A few weeks after my diagnosis, I found an achingly beautiful, black and white photograph of a woman the night before her mastectomy. There are only three elements in the photo: the woman, a camera on a tripod, and a mirror. Its composition and minimalism is stunning. And like a brilliant short story, it said so much (and no more) with so little. In the photo, the woman is nude and sitting in front of the mirror. She has short hair and a long neck. The camera on the tripod is right beside her, like a friend who has just heard the news and is being a silent witness. The woman is looking down instead of making eye contact with herself or with the viewer. Oddly, it’s not necessary to see the woman’s eyes to feel the weight and power and pressure of the tsunami that is building momentum behind her. (Has anyone else ever seen this photo? I stumbled upon it once on the internet, and haven’t been able to find it since…) I lay alone in bed the night before my mastectomy. Ocho and I had broken ...
Breast cancer has demanded that I reconstruct my life. Sometimes I'm happy to oblige. Other times, not so much.