no typos.
Forty-one years, and I thought I knew the titles of all of my chapters. I thought I knew how each chapter would start, what would occur in the middle, and how each one would end. After all, I led a simple, typical life. I have been through pain, I have been through fear, I have been through times that made me stronger, but I had no idea that was the rough draft version of the real me, the version that was preparing me for what would become the title of my new book. We often write in pencil to erase moments we don’t want to remember, but I’ve decided to write my story with a permanent marker.
It makes sense that we started the new chapter in my book at one of our favorite places. The place that we have frequented at least 100 times, my husband and I on date nights before we had a child, and my son on days he wants to walk the aisles, sit down, and take it all in. The bookstore is a lot like the library; it’s quiet, and you see people sitting in chairs, standing in aisles, looking for answers in a book, or looking to escape into the words on a page. The bookstore will forever be the moment my life changed forever. When the call came, I felt like I was in the library. I felt like I had to be still and not make any noise. I sat there, distant from my family in bird’s-eye view, watching my son sit criss-cross applesauce, flipping through just another book, watching my husband glance at me, hoping my facial expression would give him the answer. I quietly thanked my radiologist for calling me personally, even though I know that call is never easy. I took a deep breath, stood up from the leather chair, and walked as if my husband and son were the only people in the store. I looked at my husband and nodded yes. I quietly knelt beside my son and continued asking him questions about this book he wanted to buy. The drive home was full of wanting to cry and yell, yet I was sitting silently, questioning everything. Would I believe what I would tell my son? Would I trust what I was promising? Would this narrative that I was living become reality?
The following days and weeks became as blurry as quickly flipping through a book. I would stop now and then and pinch myself, wondering why and what the next day would look like. My flesh wanted to shut down, but my support system surrounding me would not allow it. Something living in me for who knows how long suddenly wanted to become my identity, but I would not allow it. I quickly learned that my identity was far beyond words, labeling me a statistic, scripts written by a doctor, or testing that would define my future. Instead of running away from it, I chased it. I chased who I would become no matter what the statistics said. I chased health, I chased freedom, I chased relationships. I chased things that I thought were gone. I ran from who I was and chased my future. Knowing I would lose my breasts, I feared losing a part of me that I never really understood the importance of until it was going to be taken away; taking away what fed my son, taking away where he would rest his head for comfort, taking away a part of my femininity, and replacing it with something that wanted to make me numb.
What has made me numb in places has invigorated and brought so much life and feeling to the rest of me. When someone tells you you must give up things that have kept you comfortable, things that you don’t want to face, it helps you escape; You can either embrace it or curse it. I used this chapter in my life to let go of relationships I had made excuses for, chase relationships I had once given up on, live healthy, live sober, and live as though my chapters hadn’t even started. Three surgeries and countless statistical facts later. I am grateful that my story is in permanent marker. There are no mistakes, no typos; they are simply intentional words that, when standing in the bookstore aisle, I could escape into, and know if someone reads the story, they might feel sorry for me, but they will also see that I am not a victim and I’m not simply surviving; I am thriving.
