Even though I perfectly well know the reason why my oncologist wants me to get a breast scan every six months, it was sobering to say the least last week when I read on my (happily all-clear) MRI results that I’m at high risk for breast cancer. I’m a word girl, so there’s that. Especially the written word is powerful, making things real, bringing them into focus. HIGH RISK! Right there on the damn patient portal. But it’s also something about having to get to know yourself in a whole new place. Who am I now, this high risk femme?
The older you get, the more you get. Creaky, forgetful, nostalgic, confused, fatigued, cranky, impatient, liverish, nursing many a regret. The time gets shorter and passes more quickly. Being an older woman doesn’t come with a lot of perks in our society. Ah, the moment when your medical caregiver begins to speak to you like a geriatric moran! It sneaks right up on you and suddenly you’re right there in the middle of it. Change after change. How can you possibly keep up?
I told my therapist the other day that I pretty much feel in my heart the same way I did when I was 25. She looked skeptical, cocked her wise head, and asked a truly (I almost typed “turdy”) therapist question, “What would you say to your 25-year old self if you could speak with her?” Oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know! And I also don’t know what she would say to my almost-62-year-old self. Enjoy yourself? It’s later than you think? My grandad had that excellent song on the 8-track player in his Chevy Oldsmobile.
Ok, maybe that is what I would say. My now-retired other therapist used to say that it’s our duty to be as happy as we can. Be happy first, spread queer joy second. Use your gifts for good. So what if you’re high risk? It would suck if that’s a reason anyone stopped doing what they can to feel like they’ve got a wee corner in the big picture, a sweet sketch that catches the eye of the people who need it and gives them an encouraging smile.
Focus, focus, focus, that is a tall order. It’s always been a tall order, I think, but it’s even taller and gnarlier what with our infolicious moment-to-moment click click click. Ding ding ding! Notification embarkation!
Today, my harried, textingmailingcheckingscrolling potato chip darlings, my in-the-middle-of-all-the-shit polymediamour persnickity hanging on by your fingernails bodaciousnesses, embrace it, embrace the high risk. Let it kick your ass in any way it can, even if, especially if, it means giving yourself a fucking break because look how hard you’re working all the time, on everything.
You are shining, shining, shining!
Every Monday I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.
At the Total Femme, my intention has been to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Lately, I’ve just been concentrating on Mondays. And sometimes weeks go by… I’m here, though. I’m here. Do you have a post you’d like to share? That would be fucking awesome! Contact me at thetotalfemme@gmail.com
The Total Femme 