Fifty-three
Social media and Akron General Hospital Imaging Center both reminded me that I am fifty-three years old today. Facebook announced the news with congratulatory posts written by friends on colorful templates. The hospital was simply confirming my birthdate with their records regarding my recent mammogram.
I like to think of fifty-three as an “ageless age.” I still can climb full sets of stairs, and I can garden on my knees with the best of them. Even better, I no longer have to suffer the gaze-over of needy boy-man eyes. Nor do I feel the scrutiny of the mean girls. At fifty-three I have a little space to breathe. Fifty-three-year-old lungs breathe relief under stretched and well-weathered breasts. I am light with play these days when I walk into a room. Not much is expected of me. Anything I do is a surprise. It’s nice. If I wear biker boots into the office, my middle school mental health client gives me a slightly raised eyebrow. If I sing really loudly along with my playlist at the red light, my 18-year-old daughter cringes and tolerates it. I wear my pajamas on a Tuesday morning in the front lawn, the peeing puppy at the end of the leash. Such fun. This is the way I must approach fifty-three. Any other spin will lay me low with grief.
My mom lived just twelve years beyond my current age. She died too young. She had poured out her strength for the feeding of others. She had propped up a couple of patriarchal institutions with all of her hard work and good intentions. She hadn’t meant to abandon herself. But somewhere between thirty and sixty my mother had forgotten to tend the temple while the cancer invaded both breasts.
Twenty years ago, at age thirty-three, my own mother-heart and full breasts were tested. Dr. Stephanie gave her condolences in the birthing room. I rested and held a tiny cooling body close to my heartbeat. Soon after the stillbirth, a gentle nurse showed me how to bind my chest so tight that the milk would stop in a couple of days. I dutifully adjusted the cloths every few hours. I learned the word ache.
In honor of my mom and of myself, I get regular mammograms. I have daydreamed a couple of times about a mastectomy. Let’s just be done with the worry and the backache. But I know that my husband’s insurance plan would never cover such a non-emergency procedure. Because of all this, last week I wore a green hospital gown. I allowed the thirty-year-old technician to push my fatty tissue in between the machinery blocks. I stood in slight discomfort and thought about the etymology of that medical term: mammography. Mammals feed their young with teats. Somewhere along the way, in the English language, “mamma” became the word for that source of life. Mama, Ma, Mommy. I suddenly wondered why Jesus called his Creator Abba, Daddy. But then again, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he cried out to Mama when he really needed support. And perhaps that verse was erased as the church underwent a mastectomy before she even came of age.
Last week I pondered all of these thoughts about breasts, heartbeats, and life – all within a twelve-minute stretch while I stood with one arm awkwardly bent forward gripping the metal bar. The technician apologized for her cold hands. Today the report came back clear. I can breathe easily for another twelve months. At which date I will be fifty-four.
