Columns: Bare-breasted Mama
Somewhere in the MeldGail Konop BakerMay 2007
One morning a few weeks after surgery, I waved my children off to school and thought I should either revise my novel or send out some queries or start a new novel, but instead I sat by the window and stared at the split rail fence and counted knots. My body was knitting itself back together and I was regaining my energy, but inside, I felt numb, paralyzed, utterly confused about who I was. I didn’t recognize the skin that covered the flesh that harbored my tainted cells. I didn’t know how to be me. In a FootnoteGail Konop BakerApril 2007
Moans swell between Mike’s erratic snores and the flash of the red digital bars reconfiguring time . . . How many times had I already been up? At her bassinet two steps from our bed? Pressing my head beside hers, … Baby DollGail Konop BakerMarch 2007
I wake to the sound of my raspy-voiced neighbor flirting with the post-op nurse, “Make mine a double, darlin’.” “A double what?” the nurse says and giggles and flips her stiff blond bangs out of her eyes and dust particles … ChoicesGail Konop BakerFebruary 2007
With my breast smashed on a tray like a slab of meat, soon to be anesthetized and sliced open, excised and cauterized, sent to pathology, I wonder, why hadn’t I seized the opportunity, why had I hesitated, cared what others thought, held back, not celebrated every goddamned nanosecond of my life? Nothing Has ChangedGail Konop BakerJanuary 2007
“I’m thinking of getting rid of the time bombs,” I say and cup my breasts. “Then we’ll throw a Goodbye Breasts party,” my friend says, wiping a clump of mascara from my cheek. “And if you lose your hair, I’m shaving my head in solidarity,” she says and hugs me and I’m ashamed and relieved that I underestimated the depth of our friendship. I’m “It”Gail Konop BakerDecember 2006
I was watching Oprah, waiting for the results from my core biopsy and the final From Frumpy to Fabulous unveiling of the housewife from Kalamazoo when cancer barged into my family room saying sorry sorry sorry you have ductal carcinoma in situ. But cancer didn’t mean sorry. It meant, fuck you and your smug belief that you deserve to be lucky. Does Biopsy Mean No Puppy?Gail Konop BakerNovember 2006
Chest down on a padded table, head cocked sideways, right breast hanging through a peekaboo hole, one arm hooked around my matted hair, other arm twisted pinky side out at my side, the nurse positions me from below as the … More Important Things To DoGail Konop BakerOctober 2006
I’m picturing Carrie on Sex and the City cross-legged on her bed in sexy boy-cut undies and a cleavage-revealing push-up bra, her hair professionally disheveled, seductively sucking on a melting Popsicle, writing her column as I write my first column. … |
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