Backwards and Forwards, All in A Flash
Advent day 16 *
where * = updated.
Today I got a mammogram. Not an especially momentous occasion; certainly not an occasion that deserves its own narrative. If it had its own narrative, though, it would be this:
Left work at lunch. Put on a robe. Boobs were squished in a machine a few times. The technician thanked me for coming in as I prepared to leave, which touched me and made me feel like I'd done something special.
Pretty uninspiring stuff.
But.
While I waited, berobed in the comfortable waiting room, I flipped through a copy of Redbook, a magazine I don't encounter anywhere other than a waiting room. As I turned the pages, an ad caught my eye. There was my childhood summer camp friend, Kelly Corrigan, who is now known for much more than going to Camp Tockwogh or appearing in a pitch for Lee jeans. She wrote a poetic, almost epic, memoir of her experiences as the cancer-fighting daughter of a cancer-fighting father. I wrote about it when the book first came out. Since then, she has become quite well known. Deservedly so, I think. She really is an amazing writer; I don't know that I can adequately convey how annoyed I am at myself that I just wrote "amazing writer" to describe such an....amazing writer. Argghhgh.
It was a nice twist of synchronicity that I saw the ad featuring Kelly as I waited for my mammogram; she fought a valiant battle against breast cancer. Seeing her there on the pages of Redbook (!!??) also reminded me that I'd received an email from her and from her publisher about the video the publisher put together for her to share with the women she knows. I asked her if I could share it with you.
Get a tissue first. And thanks, Kelly, for being brave enough and facile enough with the meager words we are allotted to say what we feel and what we know in our blood and bones, but can't articulate well enough in the moments that we really should.
where * = updated.
Today I got a mammogram. Not an especially momentous occasion; certainly not an occasion that deserves its own narrative. If it had its own narrative, though, it would be this:
Left work at lunch. Put on a robe. Boobs were squished in a machine a few times. The technician thanked me for coming in as I prepared to leave, which touched me and made me feel like I'd done something special.
Pretty uninspiring stuff.
But.
While I waited, berobed in the comfortable waiting room, I flipped through a copy of Redbook, a magazine I don't encounter anywhere other than a waiting room. As I turned the pages, an ad caught my eye. There was my childhood summer camp friend, Kelly Corrigan, who is now known for much more than going to Camp Tockwogh or appearing in a pitch for Lee jeans. She wrote a poetic, almost epic, memoir of her experiences as the cancer-fighting daughter of a cancer-fighting father. I wrote about it when the book first came out. Since then, she has become quite well known. Deservedly so, I think. She really is an amazing writer; I don't know that I can adequately convey how annoyed I am at myself that I just wrote "amazing writer" to describe such an....amazing writer. Argghhgh.
It was a nice twist of synchronicity that I saw the ad featuring Kelly as I waited for my mammogram; she fought a valiant battle against breast cancer. Seeing her there on the pages of Redbook (!!??) also reminded me that I'd received an email from her and from her publisher about the video the publisher put together for her to share with the women she knows. I asked her if I could share it with you.
Get a tissue first. And thanks, Kelly, for being brave enough and facile enough with the meager words we are allotted to say what we feel and what we know in our blood and bones, but can't articulate well enough in the moments that we really should.
It took the death of a friend from breast cancer to get me to do regular (ok, semi-regular) breast self-exams. Pathetic, I know. Your friend is brave to share her story. Maybe it will affect slackers like me and get us to do the self exams and other steps we should to protect ourselves.
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I will have to watch this on a day when I'm not already about to bawl.
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Girl, I'll check your head for lice any time.
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They give you rose at my mammography center.
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Whoo. I totally lost my shit watching that. Thanks for sharing it, Kristin.
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