Four Rows/Queens (#145)

I don’t want any of us to become a new row in the spreadsheet.

You have heard —
as a woman of a certain age (forty-two) —
the horror stories
woven through ribbons of girl talk.

You have heard
about fridge doors sandwiching tender meat;
flesh, stretched and torn beyond limits of physics
or metamorphosis. 

You were creeping up to that fortress door,
but rushed in when the rules changed
to permit you passage, without referral,
eight years early. 

You follow a familiar path to the ninth floor;
you used to help the oncologist organize her work 
(the impacts of exercise on recovery from breast cancer).
To organize the people into neat rows in data sheets. 

In this waiting room — 
where polished adobe and sea foam 
feign calm and paper over 
orange and lime that carbon dated the walls —

four
possible
rows 
wait. 

until a nurse uses a teacher’s voice 
to lead you to a new room, new instructions:
Use wipes if you forgot to forego the deodorants or creams that mask your anxiety. Undress from the waist up and slip into a gown (open in the front).

You 
emerge —
four 
queens

ready for their audience, waiting,
clutching at meagre powder blue armour,
staring beyond each other 
into reflections of your own thoughts. 

“Well, this isn’t awkward at all, eh?” 
(You can’t resist defusing the bomb.) 

A regal silver blonde scoffs at the violent fairytales —
doesn’t know how they continue to exist. 
Not her first, not her last; an errand to run,
between weeding and picking up more milk.

A mother your age nods — she started years ago,
hoping to ward off the dragon that continues 
to drag her family into the shadows for its meal. 
She hopes to raise her princesses at home, not in hospice.

Before you can speak, your turn.
You meet your dance partner, a magician in movement: 
breast on plate, lean back, look up, 
reach for the stars and hold on tight. 

The door closes. 
The pressure surprises in gentle firmness —
a motherly hand guiding you 
from dragons that may lurk in the shadows. 

“Mamas” by Angie Nino (2023), following a breast cancer scare. In her words: “This artwork it’s about when I received the diagnosis Birads4, in 2023, the doctor spoke of the high chances of suffering breast cancer and then began my journey of pain, anguish, fear and impotence, in this arduous and murky way I realized how fragile our mind and body can be...” A gorgeous work and even more beautiful outcome for her, thankfully.

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If you were ever uncertain about getting breast cancer screening, I hope that this encourages you to reconsider. Keep the dragons at bay. 💖

(My results? As it was my first time - and thus no comparison to go by - they called me back for a finer look at one area. This turned out to be nothing of note, so I’m on schedule for every two years unless self-exams indicate otherwise.)

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