I got my yearly mammogram yesterday. A routine thing, yes, but also a loaded thing. Breast cancer surrounds me — this friend is undergoing treatment for it, that one was just diagnosed, an acquaintance is battling it for the second time, someone dear to me died from it this year, my grandmother had it, my mother might’ve developed it but I don’t know — it’s scary, to say the least, to think about going in year after year only to ask beforehand, “Is this going to be the one?” I have always had a sense of foreboding about it, as if my breasts are ticking time bombs. Since I became a mother that sense has only increased. As someone who lost her mother at an early age, I can become fixated on the idea that I will leave my son too early, so much so that I wrote a piece about it called “The Breath,” for my new book about getting a bad result from a mammogram a few years ago.
Women who lose their mothers at young ages are petrified by the idea of their own mortality when regarding their children’s lives. My mama died when I was fourteen. With her went my anchor, my sense of safety in the world, and my home. I cringe when I think of my son feeling the way I did then, the way I still do, even now. I want him to know he will always belong to someone, to someone who will always be there. How I long for control over that part more than I long for control over any part of this and it’s the kind that’s absolutely unattainable. Damn it. I can’t leave him. I have to do everything I can think of to ensure my own safety here now because I have to make sure he’s okay, that he has what he needs, that no one harms him. I have lists of things to make sure of for him! The knowledge that I will leave him too early, just like my mama left me, bangs around in my brain like a hateful ghost. Though I try so hard not to, I will fail him. Chances are I won’t outlive him. The possibility that I could is another, even more unwelcome vision.
Oh, the things we put ourselves through. I do hold on tight. I do cross my fingers. I do try to find my breath. And at the end of all that I know what will be will be, but I pray that it will be okay for us just a little bit longer every single year. Just a little bit longer. Then I remind myself that all anyone gets is just a little bit. And the more I know that, the more I can let go and be the mama my son deserves for as long as I’m supposed to be according to how it’s subscribed in the stars. We’re not in control of such things.
However, please don’t forget to get your mammogram. We may not have control, but we can do what we can.
Sending love everywhere,
AM
Of course, I understand your fear and trepidation about sickness and mortality. If this helps at all, unless your grandmother had breast cancer at a young age, it’s unlikely that it was hereditary. I hope this eases your mind a bit. Nonetheless, it’s important to get yearly mammograms and the reminder is appreciated. Self-care at every level is an act of kindness and mindfulness.
My mom had it. My sister is undergoing treatment now. It’s another horrible curse upon women that is inexplicable. BUT my cousin, HE had it, too. That’s something many men don’t think about. Don’t know about. Men get breast cancer, too. I have three other friends with various cancers right now, let alone the ones I’ve already lost plus the family members. It’s so damn pervasive in all of our lives.
Beyond that, AM, for my own reasons I suffer these horrific forebodings and never took care of myself until my daughter was born. Every time I go for a test, I’m terrified of the results so much so that I delay, delay, delay. I have a scan pending that I haven’t done and a cardiologist appointment the end of October.
I am, what they call hyper-vigilant when it comes to my child and my dogs. Your fears are normal without even suffering the horrifying loss of your Mama. But that’s where the “Hyper” comes in, right? That’s what puts you into Ultra Mama mode. For me, now that my daughter doesn’t seem to need me like she did, I wonder why I’m even here, anymore. Why am I being spared? I’m starting to slip and slide down the slope the wrong way and I’m unable to stop it. “Slippin’ and slidin’ and feelin’ low.”
There’s just been too much sadness and loss these last two years.
I pray your results are good. JB