Still Here

I twist the napkin between my fingers, silently shredding it to tiny pieces that fall into my lap like snow on a dark night. A million thoughts bounce around my head, but as I look around the table none of those thoughts make sense.

Everything looks so normal. The juxtaposition between that normalcy and my low-burning anxiety is almost comical.

A stranger walking by would think that we were just a group of middle-aged women enjoying an evening out. That is if they even noticed us at all. It’s much more common for people's eyes to skim over us and move right to the younger, livelier group at the bar.

Truth be told, I like it better that way. I like to blend in and not be noticed. Today we will be noticed and it terrifies me.

"My god, Susan, will you stop it?" Michelle hisses next to me, putting her hand over mine to still it. I glance down at the scraps of paper piled in my lap and try to smile. It comes out more like a grimace and I can feel my fingers start finding their way to the napkin again, tugging and pulling it.

Yvonne's sharp eyes hone in on mine from across the table and she watches me a moment before giving me a gentle smile.

"We're here for a reason," Yvonne reminds me.

She's right. The three of us sit in this dusky bar, the only sign of life in our small town at this hour, for a reason.

Already the room is filled with the sound of talk and laughter. The lights are dimmed, an orange glow bouncing off the wood walls and the metal signs decorating them. The one closest to us is a silver cutout of a bull, its horns gleaming where the light hits it.

In a town like this, everyone has a place and a purpose. Everyone plays their role. Our role to play is that of the quietly overlooked. We're not supposed to do things to remind others that they might get old, relationships might not work out, or heaven forbid, they might get sick.

A group of men sits nursing beers at a table next to us. They're close to our age, but the disdain in their eyes when they catch my furtive glances shows they don't see the similarities. It's almost as if they smell the stink of the hospital or the fragility of my life and are soured by it.

"I don't think I can do this," I whisper, looking at Michelle and Yvonne pleadingly.

When we discussed this before, hooked up to our wires and in the bright white light of the hospital, the plan sounded better. It was the perfect way to reclaim our lives and our bodies in a town that would rather forget us. It was a way to let people know that we're still here and we still have a choice.

But now, as a tinny country song blares from a jukebox in the corner all I'm left with is dread.

Michelle frowns at me.

"We don't know how much time we have left. Do we want to live the rest of it in the same way we lived before and accept that? You accepted that Harold cheated and just let it happen, just for him to leave you when you needed him. Reclaim your life, Susan."

Part of me regrets the stories I had shared with her during our hours of chemo. It's hard to be called out on those raw moments of life.

I also know she's right. Looking into her deep brown eyes, lined with wrinkles that tell their own sad story, I know she needs this too. We all do.

Michelle has been a single parent for years. Her daughter is now grown and lives across the country. She's busy with her own life and hardly calls. I know Michelle has felt overlooked for a long time.

Yvonne has a husband, children, and grandchildren, but not one of them has come to visit her or help her during her treatments. Her hands are calloused from years of work for people who don't even see her enough to thank her or love her. Still, she has a fire in her that won't be put out and the gentleness of someone untouched by bitterness.

"Okay," I nod and begin to unbutton my coat.

Michelle heads to the jukebox with determination. She picks out a song, a newer one about fighting through. It's not the kind of song normally played in this bar so people are already looking at us.

The three of us stand up and unbutton our trench coats. We each have lingerie that hugs the curves we have left. The scars from my mastectomy peek through the sheer material of my corset. The tempo of the song picks up and I close my eyes and sway to the music. The music is much louder now in the hushed bar, the melody the only sound. As the song nears the end, the three of us lock eyes and roll down our tops.

"We're still here" is spelled out between the three of us. Bodypaint on scars that people are afraid to look at.

The song ends and it's silent in the bar. I can't read their expressions, but I'm exhilarated. I’ve never done anything so bold, but it feels good to take a stand.

"We're still here and we still matter," Yvonne says defiantly.

"And we still look good being here," I add, daring someone to challenge us. I’ve spent so long feeling self conscious about my body, even prior to my surgery. It feels good to challenge that; challenge myself and others.

A slow clap breaks out and quickly picks up in hurried succession. The yelling and hollering starts back up, only this time it's for us. I hug my trench coat around me with a small smile.

It’s been a while since I've felt seen.

It feels good.

I link arms with Michelle and Yvonne make my way to the door with my head held high.