Cancer is Inappropriate

My daughter has breast cancer.

She's 35 years old.

I know what to do and I don't know what to do. It's awful, terrible, fucked up. I have so many thoughts around all of it, yet I'm frozen. Frozen because this belongs to her. The feelings belong to her and yet I have them. I don't know what to do. I frantically try to not hijack her grief. What do I do with my grief? It seems selfish to have this grief. But I'm her momma. It never stops; the needing to make the hurts go away.

I try to cry when no one knows. I've watched people back away from my neediness. People just don't know what to say. I say that's okay. It's not okay. Word of advice to anyone reaching out to someone in their lives that needs solace - please do not say the fucking words that god never gives you more than you can handle. This is pure bullshit. Tell yourself this when it's your child having both of her breasts removed. Tell me how you feel then. I'll understand and never say that to you.

So I'm wallowing in my horrible grief. Not talking about it, yet lashing out in unexpected places. Isolating in my grief. Eating inappropriately. Acting inappropriately. All out inappropriate.

I have people I could talk to. I don't want to talk to them. I'm so angry. This surprises me. I'm even mad at my daughter a bit. Fucked up momma!

There are things I know about being a woman. Things that aren't being talked about. Breasts are part of being a woman. I don't mean in that fucked up way that has made breasts a marketing thing, but they are part of us in all the things that are important and not important compared to cancer.

Breasts are the first thing a boy will tentatively touch when you're kissing and kissing and tumbling around before you ever have sex. Then, when you have sex finally, they are a huge part of feeling sexy. Being sexy. Feeling desire. Feeling desired. Reaching orgasm. All of that. They feel heavy and they feel light as feathers. We lead with them and we distract with them and we hide them. All of that.

They change when we have babies. We feed our babies. They ache when our baby cries. They might be the first clue we're pregnant. We love them through our babies.

I grieve for that part for my daughter. Not that it's that fucking important, but yes, it is important. I don't have the right words for this. I don't have my thoughts in order. They may never be in order again.

My daughter is in the middle of all this shit. The ride for her is just beginning. I have more than hope that the outcome is going to be good. She's strong as shit. She doesn't know how strong she is. If you only knew how strong she is. Beyond this fucking cancer I'll tell you that.