Cancer creates a reluctant sorority. No rush week, no requirements, and no rules of navigation. There is, however, sisterhood, though no one asks to join. There is one similarity. It’s for life.
“Of course I can come stay with Luna,” I tell Baby Chicken. Luna is her and Southern Boy’s beloved kitten rescue. She is the sweetest little thing, but like many feline bears, she prefers her parents never leave her. In the process of finishing a book, I tell Baby Chicken that a trip to Nashville, where I know no one, will be just the thing.
“We don’t have an explanation for it. I’m going to order a CT scan and a cystoscopy. Given your history, we have to rule out cancer.” It’s the urogynecologist. Who knew such a doctor combination existed? A regular checkup detected blood where it shouldn’t be a few months ago. Doesn’t go away.
Girls of the Big C sorority know it sits in the recesses of the mind. Reassurances of time past, scans every six months and all clears mean nothing when something is amiss. Is it back?
I am stoic as she explains what’s next. CT–have had too many to count. Cystoscopy–that’s new. Of course the bladder is accessed through the vajay. Isn’t everything?
I cry when I tell Middle and Baby Chicken, and cry harder to cancel on Baby Luna to have a tube explore my bladder. Cancer is that bitch that lies in wait, like a movie jump scare. I won’t do it again. Chemo gave me partial hearing loss, Surgery gave me permanently changed speech, and radiation, that mongrel, numbed one side of my head and broke an eardrum just for fun.
Middle Chicken, afraid of shots, sits next to me while the dye is administered through an IV. I see her turn away when the needle comes close. Two weeks later, she positions her chair at my head. No one wants the alternative view. I look at the ceiling, the usual focus when feet are placed in stirrups.
“Mom, your bladder is really pretty,” Middle Chicken whispers. We laugh. What?
“It is,” notes the doctor. Look at the screen, and you can see.”
The screen reveals a round blob, a lovely shade of pink. Travels throughout find nothing amiss, no tumor, no cancer. While Middle Chicken is overjoyed, I am calm. So braced am I for a future of God knows what, I barely respond. It’s part of her power. She leaves you perpetually on guard.
Two days later, Contractor Girl hosts a party on the Lido Deck. She says you have to talk to Gorgeous Blond. Turns out, Gorgeous Blond is twelve weeks out from the removal of a rare cancerous tumor with a scar that runs from neck to lower tummy. She is clear. She is hopeful. Twelve weeks out with a scar dissecting her entire torso. How is she standing?
She says she’s okay and asks about afermath. Emu Oil will help her scar. Rest will help her soul. Friends will help her heart. And the sorority, many of whom she’s not yet met, will buoy her when times are tough. Twice tears threaten to fall on her beautiful face.
Welcome to the sisterhood, my friend. We got you.
Tears that will always have the big C in the back of your mind and a big smile that this is not the next time!! Hugs lil sis