When I think of this word, it makes me cringe. The first time I REALLY heard it, was not in the sixties when it was all around me. I was too busy with three babies. The second time was when it resonated with horror. I was in an oncologist’s office, who in a matter of fact attitude, told me I had uterine cancer and had to have a radical hysterectomy. I was sitting there in shock as she mumbled something about I might have breast cancer later on. The only other time cancer was relevant was my mother-in-law in her fifties, passing from it. I was petrified, incredulous, as the doctor kept talking, but my mind filled with my mother-in-law’s image. A radical, or complete hysterectomy is when everything that makes you a woman is taken, tested, and destroyed. All the surrounding lymph nodes included. Then the area is literally washed with chemicals so hopefully, no cancer cells remain. You are sent home to wait the pathology report. And then there’s radiation. This is what radical means to me.
The Bag Lady 