risk of dying, loving means a risk of hurting, and the hundred little decisions we make every day can have consequences you won't know until much, much later. I am brave because when it counts, I don't take the easy way. Oh, it might take me a little while to gather up my reserves and get off the established path, but I always do eventually.
I'm brave because I do take risks. Most of the time they are pretty calculated, but I do take them. I took a risk moving 1000 miles from friends and family with a man I very much loved at the time. I took a risk leaving him when I had next to nothing to keep myself and my children afloat. I took a risk when I tried marriage again later, and it fell apart too. I'm currently taking risks thinking maybe, just maybe, I'm not a complete moron at love and relationships and that I might still have something to offer.
But really, bravery isn't about never being afraid. I'm afraid plenty. I'm afraid when my son is on a weekend camping trip without me, and what if a really bad seizure and injury occurs. I'm afraid when I get a mammogram every year. I'm afraid when I get a new project at work that I haven't seen before and I want to do so well and I worry that I won't. I am afraid when I speak honestly with someone about something I know they will not want to hear. Oh yes, there are things I am afraid of.
But I continue to participate in this life making choices every day that aren't always the easy ones. I continue believing in myself enough to do that, because...
I.
Am.
Brave.
The funny thing is, it is things least likely to really hurt me that I tell people I am afraid of - scary movies, snakes, and zombies - that I actively avoid. Shut up, I know avoiding zombies is not an active decision!
I started off brave - I had to be. Watching my mother fight cancer and her husband, watching my family explode when I was just 8, moving to a completely different part of the country sharing a classroom with kids who'd all known each other practically since birth? That was scary.
I navigated my way through a serious trauma in my childhood to what was, as I look back on it, a pretty idyllic upbringing. I didn't have everything I wanted but I certainly had everything I needed. And I had the best thing of all: a fearless grandmother to raise me.
Oh sure, she was not one to take risks - she warned us all the time about all the mights and woulds and coulds. And whenever someone asks me what is something I'd change about the way I was parented, that's about the only thing I would change. But she stood mentally healthy and optimistic despite life really trying to knock her down.
I'm the same way. I think I'm brave because at my age, I know the hard things that happen. I know there are a million ways to break a heart, and plenty of them have nothing to do with romantic love. I know living means a risk of dying, loving means a risk of hurting, and the hundred little decisions we make every day can have consequences you won't know until much, much later. I am brave because when it counts, I don't take the easy way. Oh, it might take me a little while to gather up my reserves and get off the established path, but I always do eventually.
I'm brave because I do take risks. Most of the time they are pretty calculated, but I do take them. I took a risk moving 1000 miles from friends and family with a man I very much loved at the time. I took a risk leaving him when I had next to nothing to keep myself and my children afloat. I took a risk when I tried marriage again later, and it fell apart too. I'm currently taking risks thinking maybe, just maybe, I'm not a complete moron at love and relationships and that I might still have something to offer.
But really, bravery isn't about never being afraid. I'm afraid plenty. I'm afraid when my son is on a weekend camping trip without me, and what if a really bad seizure and injury occurs. I'm afraid when I get a mammogram every year. I'm afraid when I get a new project at work that I haven't seen before and I want to do so well and I worry that I won't. I am afraid when I speak honestly with someone about something I know they will not want to hear. Oh yes, there are things I am afraid of.
But I continue to participate in this life making choices every day that aren't always the easy ones. I continue believing in myself enough to do that, because...
I.
Am.
Brave.
Friday, September 11, 2015
False Start
Pissed off and broken
Harsh words spoken
Get out of my life
No - come back,
Be my wife!
Get out of my head
This feeling's not dead
I meant what I said
But did I?
Harsh words spoken
Get out of my life
No - come back,
Be my wife!
Get out of my head
This feeling's not dead
I meant what I said
But did I?
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
The Lump
This is fiction I wrote several years ago.
She turned on Blue’s Clues for them, and made sure they each
had a drink and a snack. One was sinking into the recliner, and the other
stretched himself out across the sofa.
“Can you guys be good for just a little while so Mommy can take a shower?” she asked, with a hint of warning in her voice.
“Ok, Mommy.” They turned their attention to their snacks and started singing along with the TV, “We’re all looking for Blue’s clues…”
She smiled and walked to the bathroom, knowing there would probably be a mess or two to clean up when she got out. She left the bathroom door cracked open, in case they needed her, and turned on the water for her shower. She stepped out of her clothes and removed her hair clip and glasses. She tested the water, and seeing that it was warm enough, stepped in the tub.
