Chapter 8
Journal
entry by Karen Delgado — 9/10/2010
One
year anniversary of my surgery date--the date they removed the tumor. It
seems so long ago...so many blessing throughout this past year!!!
(Although much of year beyond school/treatment is a big blur!!)
To the girl with
her bucket of water placed elegantly on her head, strutting what I considered
to be to and fro the street, to the young guy in sunglasses, who had a look- a
defining look which I couldn’t define; life seemed to go on at its own pace, me
regardless.
The doctor’s
visit where I was confirmed to have breast cancer remains etched in my memory.
I wore a blue
shirt.
The date of my
mastectomy was the 15th of April, and on this day, it rained cats
and dogs. The rain could have been un-related to my mastectomy but it remains
as a marker in my mind. I remembered how marshy the roads were, how terribly
difficult it was to leave home that morning as I contemplated my fate.
The truth is, I
might look brave now when I promote breast cancer awareness, but I was only
seconds away from chickening out at a point. My almost-giving up phase was
further fueled by a friend’s comments, and I stared in utter disbelief as she
proclaimed that the only way I would survive a mastectomy was if I decided to
fly out of Nigeria to somewhere like the United States. Otherwise, I’d be dead
in three months, she said in a convincing tone.
‘Ah, U.S ke?’ Up
till now, the only time I visited the airport was when I had to see my brother
who was boarding a plane to Abuja. The implication of a ‘U.S Mastectomy’ would
be withdrawing our kids from the schools they were attending, eating warmed
left-over beans (and stepping up with garri} for breakfast for a really long
time.
Long story cut
short; there was no way we could afford it.
I was so pushed to throwing in the towel; but
when push comes to shove, we discover inherent strengths in ourselves, many a
times. As I tossed and turned on my bed a few days after this appalling
discussion, I asked myself some really hard questions.
Like why I would
risk my life by leaving this lump which had already been confirmed to be
‘Invasive Ductal Carcinoma’; in me and in effect asserting that I didn’t mind
if my babies would have to remain motherless because of this.
Like if this was
the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind for my daughter, one of giving up
too soon. And did I really not care about my husband?
Somehow, with
the help I had from my family, I resolved to go for it, and no, I’m not going
to pretend for a fraction of a second that this was an easy call to make,
because it sure wasn’t.
The night before
the surgery, I cried. On the day of the surgery, I assumed that my tears were
falling in synchrony to the rain drops from heaven. For me, that was sign
enough that God was answering my prayers already.
Every day, for
the next one week post-surgery; I mourned the loss of a precious body part and
sometimes, felt as though it was still there but when I would touch my chest,
all I could feel were the edges of my scars as I pressed deeply into the
bandage around my chest.
Three months
later, I was still alive, alive enough to feel my scar.
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