[untitled]

 

Three o’clock in the morning and Anne was awake.  Her eyes soon adjusted, and all she needed was the sliver of moonlight to find her way to the bathroom.  She peeled off her nightgown and stood in the mirror.  She looked old, older than she felt.  It was funny how the body can abandon the mind, just jump ship and leave the brain floating aimlessly.  Her skin was marked by the sun and hung loosely off the bone.  Her breasts hung low and she could feel their weight on her back; all the weight they carried.  She reached over and felt the tumor on her left breast.  What good were her breasts to her now anyway?  Stretched and drooping, they no longer held anything for her. They were certainly no longer a sign of fertility.  Men didn’t seem to notice them anymore, men wanted young and perky.  They had even let her down after the birth of her son.  They had refused to allow him milk, refused her this precious time with him.  And now they committed the ultimate betrayal, there was a good possibility they were poisoning her whole body. 

Anne turned on the faucet.  Leaning over it she vigorously splashed the water on her face.  Anne knew to be suspicious of them; if the biopsy was positive she would be the third women in four generations that the disease had attacked.  Her mother had been sick Anne’s whole life, or, more correctly wanted to be sick.  But it was the word cancer that scared Anne the most, the cancer that had killed Grandma Velma.  Her mother had already had the chronic arthritis that had plagued Grandpa, the cataracts from Great Aunt Louise, the hernias, the Lupus, the migraines, the ulcers, the high blood pressure from various other relatives.  When the word cancer first came up, Anne didn’t blink an eyelash.  Her mother hadn’t been diagnosed yet, and Anne was callous toward the routine of finding new illnesses.  But could a lifetime of wanting to be sick invite real life sickness on a person?  Anne was now certain it could.   But Anne herself had not wanted to be sick.  Maybe living a life blaming her mother for her own sickness would bring on the same results?  Anne was about to find out. 

The tumor was hard, and you could almost see it protruding from her breast.  It had grown out of nowhere.  The doctors warned her even if it was not cancerous she would still need surgery to remove it.  Their educated guess was that it was cancerous.

Later, as she drove to the doctor’s office, she wondered if her mother had ever been frightened by the news or the possibility.  She remembered with contempt her mother telling her of the malignancy with a sort of serene bliss.  This had angered Anne at the time. 

The waiting room was starch and white.  It contrasted Anne’s mood; she felt dark and complex.  For the first time in years she was missing her mother.  When she went in for the procedure, the doctor’s hands were cold, her breasts had managed to take all intimacy out of human touch, and when she heard her body described in medical terms she felt distant from it.  She was glad for this; she felt nothing but coldness and hatred for its betrayal.  The needle that he used to numb the area did nothing but startle her a little bit.  After that each drive into the hard tumor was welcomed by Anne.  The more forceful it was the better.  The doctor told her to just take it easy the rest of the day, and she would be fine to go the work in the morning. The results would be ready in two days. She thanked him and left.

Her mind was on her mother, this was, in a way, the closest she ever felt to the woman who had given her life.  There could be no mistaking that Anne was her daughter. Physically she took after her in almost every way, but Anne had never gotten her mother’s motives, especially when she had been sick.  Her mother seemed to accept her responsibility to house the disease.  Her death was certainly not easy, but there was not much struggle either.  It is just God’s will, that’s all Anne, she had said to her one day.  Her mother’s Catholic upbringing had done its best to instill guilt into her.  She often told Anne that any problems Anne had were brought on by her resistance to accept God.

The day after her mother had been diagnosed Anne went to church with her.  The golden wood of the pew was hard on her back but soft enough to dig her finger nails into.  Anne was only seventeen at the time.  So far she had not seen how the existence of a God did anything for her mother other than provide her with a social outlet.  Her mother seemed all too pleased to tell people about the cancer, she wore it proudly like an Indian headdress.  Anne was embarrassed, and she never would get over the embarrassment of other people’s sympathy.  But her mother thrived on it, it seemed.  She milked the cancer for all it was worth.  Not only was there sympathy to be found in the disease itself, but she used the financial burden of the treatments to draw people’s pity.

Forty-five minutes after church let out, and half the congregation knew about her mother’s disease, they were on their way home.

Momma, you don’t have to talk about it yet if you don’t want to.

I know, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.

