I was reminded in my dream that I have a Tattoo. It's small, it's inconspicuous and will always serve as a reminder of the women who have kept silent and endured breast cancer treatment. In it's tiny existence it comes to me in my dreams, poking fun at me, urging me to speak. A coworker asked me to speak to a daughter, another to a sister, and another to a friend. These women have fears. Fear of death, fear of inconveniencing others, fear they will lose the love of husbands and lovers, fear they won't be pretty anymore, fear of burdening family finances, fear that friends won't know how to communicate with them anymore, fear of being pitied. And I'm sure there are a whole host of other fears.
When I was first diagnosed I had several women reach out to me. One, a breast cancer survivor of 25 years, came to my place of work just to hug me. I didn't know how to respond. I see the ladies in pink and just can't join the ranks of the walkers and the T-shirt wearers, the ribbon pin wearing soldiers. Yet I understand that works for them - they are the cheer leaders, there is comfort in numbers. One reaches out with a solitary hug, others walk for the cause, some are just there for you when you need a PB&J or leave a home cooked meal in your refrigerator knowing when the world is too exhausting.
It's been a year now. When do I start counting my years in terms of survival? What is my anniversary date, initiated by which event? Or are there several?
Survival. What a concept. In my dreams I remember I have a tattoo. An indelible dot documenting my endurance.
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