Are you there God, it’s me . . .

red ink…

Did you ever read the book, Are you there God, It’s me Margaret?  I know all of the girls in my 6th grade class read the classic coming of age book by Judy Blume, and snickered about all of the lines, especially “we must, we must, we must increase our bust . . .”  So funny to think about how desperate we were to have these breasts at one time in our life.   It’s unbelievable that as our little girls are starting to develop and to develop their own excitement about the buds, we would be having such a complicated relationship with the breasts we once prayed for, the breasts that nourished our children, and excited our husbands.

Having a scheduled mammogram, just a few weeks after my best girl was diagnosed with breast cancer made me think about whether these were really more trouble than their worth.   (Of course, my husband would beg to differ.) They just seem to be way too much trouble these days –  they just don’t quite sit where they used to, mine keep getting bigger (I’m a 36D) and then we have to submit ourselves to the annual torture that is a mammogram.   Is there another body part, not meant to be flat, that must submit to complete squishing on a yearly basis?  At my last mammo, once I thought my technician was finished she came back for two more views.   “There’s always something with these ladies” she said.   I sighed deeply again and walked slowly into the torture chamber.

My girl let me feel the lump.   I wanted to show her that I wasn’t scared of it – or of her.    It was real to me then, and felt hard (a good sign apparently) and felt like something that absolutely needed to be out of her.   Laying hands on it gave me a true object of my anger, but it was weird because I’m mad at something that is still housed in her.   I prayed like never before, and still pray, for it to be out of her body.  Like the diagnosis and the life it’s forced on my friend and her family, I realized the lump took up so much of her small breast.   Cancer is like that, from where I sit.   The appointments, the treatments, the rest it takes to just to get through, the support groups, the people who come into your life in much more intimate ways than you’ve ever allowed, all feel a little like a takeover, I imagine.   My friend kept telling me in the early weeks that it was moving so fast, and that she could barely catch her breath.   I’m not out of breath, but sometimes it feels like I’m still in a dream.   I can’t real believe this is happening to someone so close to me.   I keep asking . . . Are you there God?   I hope He recognizes that it’s me, and hears my prayers for my friend and for myself.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. JC Ellis
    Nov 21, 2011 @ 16:13:17

    Well said! Your words are poignant and personal! Thank you for sharing!

    Reply

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