“Fight, fight, fight the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night.”
— Dylan Thomas.
When it came to living, Granny took no prisoners. She never gave up, never whined. She went from being blind from juvenile cataracts, to having vision, to losing her sight again and one eye because of glaucoma. Her hearing faded, and she said, “Of the two, I’d rather be blind than deaf.”
Grandpa was miserly. When Granny was young few married women worked. She said, “I fixed the old skinflint! I got a job, cooking at Jimmy McFarland’s restaurant.” I saw a documentary about the elderly women of Chernobyl, Russia, who returned to their homes following the atomic disaster in spite of the authorities and regardless of the danger. The commentator said, “They do what they please!” Granny was like that.
Mother’s brother, Ivan, was as indomitable and irrepressible as Granny. He attended the Indiana School for the Blind. He could see playing cards held against his nose, while the other players told him what was discarded. He and Aunt Nola, his third wife who was sighted, lived in Brooklyn, New York. During the Depression they joined a street band of blind musicians who played for donations. He played an accordion, and she sang.
The group’s leader had two glass eyes. One day a man said to him, “Why, your eyes are as good as mine!” “Better!” he replied. “Watch this!” He clinked a dime against his eyes. Tough times, tough people! My father lost his sight when he was barely sixty. He went from being the rose grower for Schatzlein’s Greenhouse to peddling brooms to augment my mother’s meager income at the greenhouse.
Mother was sixty-two and engaged to my stepfather when she felt a lump in her breast that required a radical mastectomy. I thought nothing about it then, but now I understand how she must have felt even though I am not busty as she was. Reconstructive surgery didn’t exist. When her prosthesis wore out, we giggled when frugal Mother stuffed her bra with Kleenex.
Twenty years ago, a mammogram revealed calcifications in one of my breasts for which I had radiation therapy — no big deal. Had a mastectomy been deemed necessary, I would have had one in a flash. Recently my Internist, Dr. Louis Wright, ordered an immediate diagnostic mammogram when I called about a lump. The radiologist said that both breasts were suspicious. Sometimes I see jokes about mammograms. There is absolutely nothing amusing about a mammogram. Those mammograms saved my life.
Dr.Thepjaterie, a breast specialist, took over and performed needle biopsies. The verdict: cancer in the breast that had had radiation. He brought in cancer specialist, Dr. Agarwalla, and radiation oncologist Dr. Wei. An R.N. “navigator” attends and schedules my appointments. I am so blessed with superb care!
I tell physicians, “My body is a rusted-out old pickup truck, but my brain is a red-hot, high performance Ferrari!” My beloved vascular surgeon, Dr. Jacob, understands me and my determination to try to live and die on my terms and to preserve my intellect.
Community Hospital’s Cancer Center is associated with the Anderson Cancer Center in Texas. My trio of specialists discussed me with their colleagues in Texas. Because my serious vascular problems — the curse of my father’s family — make anesthesia dangerous, they prescribed a pill rather than the preferred mastectomy. I’ll have another mammogram in February to see if the cancer’s shrinking or slowing.
Someone said that it seems unfair that I have cancer on top of other serious problems. Why not me? It isn’t a matter of fairness, it’s a matter of genes. I hope to be worthy of my predecessors.
Our society over-sexualizes breasts and acts as if they’re shameful. Get your priorities in order! Far better to lose a breast than an eye or your life. Book a mammogram today if you’ve been putting it off!
Meanwhile, Christmas is coming. I must get busy! wclarke@comcast.net