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Mom died nineteen years ago today. Breast cancer. She got sick when I was a kid-- it was a rare time when she cried, but she did so in the car while we were going somewhere unimportant.
"Why are you crying, mom?"
"They found a lump in my breast."
A short sentence with long consequences.
She was sick for years-- after six surgeries, she said, "I don't want them to cut me any more."
So, we didn't let them.
For some people 20 is a more important marker based on our fingers and toes, but I damned near lost a finger nine years ago (they sewed it back on, it works) so 19 is important, too. I could be counting to 19 save for a dollop of good luck and a great surgeon.
She died from radiation tumors. They killed her just as surely as a slow moving train, but in the end, it was too much. She missed us before she was gone; we miss her still. I fed her a tomato and mayo sandwich ( her favorite) and then on a Tuesday she couldn't eat. Then, she couldn't speak, and then, she was gone. I scrubbed a small spot of urine ( there is no dignity in cancer) from the blue shag carpet, and I wondered if she would be standing there when it was clean. She wasn't.
I think I mock activists too much, but it might be my own bitterness ( I still am, always will be), but get checked out. She was 34 when she got sick. She was 52 when she died. There were a lot of horrid nights from the chemo. I don't know if it could be avoided, but I looked to see how long a mammogram takes-- it isn't long-- but I guarantee you the wait in a doctor's office for that procedure is far shorter than a day like she had.
