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following the sun – an American dream for me
But now that I have spent more than half my life in the desert southwest, there are still unguarded moments of dislocation that bring a crushing loneliness and a visceral longing for “home,” for brightly painted front doors and blue space; for a slow pace in a rainy place where strangers say hello to each other; where church bells peal and roosters crow; where there are unplanned sessions in pubs that stay open late if you sing another song for them; and, where there's always a bus to the city. I will know it when I find it. I will be home.
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Act Two, Amputation, Breast Cancer Advocacy, Breast Cancer Treatment, Breast Reconstruction, Cancer Language, david bowie, Diagnosis, Glenn Frey, Language matters, Mastectomy, Memoir, Milestones
The work of a November. . .
On the anniversary of his death, she told me it was beyond her grasp that one day it would be ten years, twenty years, forty years, since her dad last held her hand in the frozen food section of the grocery store. To keep her warm.
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For My Grandfather – Dulce et Decorum Est.
My grandfather died on June 22, 1977, a decade before the Enniskillen bombing. Had he been alive on that day, he would have been wearing his pressed suit, with medals and a poppy attached to the lapels, not unlike those pensioners gathered respectfully at the Cenotaph where at 10:43am where, with chilling choreography, an IRA bomb exploded, killing eleven and wounding 68. Granda would have done it not for show, but to remember his dead pals. Tomorrow, Remembrance Day there, Veterans Day here, I will remember my grandfather, who fought in the Battle of the Somme and at Passchendaele, and I will remember those old men gathered to remember at the…
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Art, Awesome Women, Breast Cancer Treatment, Breast Reconstruction, Culture of breast cancer, Feminism, Kellys Cellars, Mammograms, Mother Daughter Relationship, Nipple Tattoo, P.INK DAY 2013, Pink Ribbon Culture, Pink Ribbons, Pinkwashing, Sexism, Shopping, Themes of childhood, Tina Fey, Writers
A mastectomy by any other name . . .
NOTE: A version of this post appeared on October 20, 2013, as Breast Cancer Awareness Month was winding down. The pictures on this post offended someone so much that she or he reported them to Facebook and asked to have them removed. And I thought the cancer was the offensive thing. The story that follows is mine. I chose to share it. I make no apology. I did not choose the cancer that inspired its telling. I don’t remember when tattoos became mainstream, only that I was late to the party. I had never considered a tattoo for myself mainly because of its permanence, the very thing that others find appealing. For…
