A Musing Mother 6

One of the many t shirts declaring war on breast cancer. A confident dog. This man feels very comfortable about his manliness or very strongly about boobs. Either way, Bravo! Turn your head to the side. See it? It reads: Of course they're fake.  The real ones tried to kill me. One of these things is not like the other.  One of these things gets put in a box every night. I did not take a picture of my mother's boobs. That would just be weird. {Maybe just one little picture} The cancer survivor is Misty, the blonde. I used to babysit her when she was 3. She found her lump shortly after she stopped breastfeeding her 4th child. She was 32. Misty with her former college roommates. The one on the left is my sister. Go get your mammogram! It's the best time you'll have all year! {I'm lying. But go do it anyway} Lisa. I hear you. You're in my head. Knock it off.

It all begins in the smallest place imaginable; a single cell. The message quietly encoded to tell the cell how to behave are all in order. When one cell dies, the proteins dictate how to turn a replacement cell on. The cells split and a perfect clone is achieved.  Except one. One cell includes renegade codes. The one protein that includes the code to turn off the replicator is missing. The cells split, grow, split grow over and over again. Unkindly, the faulty cells grow in different directions, weaving tentacles throughout the tissue like an octopus on steroids, forming pathways of corruption for months, even years. Eventually the host feels different. Some feel weak, others feel a lump, others suffer an injury. Time stands still as the patient hears heavy words and shock hits until reality sinks in. You have cancer. Surgery is scheduled to remove the cells, to dig into the tissue and find every last tentacle. Chemicals are poured into ports with measured steadiness and gloved ...