Kin

Here in biopsy never-never land, I feel certain kinships with all the other women who must be going through this (I feel kinship with everyone who has dealt with divorce, too, but We Aren’t Thinking About That Right Now).

It’s unnerving to know how many other women right now are driving, or writing, or working, or sleeping with their sweet, soft sacred breast gouged up and bruised by the biopsy needle.  Make no mistake about it, this is not a “feminine” process in the stereotypical pink fuzzy sense of the word.  It’s hard and gasping and bloody, it shoves and stabs and requires all your musculature to brace up on that table.  And how many women have how many left or right breasts aching quiescent or oozing blood under their polo or t-shirt or blazer as I write this?

And how many women are in the agony of hurry up and wait?  How many went through the undignified, unofficial support group in the Kaiser basement, us strangers in our gowns like kids outside the principal’s office, trading strategy and comfort while the radiologist called us in one by one and delivered either a pardon… or a detention to the next procedure?  How many are checking Facebook and email when we all know the news will come by phone, but it is restless and relentless, this need to know, to see, are we there yet, will I live?  News, is there news, any news yet?  Did anybody say something?  Can anybody help?

Deer behind barbed wire.
Edgewood County Park, San Mateo.  Yes, it's symbolism, ok?

And yes I know there’s a good chance it’s not cancer and even if it is there are many good options and choices.  I know that.  But with a bruised body and mind I can just sit, helpless and numb, while I wait, with my sisters, a legion of wonderers, an army of bruises, a worldwide wave of held breath until that phone call finally comes.