My mother didn't die of breast cancer; she died of the surgery that cured her breast cancer. I guess it was quicker that way. She died about 6 weeks after her mammogram. One time I told a medical technician that a mammogram killed my mother, but the idea seemed to disturb her, so I didn't pursue the thought.
I had my latest mammogram done on Thursday. My appointment was for Monday, but I wrote the wrong date in my planner and didn't notice until it was too late. I showed up on Thursday anyhow and asked them to squeeze me in. They didn't think they could at first. I was scheduled for the "A" room, which is reserved for large breasted women, and they only had openings in the "B" room for smaller breasted women. (Isn't that backwards? Shouldn't the small breasted women have been in the "A" room, with the larger ladies in the "C" room or the "DD" room?) I protested that I really didn't have big breasts at all, in spite of the size 38 bra. Then I flashed my winter coat open to let them view the t-shirt clad evidence. After a couple of flashes, they agreed to let me into the "B" room. Either they agreed with me about the size of my tits, or they figured they'd better get me out of the lobby before I removed even the t-shirt.
That madness is over for another year.
My mother was a poet. She wrote some really great stuff. I think this one is my favorite:
The Call
There are not enough choirs on earth
To sing me to rest
When I think of the sap
There in January twigs.
February is a waiting,
Nature’s baton aloft, a breath
Held, while the snivel and hack
Of winter subsides.
Sometime in early March,
The first sweet tones begin
Singing the rising, sweet filling,
Calyx softening.
And when I hear good melody,
Old Maple Tune, then
There will be choir enough
For me to leave.
by MMR
