by: Hungry Dog Heaven
I've spent more than a decade submerged in the politics and practices of Public Health. I’m comfortable talking about bodies, health disparities and statistics. But…I do this work because it's personal. So today, the first day of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I am blogging about my boobs – perhaps the most personal blog I could write.
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In the familiar tradition of family folklore, there’s a story that’s been passed down that tells the tale of yours truly, at the young age of six, insisting that my maternal grandparents take me to get a bra because I needed one for school. The reality is that now, even at the age of (almost) thirty-four, I could probably survive just fine without a bra and in fact, my biggest reason for wearing one is to take advantage of the miracle Victoria puts in her outrageous little numbers. ;)
But, also when I was six, my paternal grandmother was confronted with the reality of her breasts. The reality that, despite having seen the doctor many times, her cancer had gone undetected until it had spread and required aggressive chemotherapy and a double mastectomy. While I was pining away for a pink, frilly, little training bra, my grandmother was coming to terms that her new bras would be lead-heavy prosthetic-filled contraptions that bore emotional and physical reminders of the loss of her own breasts.
For eight years, my grandmother battled against the disease that took her breasts. During that time, it also took her hair. And her strength. And her ability to travel like she loved to. And eventually, it took her life.
Another eight years passed before cancer invaded my world. This time, it was my mom. My best friend. The woman I called when I was scared, angry, heart broken and confused. The woman who answered the phone when I had good news to share and made my favorite dinners when I came home from college. I wish I could say that I remember all of the details, but I don’t. In fact, I remember very little. It’s a coping mechanism.
I took a semester off from school and drove down to South Jersey to accompany my mom to a couple chemo treatments. I remember that we watched General Hospital on the TV in the sterile treatment room. I brought us lunch from Wawa and picked up a few magazines. She lost her hair – her hair that had been so beautifully straight and thick was turned to patches of peach fuzz covered by chic, stylish wigs.
A few months into her treatments, I remember visiting her in the hospital, rather than a treatment room. Her immune system had been depleted by the aggressive chemicals she was receiving to fight the battle against the enemy inside. The very drugs intended to save her life were taking a tremendous toll. She lay, more defeated by the chemo than the cancer, in a stark isolation room unable to enjoy the warmth of my hand or the caress of my kiss on her cheek. I visited her in this room for many weeks and feared that every visit would be the last. She confided in me that, if she were to be diagnosed with cancer again, she would not choose to endure the pain of treatment again.
Thankfully, she eventually left the hospital and returned home and tried to piece together a familiar life under new realities. The reality of gray, curly hair where shiny, straight hair once grew. The reality of emotional/mental/spiritual wounds that would take a lifetime to heal. The reality of the physical scars that serve as daily reminders of her courageous journey.
I don’t clearly remember the first time I saw the scar from her mastectomy, but even now, thirteen years later, I can recall the image in my mind’s eye. An uneven line of scar tissue and concave flesh where a breast used to be. An uninvited battle wound from a victorious war. Unlike my grandmother, she seems to have beaten this thing. For now. That’s the thing about cancer - you can never really rest assured that the war is over. The fear of the enemy lurking in the dark shadows of cells and tissue is always there - the impact of her isolation-room-confession weighing heavily, even as we celebrate over a decade of "life after cancer".
I know many of us dream of a cure for breast cancer. I do, too. But, I also dream of finding the cause of breast cancer, because finding a cause means less physical and emotional scars, less fear and more smiles. Because, selfishly, finding a cause means that someone like ME might not have to fight the same war so many before me have fought. Finding a cause means there is the chance that cancer might elude me and never make me confront the fear of leaving my child and husband behind.
For this reason, I have joined the Army of Women (AOW) – a non-profit breast cancer research organization which provides an opportunity for men and women to take part in breast cancer research studies aimed at determining the causes of breast cancer – and how to prevent it. The AOW is a groundbreaking initiative that connects breast cancer researchers, via the internet, with people who are willing to participate in a wide variety of research studies. The goal of the Army of Women is to recruit ONE MILLION MEN AND WOMEN of all ages and ethnicities, including breast cancer survivors and those who have never had breast cancer.
So, with Breast Cancer Awareness Month upon us, I ask that you help my dream become a reality. Sign-up for the Army of Women. There is no cost to join and the AOW is not asking for donations, just for volunteers who agree to receive information about a variety of breast-cancer research studies.
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