"Is this routine?"
"You are turning 40 this year and you have been having these for years, why?"
"Wow, your mom was diagnosed at 35."
"Did she survive?"
And thus the ritual begins. Mammographers mean well, but I prefer the older ones to the younger ones. I like the ones who are more my mothers age. Go figure. Today I had someone who was probably 25 years old. She was nice enough, but today I felt the need to have a gentle hand, a soft touch and reassurance that while my mom was dying at 40, I am going to live.
No mammogrpaher in their right mind would stick my breasts in a vice and predict my future...but it would be nice.
On my way to the appointment I stopped for a cup of coffee. As I was pouring milk into my cup, I looked to my left and heard two women laughing. Both wore scarves on their heads and their eyebrows were fond memories. Their pink shirts, no doubt, hid scares that would make most of us weep. Did I mention, they were laughing? I could hear my mom (and Wendi) say, "Stop staring, Elissa," so I diverted my gaze and went on my way.
I don't remember my moms laugh.
I don't remember her voice.
I don't remember her touch.
I remember her cancer.
I remember her scars.
I remember her death at 41.
So as I near 40 and deeply long for the guidance of women and mothers, wise ones who guide those who seek, I try to keep my heart open to the not so quiet lessons that my life brings and hope that wherever my mom is she is gently guiding me to where I need to be.
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