early light

She lay in the hospital bed, watching the dawn creep through the blinds.

The small hands on the travel alarm she'd had the foresight to bring and set on the formicated nightstand read 5:23. Only one hour and seven minutes to go.

It'd been a hard night. 

Her kids hung onto her bedrail the way they'd hang on her skirt when they were small. Even now, well into their thirties, all three had the same crease between the brows, deepened by worry and the confusion that came with not being able to do anything but drift along until it was all over.

Thank goodness her husband was gone. He'd never been great in a dilemma, unless he was the cause of a crisis. When his diagnosis came back 'terminal,' he sat in the doctor's office smiling, while she struggled to keep the sobs from shaking her body out of the chair and onto the ground into a classic tantrum. The palms of her hands still retained crescent scars from where she'd balled up her fists to gain back her control.

He went quietly, in the space of a year. 

She could see the light better now. She held up her hand, a strand of light illuminated the backs of her fingers, gilding each digit with a faint pink halo. She smiled, amused at the idea of her body as hallowed, sanctified, pure.

She drew her hand up to her face, mapping the lines that crossed under the cheekbones, the rough texture of the enlarged pores across the bridge of her nose (remembering the losing battle with blackheads as a teenager), the sagging jaw line that came with middle age and blended into a softer neck and down into a disappearing collarbone.

Her hand stopped, jerked up, and then came down: slowly, deliberately, fingers attenuated, cupping to cover her left breast.

A B-cup, it was just perky enough to capture the interest of her husband the day they met at the picnic. His eyes followed the curve of the tanned globe set off by the neck of her new sailor blouse.

It'd held up through the first eager fumblings on their honeymoon and been a source of comfort through his professional disappointments, when he'd come and lay his head on her chest in the dead of night, and sob away the hurt, like the little boy he really was. 

Later, as the girl, and the two boys arrived, the nipples elongated through the eager, selfish tugs of her children as they breastfed in her lap. She didn't mind the pain; it was the twinkle in their bright, innocent eyes she remembered, treasured, even now.

Menopause took away the hormones, but the shape of her breasts remained high and proud. She knew women 15 years younger who were much bigger: heard them complain about the neck pain, the endless money and search for the right brassiere, the unwanted looks from all kinds of men, whose thoughts were anything but decent.

She pressed her fingers down now, mashing the flesh, pushed hard.

How could something so small be so deadly?

But it was there, the results of the mammogram said so. Her regular doctor, a man who'd been taking care of her for over 25 years, smiled way too cheerfully as he got on the phone with a 'specialist' he knew, to make an appointment.

The specialist was worse: fake smile and glacial hands that felt almost metallic as he gave her a breast exam, studied her results, then calmly opened the door of the examining room to tell his receptionist to schedule an appointment for her at the hospital for a biopsy next Wednesday, oh, and could she call his golf buddy and move their tee time back to 2 pm, instead of 1 pm?

Here she was, in this bed, waiting.

Her children reacted in different ways, but they all came together and hovered like she might shatter at any moment. It was more tiring to be cheerful and non-chalant, when all she really wanted to do was shoo them away.

It was all so tiresome.

What if the mass was cancer? What then? Radiation? Chemo? Both? Could she handle the chemicals running through her body, wrecking havoc on her healthy cells while in pursuit of the mutating ones? 

Would she lose the breast? Would the removal of the mass be enough or would they have to slice off her breast to make sure it wouldn't spread? She had pretty good insurance, but she wasn't sure if she had enough for reconstruction, or even if she'd want to endure more surgery after losing what was a natural part of her.

She broke out in a sweat. Her breathing grew more rapid as thought after grim thought paraded through her head.

What about the house? What about the kids? What about....?

What.... if everything turned out to be okay?

She relaxed.

What if life went on as before? What if everything went back to normal, and she walked out of there with her breast, her womanhood and sanity intact?

What if?

She looked over at the clock. The time was now 6:25. The light spilled through the blinds, pink and dusty. She smiled.

No use scaring herself. That would come in a few days.

No use to prepare for a death sentence, or a life sentence, she reflected.

Let me just get this over with, she prayed, as the door of her room swung open and a nurse appeared with a gurney. One thing at a time.