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Editorial -
Photoessays
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Written by Morgan Broom
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Thursday, 01 May 2008 15:46 |
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Just before she retired for the night, my mother used to sit on the edge of her bed, naked, with her nightgown lying over her lap. She faced the large flaking mirror that sat on her bureau. Her reflection was clear but whatever she saw was not in that mirror. She sat silent, lost in thought, and unmoving except for her right hand, which cupped her left breast. Her fingers gently, rhythmically stroked her nipple. I think what she did had more to do with comfort than with sexual pleasure.
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Editorial -
Photoessays
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Written by Diane Andrews
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Monday, 03 March 2008 10:00 |
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 The needle was the tiniest the nurse could find. Three bags of chemo coursed through my arms. A new nurse came on. She hooked a saline bag into the system and turned the flow up. I looked at the purple decorations. I noted toxic waste signs, a cupboard marked, ‘In Case Of Spillage”.and how the nurses built a wall of protection with masks, gloves and smocks.
My arm pulsed red. “Is it on fast,” I cried - heard hurried acknowledgement as she whisked away.
Three weeks later - my right arm still ached – was angry with red grooves up it, the veins ropey. I kept ice water on them all day.
“It has to go in slow,” I ordered the nurse the next time I went for chemo – she pricked a spider mite needle in my left arm, taping my forefinger to the chair. “It will and this is a sign for the next nurse so she won’t turn the flow up.”
The next day I went to the x-ray department. I was given a local anaesthetic and a big hole was punched in my arm. A long plastic vein was threaded close to my heart, delivering the drug. That was two years ago and I had the most amazing response ever seen to chemo. I take a lot of suplements and only eat almost raw and unprocessed food. I have no breasts. My hair grew back thick and curly. I still look like myself. I am still myself. © 2008 Diane Andrews Image © 2008 Diane Andrews
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