10 Mar

What I understood was that my breasts were full of cancer and I was going to will it away. That’s what I told her, the woman who no longer had breasts. She wasn’t my friend, just an acquaintance of sorts, sitting in front of me on a soft bench. It was something I had always known, that I was full of cancer. I’ve always had fibrous breasts. My mother and her mother and my mother’s cousin all had breast cancer.

I knew people would think I was crazy for not having surgery and radiation, like my mother and her mother. My mother’s cousin died because she did nothing. But I was not going to do nothing. I always knew if it happened to me I would not go the allopathic route. I always knew I could think it out of me the way I did with a toothache once, and that sciatica I had. With yoga and tea and visualization and candles.

I felt nervous but I was afraid only of what my mother would say. I thought, perhaps, I shouldn’t tell her. That I shouldn’t tell anyone, just let this breast-less acquaintance hold my secret. I thought, if anyone else knew, the cancer would have power to grow. If I gave it nothing, it would die.


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