TARA THE TYRANT: a composition of cancer
I wonder what Tara Rene Jones will be known by someday in the ring. Once she is well and is ready to fight for pleasure again. We talk a lot about her love of MMA. She laughed at me today as I curled my hair to go out to the grocery store to buy meat. “You remind me of my mom. She would primp in front of the mirror and I remember being young, running with my mouth open to ask her a question only to find myself eating hairspray as I came up behind her. Yuck.”
Her memory pained me because her mother is dead. I didn’t let it show. “I’m sorry, but I need to look pretty for my meat.” I beamed at her as I moved the can of spray like a halo feeling a pang of guilt knowing that my vanity was exposing my sick friend to toxic chemicals. I dug my grave in shallow when I then asked, “Are you dying?”
Tara laughed, “Not today……”
Yes, I am the woman who asks a cancer patient if she is going to croak. What can I say other than I am retarded.
Tara told me that her biggest fear is that her boyfriend may lose his attraction for her while she’s sick, not wanting to touch her. The picture below was one of the least flattering from the session but I chose it because of what it is, COURAGE. It has the most visible documentation of her symptoms, from the lesions on her skin, the lumpy protrusion of her port, down to the two scars in close proximity to each tattoo. The ink is the art of her children, in namesake, Justise and Maddox. She fights for them and her body is a battleground…
I am also going to mention for the sake of vanity that Tara DOES have breasts; I just posed her poorly and the effect was quite severe. Poignantly so.
You’ve gotta get up and TRY!
Dear Tara Rene Jones,
“Let me tell you something that you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody, is going to hit as hard as life, but it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done.”
It’s just cancer Tara. People beat it everyday. People do win.
People die too…..
I heard the phone ringing, but decided not to answer. I was running late already though the gym wasn’t exactly an appointment. It was my obligation, a promise to myself. I would give myself one hour, one of twenty four, and on this particular day my hour was five o’clock. The phone was ringing insistently, calling again instead of leaving a message. I doubled back to pick up.
“Well…. I’m all filled up with poison….” he sounded weak, even in brief introduction. “How is that rubber chicken of yours?”
His voice froze time and I was suddenly present, at once tender. I had almost forgotten chemo. “RUBBER is in the car, ready to hit the gym with me. So they packed you full of poison. How did chemo go?”