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in my hands
Even when rendered illogical and unreasonable, she by raging adolescent hormones, me by the effects of Tamoxifen, we are as two peas in a pod. We have the same hands. We love dark chocolate-covered anything, ice-cream, the smell of books, toasted coconut pancakes from Cost Plus World Market and The Daily Show. We are almost the same height, and she can walk…
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‘spared’ & other euphemisms in cancer country
Throughout the day, I have caught myself looking at the clock, wondering what I missed on January 19th one year ago, when I underwent the mastectomy of my right breast and its reconstruction. I am loath to declare the day a “cancerversary,” the cheery-sounding sniglet used by many ensnared within the disease to mark milestones – the day a lump…
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hand ballet
Fourth Day: Celebrating the Ordinary Graceful and elegant, my daughter’s fingers catch the sun spilling through the window. For a moment, I am undone, realizing that my little girl’s hands are those of a young woman. Strong and steady, the real warrior in our house. As though it were yesterday, I remember when she first discovered her hands. For her…
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Day 8: A one sided conversation
Today’s WEGO Health Activist Writer’s Month challenge is to recap an awesome conversation I had this week, perhaps in the form of a script. I’ve had all kinds of conversations this week, some inspirational some not so much. Not all have been pleasant, and not all have required me to be physically present. I have taken turns at talking and listening,…