Wednesday, September 4, 2013

The Lump

I'm sitting in the waiting room looking through magazines, pictures of houses with gardens and wide plank floors, trying to forget why I'm here. I can't though. Stella is toddling around and everyone she meets lights up at her antics. Horrible, horrible thoughts cross my mind. I picture her in a wedding dress, someone putting lipstick on her, and I wonder, do I write her a special letter for that day? Is it fair, to make her sad when she should be so happy? Is it selfish? Would she even be sad, or just feel obligated to read it? It is fairly certain she won't remember me by then.

By then she'll have moved on, been loved, not quite so well as I would have loved her, but loved by someone. I think of this hypothetical someone and I'm at once grateful, jealous, filled with a sadness that pulls me apart. Of course I'd want him to move on. I never want him to move on! How could he? How could they all? All the earth, turning, people moving on and on without me as though I was a fly someone swatted away.

Calm down, calm down, I think. You don't want to cry here. Shouldn't my faith make me strong now? Shouldn't the way I handle myself show the world how Great a God I trust? But, my kids. It's not just me. If it were I could face it all, but my babies, without the insane love that a mother feels, who will help them, who will never give up on them, who will spend every last breath, dollar, minute on keeping them safe? And it dawns on me finally as I'm lying on the table, the gel spread over my breast and the tech asking me questions, that I know He will. He will protect them, guide them, love them and comfort them. He will never leave them or forsake them. And He'll do it all better than I ever thought I could. I don't feel insignificant now, only relieved.

The specialist comes in and smiles and I know it will be ok. Just some bruised tissue he says, from when you offered your breasts to feed them. It happens, a little damage, a scar, a harmless mark of motherhood. No chemo, no cancer, no writing letters for the days I'll miss. And I say thank you, but I'm not so relieved as I was a moment before, because the burden is still lifted. I don't have to be everything anymore. He takes away and gives back so much more. So I thank God then, for the lump.