adriene hughes showing reconstructed breast

Archive of a Breast Cancer Survivor

survivor book


A pale fuzz, soft as down, covers my head. I pass my hand up and over. My scalp, running towards the future, is blooming rich and translucent. I wonder what fine roots will set forth only to fall out like a newborn’s first hair. Patting my breast I feel nothing. I sometimes yearn for that feeling again all the while knowing the nerves will never reconnect. Be satisfied. Be satisfied. My sweet loss is only the beginning. Think of the goodness to come, what fine experiences will add up with worldly notions, sun and moon and the grandest nod: life itself. It is an understatement to speak of cancer as the greatest fight of all because it is so much more. It is the testament of fortitude and beyond being dragged into the depth’s deep. And yet these words do no justice. I cannot articulate the difficult passage. It simply escapes me. Floribunda, day breaker, honey perfume pink and red. I look to others who have come before me because it is only through experience that knowledge is gained. All one has to say is, I am a survivor, and that is more than enough.

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