It was a Sunday

Sundays

Sunday.  The day of rest.  The day that we use to unwind from the weekend of errands and obligation.  The day that we prepare for the new week.  Sundays are for relaxing and eating and being grateful for the next Sunday.  Sundays are about football and barbeques and pool time.  Some people revere Sunday as a day of worship.  Some accept it as a day of solace.  Any way you look at it.  Sunday is Sunday.  It’s a few hours to recoup and prepare.  So, I find it a little ironic, and maybe a little hateful, that the universe decided that I should find a lump in my right breast on a Sunday.  That’s not cool.  Sunday is SUNDAY!!!  A funday.  It’s very widely accepted in western society that Sunday is synonymous with tranquility.  Finding an abnormal growth on your body is not tranquil, and therefore, should be reserved for a different day of the week.  But Sunday is when it happened.  Sunday is the day that I woke up with my left hand on my right breast and realized that there was something there that shouldn’t be. 

But it was Sunday, and I had things to do.   I had to make breakfast.  I had to make coffee.  I had to put water in the pool.  I had to sit and relax and enjoy a little Cab Franc.  It was Sunday.  I couldn’t be bothered with a lump in my breast.  Also, I had to prepare for the week.  That takes a lot of energy to get through a “normal” week.  But this particular week was big.  It was a make or break week.  It was the week I was scheduled to take a test that would determine my employment status.  It was kind of a big deal, you know, because my performance on this test was going to dictate my ability to pay the rent.  No time for lumps. 

So I focused on something different.  Like keeping my job. 

That’s weird

Well, on Friday afternoon after I took the employment-determining test, I went home and had a glass of wine.  Maybe two.  Maybe another.  I don’t remember the particulars right now.  Anyway, I had made it a point to not think about the disenchanting mass in my boob.  So, it probably went away.  I hadn’t thought about it, it must not be there.   That’s weird.  It was still there.  I’m gonna ignore it again.  This time, I thought, it’s bound to go away. 

And it was easy to ignore that weekend.  There was a lot of shit going on.  I had a washer to replace and a yard to mow and, subsequently, a glass door to repair.  Life at Holly Heights never gives me one minute to sit and contemplate a dismal future.  It’s too busy making sure I remember a dismal reality.  At least during the day.  Evenings at Holly Heights, however, remind me of all the things that I did or didn’t do that got me here.  The nights here get quiet and lonely and, despite the comfort of this place and my place in the world, the silence and the moonlight here give me ample time to think about my failures and shortcomings and my place in the world.  So, after two days of chaos, I sat on a Sunday night and remembered what I had promised myself I would forget.  I remembered the abnormality in my body. 

Still There

In spite of my best efforts to forget it, it was still there.  It was late last Sunday night.  And I was still trying not to think about it.  Even though I was thinking about it.  And Radley climbed into my bed.  He doesn’t do that very often.  After all, he’s five; practically grown.  But he climbed into my bed with his angry birds blanky and his bear pillow and he cuddled up with me.  As I held him, I began to shake.  I was shaking uncontrollably.  And I began to see my child.  I see him every day.  But last Sunday, I saw him as was growing.  I saw him, not only as he has been and is now, but how he will be.  And I wondered what it would mean if I orphaned him.  What would he lose out on?  What would I lose out on?  I know what I would miss, but what would he miss?  I mean, he really doesn’t think too much of me now.  I’m just the lady who gets him milk, cookies and puts out a modest dinner every night.  Because he’s five, that’s how he sees me.  But then I really started thinking about it.  Even if I’m just a conduit to nutrition right now, I want him to know me as more than that.  And if I’m not here, he won’t ever remember me for anything other than mealtime. 

Now what?

Well, the story doesn’t end there.  I don’t know when it will end.  I had intended to write privately about this, but private just isn’t my deal.  Sharing my experiences is more my thing.  Not because I want the entire world to stop and give me attention, but because if I don’t share, I will become my own worst enemy.  I will become self destructive.  I won’t be able to function as a mother, friend, daughter, employee, or colleague.  I will crumble.  And that’s not good for anyone.  This isn’t over.  I could publish a novel on my experiences from this past week, alone.  But for tonight.  These are the memories and emotions I had to revisit.  You know, for the sake of my inner peas.