Not My Girls

I know there’s lots of support out there for cancer prevention.

But I live an isolated life, secluded on an off-grid homestead on the outskirts of a small community with very few amenities. Things like dental cleanings and annual doctor check-ups and banking appointments are all too easy to forget about or are perpetually postponed. Trips to town are hectic enough with weeks-worth of laundry, grocery lists, and piles of errands. 

I only just found out that there is a mobile mammogram unit that travels around to isolated folks. Women at risk, women afraid, women like me. Apparently, it is incredibly easy, painless, and convenient to get myself checked once a year. I don’t have to go all the way to town and fit it in to an already busy day. So, there’s no excuses, no more hiding. I know I’m going to have to show up. For myself, and for my boy. For my husband, and for my mom.

I can imagine a no-nonsense nurse, a practiced eye, a gentle hand. I can imagine telling her my family history and her taking in my quivering lip and taking extra care with me. I see my body cradled, I feel the pressure and the squeeze for truth. Reassurance, real kindness, peace of mind.

And I see myself loving my body, sagging skin, folds, mortality, and all. I see myself in control and accepting my fate. I see myself hopping (or more accurately, safely stepping) out of the shower, having shone light into the darkness—confronted the monster. Cleansed of my fears, leaning into the squishiness and the comfort of trust. Trust that I am not betraying my aging body and my mother’s wishes. I look in the mirror, at all the familiar curves of change, and hear myself saying, “Not my girls.”