Well, I am just saying, we don’t know much about it yet; maybe you should wait until you talk to the doctor again before you start making assumptions.

What assumptions am I making Anne?  God gave me this to handle, but he also gave me friends and family to lean on.  God knows what he is doing and so do I.

Anne wasn’t so sure.

       

            Anne pulled up to the house.  Her tumor was not just in her breast, it was in her mind.  She could not work or sleep or grocery shop.  She felt as if the cancer was circulating through her veins, penetrating every part of her, every tiny capillary.  She was exhausted.  She went inside and called her son.

Hey mom, what’s up?

She had not said anything to him yet, she knew he had a lot going on with school.  She debated whether or not to wait until she got a confirmed diagnosis.

Honey, there is something I need to tell you.  She was almost sure she had cancer, and she was scared.

Is everything ok, Mom?

Yeah honey, I’m just missing you, that’s all.  How is school going?

    He was worried about her, she could tell.  He offered to drive up from school the next weekend.  She wondered how much she gave away in her voice.  She felt a pang of guilt for never wanting to give anything up for her mother.  Even though there was physical evidence that her mother was sick, Anne could never stop blaming her for it.  She had treated her mother with pitilessness and selfishness.  She refused to put her life on hold for her mother’s.  Anne had never admitted to herself that it was because she was afraid.  After so many times of crying wolf, the wolf finally came, attacked and conquered.

Her son delved into talk about finals, but ultimately got back to the question of how she was feeling.  He was so much like his father, intuitive, concerned.  But he was able to deal with Anne’s resistance.  She had gone away for school.  Her mother died at the end of her first semester.  She met Chad three months later.  When she finally told him about her mother he had seemed so concerned.  Anne felt like crying, but she was embarrassed.  It’s fine.  I knew it was coming.  I had plenty of time to prepare.  Let’s not talk about it now. Their relationship grew out of a shared interest in traveling.  They would travel to world together; first Italy, Paris, London, then Asia—Japan, Thailand, and Africa.  They did manage to spend their honeymoon in Venice, and it wasn’t until a decade later, when they had not been anywhere in five years, and Chad’s need to comfort her and her resistance to it finally tore them apart.

Her father died, quietly in his sleep.  Anne, as she did in the weeks after her mother died, accepted the condolences stoically.  She was the picture of strength; she stood tall and slender at the funeral.  Chad held her hand, but later, in her old bedroom, he needed more from her.  He needed her to need him.  It’s okay to cry you know? He told her. 

I know, she snapped, I just don’t need to.  I’m strong.

I know you’re strong, but this is a lot to go through.

I’ve already been through this once, you know.  I know how to deal with this.  I make it through better than most.  I don’t break down.  I’m not as fragile as most women.

It’s okay to be fragile too.  I am your husband; you can break down in front of me.  Besides, I am not sure if you handle it better than most.  I know how much pain you still harbor from your mother’s death.

You know nothing.  She was yelling now.  The emotions were too much.  She could feel them surging through her body, bursting to escape.  She lay down on the bed facing the wall, away from Chad.  He turned out the light and lay next to her.  Some hours later she felt his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away.  She was as cold and hard as her tumor, quietly poisoning the marriage that had given her so much protection.

          

She knew that her options would be much better than her mother’s had ever been, there was over a 90 percent chance that she would make a full recovery, if she even had cancer at all.  Anne did not think that dying was what was scaring her the most.

 

In the weeks after her mother’s funeral she had busied herself with the flower arrangements and writing thank you cards.  She drove the five hours home after her first semester in college.  Her mother couldn’t hold on until Anne got home; she died the morning of Anne’s last final, three months after she decided not to undergo treatments.  Anne felt abandoned.  She didn’t cry at the funeral, and it wasn’t until she was alone in her room, wiping off the smudge of black mascara Aunt Jenny had left on her neck, that her eyes filled with tears.  She was determined not to let them fall and ruin her makeup.  She picked up the copy of the pocket Bible and slung it across the room, batted away the tears, and straightened her hair.  She went to greet the guests that had shown up after the burial with a practiced patience and stoicism that made her feel strong and above the situation.

 

She picked up the phone again and called her best friend.

