Cancer and The Prayer Warriors

By. Alex Bingham

Three hairs from my eyelash fell out today. In clumps. So I feared that this was the beginning. And if it isn’t now then maybe in ten years this still would have been the beginning, only I wouldn’t know it until I’d think to ten years before when three hairs from my eyelash fell out that day, in clumps. 

Ever since my grandmother withered away, ever since my aunt and my mother... ever since they all met cancer I’ve had paranoia hanging over me like mistletoe. 

And each of them had different strains which meant that I will have them all, right? It meant that one day I’ll be laying as straight as a log because my bones won’t bend. It meant that food won't taste like food anymore, just paste that I’ll swish around in my mouth until it becomes soggy matter. It meant that the smell of my rotting body will permeate the room so much that my children can’t take it, but they will sit with me anyway.

Cancer struck my life, checking names off its list like tally marks. My grandmother was the first that I’d seen. Her fight was masked by her old age, present but quiet. Weakness cradled her and as far as I knew she was just tired. What I could see is that she lost some hair and some weight and stopped cooking and stopped walking but she was still grandma. Then she stopped talking and I was off in my dorm doing things that I don’t remember now but I remember never getting to talk to her again.

My mother was a warrior like the women before her but she didn’t have any fight when it took her. Her sentence was short lived and terrorizing. It swept through before the seasons could roll around again and left slashes in my memories of her. 

And now that these three hairs from my eyelash fell out today, in clumps, I realize that cancer came with a friend.

Every memory, while met with a smile, became twisted— a morbid plea for answers on my fate. Impending doom centered around my joy because not only did those three hairs fall from my eyelash but the other day the pots seemed a little heavier than normal. And I read a new study about the fruit not being pure or the vegetables or those healthy snacks that I thought were a good alternative. And my laundry detergent was actually harmful and my shampoo and the T-shirts that I wore and the clothes that I’d just bought my daughters. I needed answers and I got one. That friend that cancer brought along, he introduced himself.

For so long I had these thoughts. I wondered about which doctor’s visit would seal my fate or who might be next before me. Who else might I mourn before I was ready? And every time my thoughts went from bad to definitively horrible, life would bring me back. So no, it wasn't all bad. 

Sometimes when I remembered the three hairs from my eyelash that fell out that day, I considered the mascara from days before that wasn't removed properly, or that the pots were heavy because the last time I’d been to a gym was when I didn't necessarily need to be in one. Sometimes the worry didn't come. Which meant that sometimes the thoughts of my mother were beautiful. 

I could remember her body plump and curved. She held weight around her midsection that no one blamed her for because she carried four children. In fact, people loved her for it. For bearing the fruit that was intended, for bringing forth new life into the family. She was praised without using the word. 

Her laugh caused motion. It was a trigger amplifying the mood in the room. Her voice commanded attention. It wasn't loud, it didn't roar, it didn't cause fear or harm or anger. She had the voice that sparked the eyes when they were tired during long car rides to North Carolina. It drilled confidence into us when she had to say those words. The words that meant that she was dying. Her voice could comfort us in every way and it did, even in that dreadful moment. And if I didn’t know any better, her voice could've made me believe that there was a chance. But I had seen my grandmother die. I watched my aunt’s fight dwindle, so I knew.

I knew that doctor’s now wanted to see me earlier than my peers and their eyes flared when they read my family history. I noticed how they spoke softer when they found out that my mom was dead. 

Over time there was a change in me. My voice settled into an inconvenient space; one that said I existed without her. My feelings were censored. Somehow my mind knew it had to protect itself because I no longer had my mother as counsel. I could no longer seek refuge because I had to be the shelter. A cloud was cast over me but it never rained. It just felt heavier and heavier for days that became years.

So today, when those three hairs from my eyelash fell out in clumps, I felt the heaviness all over again. It pulled itself onto my shoulders to get a front row seat at those three little hairs drifting slowly like feathers into my cubicle, landing forcefully, causing thunder to roll in my chest. That night I met him; the friend that cancer brought with him.

There was a newness in the night. I had traveled away from my hometown seeking peace in running away. It was fairly quiet in my home. The children were asleep and only soft nature sounds played. I drank cool water out of a glass instead of the plastic bottle, because even though my mind wasn't thinking about those three hairs or the cancer or the fear, the thoughts never really left me. I stared in the mirror at the pore strip on my nose and sighed a long sigh relieving myself of exhaustion. I had self-cared my way into a good night. Ready for bed, I tucked myself into the freshly washed linen. I could still smell the scent as the covers fluffed and laid down gently on my skin. I said a prayer and closed my eyes. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. (faster) Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart. 

My heart. 

My heart. 

I sat up and let the sweat pour down my forehead. Saliva dripped from my lips. I tried to scream. No sound. Just thump. All I could hear. Was thump. And the breathing, it was fast. And the headache, it was heavy. So I reached up so big, stretched so high. I tried everything but nothing worked, all I could hear was the thump of my heartbeat. There was a light so bright and such a color that my eyes couldn’t recognize anxiety.

Anxiety spoke to me very effortlessly. It said, “I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me.” 

I surprised myself by knowing its language. It wanted me to feel it, to fear it. It wanted to take over my life with ease. So I did the only thing I knew. The only thing that I could remember from my grandmother, my aunt, my mom, all speaking the same words. Each of them lived similarly different lives, different generations, all keeping me deeply rooted.

Before I slept every night and woke every morning. I stared the matriarchs in their spiritual eyes and began to pray. 

Alex Bingham is a New Jersey born singer, songwriter and poet. She’s been featured in several literary magazines and published her debut poetry collection, Union Girl, in 2019. Alex is devoted to creating rhythmic stories about faith, love, loss, and motherhood.