Post by Robin Leigh Anderson on Oct 17, 2016 18:58:06 GMT -8
I lost my mom far too early to breast cancer, because she was not really aware (early 1980s) about the importance of regular breast exams and what that lump meant, or after her radical mastectomy, the value of followup chemo and/or radiation. We lost her a scant few years later. When a friend faced not being ready to get out and do something she loved, I took my love for my mom and my heart for my friend and created this story:
Emily stared at the reflection looking back at her. “You’re not me,” she said out loud. She ran her fingers over the pale, dry skin on one cheek. She sighed and turned away from the unattractive image. The ringing telephone was a welcome interruption.
“Hey, Em, how are you?” came the question that Emily hated the most, the solicitous tone that made her bite her tongue every time.
“What’s up, Jan.” Emily never answered that dreaded question.
“I knew you had a ticket to the Ladies’ Tea at church Saturday afternoon,” Jan replied. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to make it and I wanted to tell you we’d miss you.”
Worse than the solicitous question were the solicitous assumptions. Emily took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I hear Maddie in the background,” she said cheerfully. “Just up from her nap or just about to go down?” She would do anything to avoid getting pulled into “the conversation”. A baby’s cries would do any time.
“Oh, gosh, she dropped her favorite sippy cup,” Jan said. “I’d better run along. You take care, dear.”
Emily hung up the phone, relieved that she had dodged one more inquiry. Everyone meant well, she knew that, but it didn’t help. It was dinner time and she busied herself making a beautiful salad she knew she wouldn’t eat.
Night time was the worst part of her life. The street became quiet, neighborhood noises ceased, hardly a dog’s bark could be heard for blocks around. She lay on the couch, her grandma’s soft pink crocheted afghan covering her frail body. The television droned at her from across the room. She had no idea what she was watching. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the nausea.
Emily woke with a start. The sky outside the east window of the living room was gray and hazy. She sat up and tried to stretch out the crick in her neck. She glanced at the TV, trying to remember turning it off. She did a double-take at the green LED clock on the cable box. “I slept five hours, that’s a record,” she sighed. “What to do for the next nineteen hours.”
The same tired face stared back at her from that honest bathroom mirror. She ran her hands over the fine short fuzz on the top of her head. The black circles under the eyes were fading enough for Emily to realize that the mark of death was leaving her. The chemotherapy that followed her surgery had taken its toll, the skin, the hair, the appetite. She could see the cloud in her eyes clearing, and this allowed a better assessment of what remained. The cheeks were hollow from weight loss, echoed in the long t-shirt that hung off her thin frame.
“Oh, well, it’s Friday,” she mumbled, and she frowned. “I used to love the end of the week.”
It didn’t seem worthwhile taking a shower and getting dressed, but Emily forced herself. She prepared a healthy if not bland breakfast and did her best to eat it. She sat down at her computer to check e-mails. She scrolled through and deleted the junk mail and clicked onto the address friends and family used. She fidgeted through numerous cutesy e-cards and sympathetic messages, then deleted them all. She didn’t feel up to facing one more hour of polite replies. She pulled out the folio of papers her secretary had dropped off at the beginning of the week and logged into the office server to file what work she had completed.
The sun finally broke through the morning haze. Emily opened the curtains across the patio doors and stared out at the yard. The gardener she’d had to hire had been doing an admirable job in keeping the grass green and trimmed, the beds of colorful flowers still blooming. She ventured onto the cool flagstones and picked up a pair of shears from the covered potting bench. She stooped to clip a small bouquet of the bright blossoms and arranged them in a thin glass on the round table. She sank into one rattan chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun for only a moment until she remembered that she wasn’t to be out in the sun, with the chemicals still in her system. She picked up the flowers and walked slowly inside to face the rest of the day, and the long night, alone.
Emily stepped into the shower Saturday morning with no expectations of feeling any better when she finished. To her surprise she did feel well enough to attempt to eat breakfast. The nausea medication worked for a change. The long hours of the long day were going to be a lot easier for her to handle, at least for this one day. She sat down at the computer to check e-mails and the calendar feature popped a notice onto the screen. She sighed and turned off the monitor.
After trying to concentrate on a meaty novel for two hours, Emily gave up and ventured into the bedroom to fold the laundry the service had delivered. She opened the closet door to put away a stack of t-shirts and she spied her favorite blouse. She set the t-shirts on the shelf above the rod and let her hand run over the silky colorful fabric of the blouse. She pulled it off the hanger and smoothed it across her breasts, the same breasts saved by a skillful surgeon.
Emily pulled off her sweater and slipped on the blouse. She buttoned each decorative button and checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She didn’t like the contrast of the pale, pale skin against the bright colors. She sat down at the vanity table and opened her makeup drawer. She worked for half an hour, alternately trying to hide or highlight certain features. She went into the bathroom in search of her favorite powder compact and caught sight of herself in that honest mirror under the bright bathroom lights.
“You’re still not me,” Emily frowned at the reflection. She rubbed both palms over the stubble on her head. She turned on her heel and strode into the bedroom. She opened a large round box on top of the dresser and pulled out a sleek tan Panama with a bright ribbon puggry around its crown. She picked up her purse from the dresser and checked inside for the ticket she’d tucked into her day planner. She set the Panama on her head, a little to one side with a jaunty flair. She grinned broadly at this reflection and nodded to the woman in the vanity mirror. “Let’s go to that Tea and show them some hattitude.”