As she started getting her hair wet, she began her usual routine of racing thoughts. She remembered she had to sign up her older son for soccer today, and get the water bill paid. She saw the caulking in the tub needed fixing, and made another mental note to get that done this week. As she poured out the last drips of shampoo from the bottle, she was reminded that she was out of shampoo, soap, and rice. Rice? Where did that thought come from? Oh, now she remembered. She wanted to make rice for dinner last night and realized, halfway through cooking everything else, that she didn’t have any.
She sighed and took a deep breath. It just never ends, she thought.
She looked up at her shower card, the one that reminded her to do monthly breast self exams. There was a circle to punch out for each month, and she noticed she hadn’t done her exam this month yet.
“Now’s as good a time as any,” she muttered to herself. It was all a matter of routine, really, so she could tell her doctor she actually did them. She never expected to find anything there. Sometimes she thought she was too healthy – maybe if she was sick, she could get a break!
She moved the fingers of her right hand slowly over her left breast, feeling all the way up to her underarms, and gently circling the whole breast, from the outside in. As she continued examining herself, her thoughts ran back to the weekend’s events, turning over in her mind the various friendly exchanges she’d had.
She moved to her right breast, feeling gently all around with her fingers flat, just as the card said to. I really need to get the kids some new jeans, she thought. They all have holes in—
What was this? Her fingers stopped. She was sure she just imagined what she felt. She gently ran her fingers over the same spot, and there it was again. That spot was harder – and it didn’t move. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Don’t panic, she thought. It’s probably nothing. Most of the time it’s nothing.
But she couldn’t help it. She remembered her earlier thought about wanting to be sick. She remembered the hundred mundane details that all the sudden didn’t seem so important. She remembered watching her father cry when the lumps in her mother’s breasts started the slow process of killing her.
She wiped a tear away, and turned off the shower. She took a deep breath and grabbed the nearest towel, carefully drying herself while trying to avoid that breast.
She couldn’t keep it in. She shut and locked the door, turned on the bathroom fan so the children wouldn’t be able to hear, and she sobbed into the towel.
It never ends, does it? Maybe I was wrong, she thought. Maybe it does.
“Can you guys be good for just a little while so Mommy can take a shower?” she asked, with a hint of warning in her voice.
“Ok, Mommy.” They turned their attention to their snacks and started singing along with the TV, “We’re all looking for Blue’s clues…”
She smiled and walked to the bathroom, knowing there would probably be a mess or two to clean up when she got out. She left the bathroom door cracked open, in case they needed her, and turned on the water for her shower. She stepped out of her clothes and removed her hair clip and glasses. She tested the water, and seeing that it was warm enough, stepped in the tub.
As she started getting her hair wet, she began her usual routine of racing thoughts. She remembered she had to sign up her older son for soccer today, and get the water bill paid. She saw the caulking in the tub needed fixing, and made another mental note to get that done this week. As she poured out the last drips of shampoo from the bottle, she was reminded that she was out of shampoo, soap, and rice. Rice? Where did that thought come from? Oh, now she remembered. She wanted to make rice for dinner last night and realized, halfway through cooking everything else, that she didn’t have any.
She sighed and took a deep breath. It just never ends, she thought.
She looked up at her shower card, the one that reminded her to do monthly breast self exams. There was a circle to punch out for each month, and she noticed she hadn’t done her exam this month yet.
“Now’s as good a time as any,” she muttered to herself. It was all a matter of routine, really, so she could tell her doctor she actually did them. She never expected to find anything there. Sometimes she thought she was too healthy – maybe if she was sick, she could get a break!
She moved the fingers of her right hand slowly over her left breast, feeling all the way up to her underarms, and gently circling the whole breast, from the outside in. As she continued examining herself, her thoughts ran back to the weekend’s events, turning over in her mind the various friendly exchanges she’d had.
She moved to her right breast, feeling gently all around with her fingers flat, just as the card said to. I really need to get the kids some new jeans, she thought. They all have holes in—
What was this? Her fingers stopped. She was sure she just imagined what she felt. She gently ran her fingers over the same spot, and there it was again. That spot was harder – and it didn’t move. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Don’t panic, she thought. It’s probably nothing. Most of the time it’s nothing.
But she couldn’t help it. She remembered her earlier thought about wanting to be sick. She remembered the hundred mundane details that all the sudden didn’t seem so important. She remembered watching her father cry when the lumps in her mother’s breasts started the slow process of killing her.
She wiped a tear away, and turned off the shower. She took a deep breath and grabbed the nearest towel, carefully drying herself while trying to avoid that breast.
She couldn’t keep it in. She shut and locked the door, turned on the bathroom fan so the children wouldn’t be able to hear, and she sobbed into the towel.
It never ends, does it? Maybe I was wrong, she thought. Maybe it does.
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