After a two hour wait
at the Elizabeth Wende
Breast Clinic, my name was
called, and I was directed to
a Results Room. “My name is
Naomi,” the young woman holding
my Results slip-of-paper informed me.
“Nice to meet you.” She then compliment-
ed my necklace and asked what the symbol
meant. “Clarity,” I said. “In what language?”
she asked me. “Japanese,” I replied - quickly.
“Can you confirm for me your date of birth?”
“Yes,” I said, (pausing ever-so-slightly so she
could give me a date to confirm. She did not
do that, of course). I informed her of my date
of birth, “April 16, 1948.” “You’re fine,” she
said, handing me the slip-of-paper, “We’ll
see you in one year.” Passing a woman I’d
been sitting with, I gave the “thumbs up”
sign, mouthed, “Good Luck!” as I walked
out. I inhaled the fresh air, as I left the
Clinic, saddened by the sight of giant
trees being felled, probably to make
room for an even larger parking lot.
I walked over to a new memorial:
Surrounded by freshly-planted
geraniums, covered with
mulch, stood a smooth
and perfectly round
three-foot tall rock,
embedded, with an
engraved plaque,
honoring Dr. Wende
Logun-Young’s 25
years in the breast
care business.
As I realized that rock
looked a lot like a breast,
I thought briefly, “Why not
two?” Then, swallowing the
lump in my throat, I thought
of all the one-breasted (and
breast-less) women –all of
the cancer survivors –
those female rocks,
grounded in the
earth of their forts,
subtly showing their
friends and daughters,
husbands and others -
how to get past the fear,
hurt, anger or confusion,
how to press on with their
lives and their dreams, how
to find balance, even in the
presence of great falling trees.