Hattitude
By Robin Leigh Anderson
By Robin Leigh Anderson
Emily stared at the reflection looking back at her. “You’re not me,” she said out loud. She ran her fingers over the pale, dry skin on one cheek. She sighed and turned away from the unattractive image. The ringing telephone was a welcome interruption.
“Hey, Em, how are you?” came the question that Emily hated the most, the solicitous tone that made her bite her tongue every time.
“What’s up, Jan.” Emily never answered that dreaded question.
“I knew you had a ticket to the Ladies’ Tea at church Saturday afternoon,” Jan replied. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to make it and I wanted to tell you we’d miss you.”
Worse than the solicitous question were the solicitous assumptions. Emily took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I hear Maddie in the background,” she said cheerfully. “Just up from her nap or just about to go down?” She would do anything to avoid getting pulled into “the conversation”. A baby’s cries would do any time.
“Oh, gosh, she dropped her favorite sippy cup,” Jan said. “I’d better run along. You take care, dear.”
Emily hung up the phone, relieved that she had dodged one more inquiry. Everyone meant well, she knew that, but it didn’t help. It was dinner time and she busied herself making a beautiful salad she knew she wouldn’t eat.
Night time was the worst part of her life. The street became quiet, neighborhood noises ceased, hardly a dog’s bark could be heard for blocks around. She lay on the couch, her grandma’s soft pink crocheted afghan covering her frail body. The television droned at her from across the room. She had no idea what she was watching. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the nausea.
Emily woke with a start. The sky outside the east window of the living room was gray and hazy. She sat up and tried to stretch out the crick in her neck. She glanced at the TV, trying to remember turning it off. She did a double-take at the green LED clock on the cable box. “I slept five hours, that’s a record,” she sighed. “What to do for the next nineteen hours.”
The same tired face stared back at her from that honest bathroom mirror. She ran her hands over the fine short fuzz on the top of her head. The black circles under the eyes were fading enough for Emily to realize that the mark of death was leaving her. The chemotherapy that followed her surgery had taken its toll, the skin, the hair, the appetite. She could see the cloud in her eyes clearing, and this allowed a better assessment of what remained. The cheeks were hollow from weight loss, echoed in the long t-shirt that hung off her thin frame.
“Oh, well, it’s Friday,” she mumbled, and she frowned. “I used to love the end of the week.”
It didn’t seem worthwhile taking a shower and getting dressed, but Emily forced herself. She prepared a healthy if not bland breakfast and did her best to eat it. She sat down at her computer to check e-mails. She scrolled through and deleted the junk mail and clicked onto the address friends and family used. She fidgeted through numerous cutesy e-cards and sympathetic messages, then deleted them all. She didn’t feel up to facing one more hour of polite replies. She pulled out the folio of papers her secretary had dropped off at the beginning of the week and logged into the office server to file what work she had completed.
The sun finally broke through the morning haze. Emily opened the curtains across the patio doors and stared out at the yard. The gardener she’d had to hire had been doing an admirable job in keeping the grass green and trimmed, the beds of colorful flowers still blooming. She ventured onto the cool flagstones and picked up a pair of shears from the covered potting bench. She stooped to clip a small bouquet of the bright blossoms and arranged them in a thin glass on the round table. She sank into one rattan chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun for only a moment until she remembered that she wasn’t to be out in the sun, with the chemicals still in her system. She picked up the flowers and walked slowly inside to face the rest of the day, and the long night, alone.
Emily stepped into the shower Saturday morning with no expectations of feeling any better when she finished. To her surprise she did feel well enough to attempt to eat breakfast. The nausea medication worked for a change. The long hours of the long day were going to be a lot easier for her to handle, at least for this one day. She sat down at the computer to check e-mails and the calendar feature popped a notice onto the screen. She sighed and turned off the monitor.
After trying to concentrate on a meaty novel for two hours, Emily gave up and ventured into the bedroom to fold the laundry the service had delivered. She opened the closet door to put away a stack of t-shirts and she spied her favorite blouse. She set the t-shirts on the shelf above the rod and let her hand run over the silky colorful fabric of the blouse. She pulled it off the hanger and smoothed it across her breasts, the same breasts saved by a skillful surgeon.
Emily pulled off her sweater and slipped on the blouse. She buttoned each decorative button and checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She didn’t like the contrast of the pale, pale skin against the bright colors. She sat down at the vanity table and opened her makeup drawer. She worked for half an hour, alternately trying to hide or highlight certain features. She went into the bathroom in search of her favorite powder compact and caught sight of herself in that honest mirror under the bright bathroom lights.
“You’re still not me,” Emily frowned at the reflection. She rubbed both palms over the stubble on her head. She turned on her heel and strode into the bedroom. She opened a large round box on top of the dresser and pulled out a sleek tan Panama with a bright ribbon puggry around its crown. She picked up her purse from the dresser and checked inside for the ticket she’d tucked into her day planner. She set the Panama on her head, a little to one side with a jaunty flair. She grinned broadly at this reflection and nodded to the woman in the vanity mirror. “Let’s go to that Tea and show them some hattitude.”