The Big, GodAwfulPink, Elephant...

I've got writer's block. Noting the date of my last post, it's been going on for a while.

I can't write about breast cancer, and I can't write about anything else.

I read a particularly mediocre book the other day - it was called The Middle Place - and was a memoir (I use the term loosely) written by a women with breast cancer whose father was subsequently diagnosed with bladder cancer. It was a classic example of the kind of memoir that gives the genre a bad name: a generic "telling" of events and feelings. I suppose most memoirs tell generic stories... a good memoir is all about the telling, after all. But if the author meant to convey what it's like to be a patient, a parent and a daughter in the midst of all these nasty proliferating cells, she didn't quite get it across.

It's early days, but there are no moments, as of yet, that have been unusual in my story. I'm not the first mother with five children to deal with this shit. I'm not the first teacher to explain to her young students about bad cells and bald heads. I'm not the first cellist who can't play because her arm is too fucking sore. I'm probably not even the first woman more concerned with losing her hair than a boob. ("I'm not shaving my head in solidarity, Mom," says the 17-year old. "Not with my profile.") We don't run voluptuous in this family, but we all have thick, curly hair that we're pretty vain about. And I'm not the first woman with breast cancer who finally found her soulmate, only to have the length of her marriage threatened way too soon.

I don't know if all five year-olds are as curious as mine, but I do enjoy their "hands-on" approach to the situation. At first, pre-surgery, it was "Can I feel the bump, Mom? Can I feel it again? Is it bigger today? Does it hurt?" Post-surgery, they developed a fascination with my suction drain, which pulls all the undesirable fluids out from under my arm. "What color is it today? Is there still blood in it? It looks like apple juice!" Pretty soon, once I'm in the throes of chemo, they will want to rub my bald head. And down the road, to see my radiation tats. (Mental note: hide the Sharpies.) I imagine a future Monday morning Kindergarten Show-'n-Tell: "My Mommy threw up FIFTEEN TIMES this weekend!"

Maybe I'll post pictures of the hats I'm going to knit.

We'll see.