My shadow

Kennedy is not quite three years old. Close, but not quite. Anyone who spent last Thursday at the Lowry Park Zoo in Tampa knows this for sure because her singsong method of making friends went like this: “I’m wearing a dress, and I’m TWO.” She kicked her leg back, horsey style, on the two, forming a human exclamation point.

I briefly wondered how this might play out for me.

“I bought this cardigan at Target, and before I decided to spend the day with my granddaughter, there wasn’t any apple juice or catsup on it. And I’m FORTY-SEVEN.”

Kennedy and I have been to the zoo a few times together. The first time I took her, she was four months old. She was an underweight newborn, so she spent most of her first few months among us sleeping. Thank God because, on that particular day, a male lion made frequent and enthusiastic attempts to produce an heir. During one of his more energetic displays of romance, the lioness yawned. When he slipped down off her back, he strode to a nearby rock, climbed on top of it, and roared—whether in pleasure or frustration, I’m not sure.

The speed at which parents u-turned their strollers was impressive. Kennedy slept through the lion porn, thank you, Jesus, because I have a conscience about what is appropriate for my little peanut to see, even if, at the time, she was barely out the embryonic stage.

I was also glad for her nap so I could keep watching the lions.

The next time I took baby girl to the zoo, we went alone, just the two of us. She could walk just fine, but I wanted to keep her locked down in her stroller. This was the first of our many disagreements that day. She lobbied for independence. I worried she would befall death or permanent damage at any moment, and not only would my heart shatter in a million pieces, but also, her parents would be aggravated.

I remember three things from our excursion: Kennedy loved the lizards. She spent hours pointing and shouting, “Hizard!” Since I paid $27.95 for our admission, I wasn’t completely enchanted by an activity we could have just as readily enjoyed in the backyard.

As I wheeled her up to the leopard enclosure, she fell into a profound asleep. I was thrilled for a break—but annoyed, too. When she takes her nap away from home, Gramma doesn’t get one. I draped a gauzy baby blanket over her stroller and parked her sweat-streaked face in the shade. I collapsed onto a bench. I may have closed my eyes. Just for a minute or two, I swear.

Later that afternoon, as we headed to the gift shop at the front of the park where I hoped to bribe her into the car with a stuffed mermaid we’d spotted earlier, a miracle happened.

Kennedy discovered her shadow.

She was swinging her arms in the particular way she does when she’s looking for trouble. I held back a bit, juggling a backpack, zoo map (“Hold this for me, Gram-MAH!”), and the remainder of a tangerine. Her walk slowed. She glanced at the pavement to her left. And spotted it. She took one step and raised her arms, all the while eyes fixed on the ground. Then came a deliberate circle, and finally, rigid stillness.

I watched her for a full five minutes, hardly breathing in astonishment.

When I look back on that moment, I sometimes wonder why I didn’t say, “Kennedy! You found your shadow! Baby girl!” But I, too, was surprised motionless, there in the golden light of a fading Florida day.

The moment was hers to discover, not mine, and as sacred as any prayer. Bearing witness was more than enough.

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I’m writing a book about cancer, specifically my cancer. I do not know which is more difficult: writing the book or reliving the details.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my friend, Juan, the two of us shoulder to shoulder over Publix subs while we watched his little girl climb in the nearby playground. He’s thinking about writing a book, too. I said, “The most important thing is to tell the truth.”

He said, “Well, of course. Yes. I would do that.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s awful. I mean, you have to tell the truth.” I went on to explain that, just that morning, I’d drafted a chapter about the first time I stood in front of a mirror, the first time after surgery, the first time I saw my breast.

My throat closed. I shook my head as if to will away the tears. Juan scooted across the inches between us and took me in his arms, this boy-man of twenty-seven who’s known more pain that three lifetimes of grown-ups.

I cried for a moment, and then I felt like an ass. So I pointed to Izzy and said, “Look. There she is on the slide, smiling. Sweetest baby girl.”

I waved.

He let me off the hook, my brave boy, by telling me the truth. His truth.

It hurt to hear.

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Dr. Giday, my gastroenterologist, walked into the exam room a bit seriously. He said, “Let’s start with the good news.” And I thought, “Shit.”

While the good news is indeed good (I don’t have colon cancer or h.pylori), the rest wasn’t great.

Chronic ulcerative colitis. Indefinite medication. Colonoscopies every two years to make sure it doesn’t spread—or mutate into cancer.

I thought, “What in the world? I don’t have any symptoms.” A little voice whispered, You didn’t have any symptoms of breast cancer, either.

And then he said, “I’m glad you are having a hysterectomy. That’s wise.” And then he turned toward me, his eyes full of concern, and asked, “Have you thought any more about double-mastectomy?” I confessed, no, no sir, I haven’t. I stuttered out some statistics. I protested it seemed overly invasive. I eventually fell silent.

And then he said, “Please ask Dr. Grow his opinion? Please?”

He put his hands on his knees. “Melissa, you don’t have cancer. The results of your colonoscopy are good. But how long are we going to chase this?”

---

This morning, I stood in the shower for an eternity. I thought about Kennedy and her shadow. I thought about Juan sitting next to me on a bench.

I thought about bearing witness.

And bearing one another’s pain.

This shadow of mine, it is my window, my bridge, my wading out into the bright, lonely waters of hope.

Some days, there is no picnic, no playground, no friend on the bench next to me. And I wonder, How long can I chase this?

But on other days, my fingers fly. I search for the best words, in the right order, that speak the language of cancer, the duality of pain and community, of fear and truth. I do this for my man, for Kennedy, for her mama, for my cancer sisters—the legion, really, of joy-makers and pain-bearers and song-singers, who, inexplicably, miraculously, keep nodding at me and pumping their fists into the air.