She waited to meet Mary in the coffee shop.  Anne decided not to tell her anything that was going on.  She did not want to burden anyone else with her life.  Mary had her own problems to worry about.  Her husband had just lost his job, and Anne was determined to be there for her.  They had been friends since high school.  Mary was one of the only people Anne felt comfortable enough around to talk to about problems, even if it was just a little.  Mostly though, she just listened.  Despite all her issues with intimacy, she liked to listen.  She was drawn to people who could talk freely and openly about their lives, just as long as they didn’t require the same from her.

The server was a young blond girl.  She wore a tight thin white tank top, proudly displaying her bosom.  All around Anne she noticed girls and women with low cut tops and tight shirts.  This was one of the defining elements of femininity.  Anne was reminded of ancient fertility goddesses with oversized breasts.  Since the dawn of time women’s chests had brought them pride and power.  Now she felt the tumor attacking her femininity.            

What is with b***s anyway? She asked Mary when she got there, I mean are they really so great.

Where is this coming from?  Is this about a man?

No, I mean, I just don’t understand why someone our age would get them…blown up, you know? She pointed to a woman across the shop.  It’s not like there of any use anymore.  Most women our age are settled or should be anyway.

I don’t know, I guess some people just want to feel young again.

I suppose there is nothing wrong with that.  Anne said.

You don’t have to worry about that anyway.  You have a great pair, she said almost giggling. 

At that Anne felt angry.  Her pair was not great, they were traitors.  She took a deep breath.

Do you remember when Mom got diagnosed with breast cancer?

Of course.

Well, I found a tumor in my left breast.

Mary covered Anne’s hand with hers. 

And it’s just bringing back a lot of thoughts about Mom.  I was never able to forgive her for getting cancer.  She was starting to tear up.  My childhood was plagued with one pretend illness after the other.  She wasn’t supposed to ever really get sick, and she definitely wasn’t supposed to die.  What if I’m being punished?

You aren’t being punished; you were still just a kid when that happened.  You dealt with your feelings the only way you knew how.

But after all these years I should have grown up just a little.  I never mended my thoughts.  I still believed she willed her way into being sick.

It was hard for you to lose a parent; it would be hard for anyone.  You can’t beat yourself up over it.  Are you sure it is cancer?

No, the test results will be in Wednesday.  She took a deep breath and wiped the corner of her eye with her fingertip.

I’ll go with you if you want me to.

That would be nice. 

And you’re right. B***s aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

 

It felt good to tell Mary, to finally say out loud the feelings she had been hiding for years.  That night she said the closest thing to a prayer she had said in a long time.  It was half to God, half to her mom.  I am sorry I ever doubted you had any pain.  I was angry, but…I know you had your faults Momma, but I should have appreciated your strengths more.  Please, if you can, forgive me.

 

Mary drove her to the doctor’s office.  It was nice not to be alone.  Anne felt more at peace, she had started to accept her fate.  She looked over at Mary and smiled, Thanks, you are such a good friend.

Mary smiled back, Oh, hush, you would do the same for me.

 

Anne felt a pang of anxiety when she heard her name called to go back to the patient room.  She held Mary’s hand.

For once, the doctor did not keep her waiting long.  He came in with his charts and looked her square in the face.  It’s good news, the tests came back negative.  Now we still have to remove the tumor to decrease the chance of it producing cancerous cells.  Anne let out a deep breath.  She looked over at Mary.  The two friends clutched hands and let out happy laughs of relief.  Thank you so much Doctor.   

They did the pre-surgery blood testing that day, and the surgery was the following week.  Anne was relieved and she could not help but let a tear escape.  When she was waiting to get her blood drawn she remembered a moment that had been pushed back deep inside her brain.  It played now like a slideshow in her mind.  Her mother’s hands pushed the small of Anne’s back and she went flying high on the swing.  Anne felt like she was flying.  In a quick decision the tiny Anne flung herself from the swing and soared through the sky.  She landed sideways, falling and scraping her knee.  Her mother ran to her side like a blur.  Anne started to cry, and then her mother picked her up and kissed her on the end of the nose.  Now, we are going to make this all better, don’t you worry.  And Anne didn’t worry; she nodded her chubby little head in agreement.

Anne heard the nurse call her name.  She pulled herself out of the chair and said in a soft, prayer like voice, Thanks Momma.

 

 

      

 

Author's Note

Very rough. It needs some rounding out. And I'm not sure how I feel about the end. Any critique is appreciated.