Breast cancer took my mom. Not directly. Not immediately. But 30 years later the lingering effects lead to her death.
I don’t remember clearly her fight with breast cancer. I couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9. It wasn’t something the family discussed. The “C Word” was whispered (literally they said “the C Word”) and it wasn’t until I was much older that I understood why I got to spend weeks with my aunt and uncle or why we spent so many afternoons in the waiting room at City of Hope.
It was the late 70s. Like so many other things, it just wasn’t something we ever talked about.
The surgeries left her with a flat, scarred chest. The chemo replaced her greying wavy hair with straight brown locks. She wasn’t happy with either. She wore a wig, then took to having her hair “frosted” grey and permed. She got fake boobs.
It was the late 70s. They were silicone. They leaked. Years later she had them taken out but the combination of removed lymph nodes and the damage caused by the implants left her with no immune system to fight off the infection that eventually took her.
I’ve watched too many around me deal with this. Breast cancer runs in my family. My mother wasn’t the first; she wasn’t the last either. I’ve had my own scare. We all have our stories. Stories of faith, and hope, and too often loss.
40 years later, I still remember that City of Hope lobby. I’m about the same age as she was. It’s why I go for annual mammograms. It’s why I get nervous when I feel anything new. Why I TRIED to stay strong when Juli had to go for a biopsy that thankfully was negative. Like my mother’s chest, her breast cancer left me scarred.
This is MY breast cancer awareness month story. Someday, maybe we won’t have these stories to share. Hopefully.
Sparkling Llama 
