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The Myth of Bravery

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Except for cougars. Cougars will kill you. So will cancer.


My grandmother shoved aside her breakfast and grabbed my hand. Her fine, wrinkled fingers wrapped around mine. Sunlight moved across our nestled hands and warmed the yellow-flowered, vinyl tablecloth. I clasped my other hand on top of hers.

“You’ll survive this.” Her blue eyes held mine.

“I pray so, Gramma. The doctors say—”

“Can we go to the swimming hole, Mommy?” My four-year-old, Sierra, charged into the kitchen, bumped against my elbow, and snatched the uneaten remnant of waffle off my plate. She leaned on my arm and gave me an impish grin. Messy blond pigtails stuck out from her head.

“Go ask your sister if she wants to go.”

Sierra hopped through the opening between kitchen and living room, bounced onto the sofa, and clambered onto her sister's curled-up lap.

“Hey, watch it.” Gaela sat watching cartoons just around the corner from the dining room table. I watched her hold her sticky waffle out of the line of attack.

“Gaela, let’s go swimming!”

My grandmother patted my hand, then pushed away from the table and picked up the greasy-bacon plate and bottle of syrup. “If you gals go up there to the falls, you best watch out for cougars. Marsha had one go through her yard jus’ las’ week.”

Gaela pushed her sister off and they both hopped into the kitchen. “Are there cougars, Gramma?” Nine-year- old Gaela, led the charge.

Cougars felt like the least of my worries. “They need to get out and be kids, Gramma.” I stacked plates and carried them to the sink. “They haven’t gone anywhere except school and home in the last six months.” I rubbed my bald head.

Since I started chemotherapy to beat back whatever cancer remained in my body after the surgeons removed the tumor from my breast, our lives had revolved around doctor visits, school, work, and daycare. Every third Friday, after chemotherapy, Sierra had sat in bed beside me and read to me. Sometimes she had stroked my bald head. “Just rest, Mommy-no-hair,” she’d whisper. Gaela had sat quietly nearby reading. When I’d wake up, Gaele and Sierra would help me with meals and bits of housework. My daughters' shouts and laughter no longer carried from the swingset through the screen door, and their small feet no longer pounded a dolly-carrying path from the bedroom they shared to the kitchen.

Sierra hopped on one foot behind Gaela. “Are cougars at the swimming hole, Gramma? I don’t want no cougars.”

My grandmother's curved shoulders moved about the kitchen. “Gaela, gimme that jar of peanut butter, will ya? Your mama’s right. You gals get your swimmin’ suits. Gonna be a hot one today. And no, you two, cougars won’t come out in the heat of the day.”

“Yay, swimming!” Sierra sang. She danced across the kitchen linoleum and over the carpeted living room to the screened-in porch, where we slept when visiting my grandmother. Gaela busied herself, putting away butter and syrup, and wiping the table, before following Sierra.

My grandmother took a plate from my hand. “Leave the dishes. Now, what ain’t you telling me?” We stood at the kitchen sink, the shoulder of her petite frame rubbing my elbow.

“We made a mess, Gramma.” I took back the plate. “I’m done with chemo. The doctors want me to rest and my blood to recover. Next, there’s radiation. Then, I don’t know.”

I hated myself for the half-truth, but I lacked the capacity to explain probability, statistics, and maximum lifetime dosage.

She reached up, cupped my face with her hand, and studied me. “Don’t stay out in the sun too long today. And enjoy your girls.”

“If we ain’t back by lunch, send the ranger ’cause we probably got et by a cougar.” I chuckled, leaned over, and hugged her.

A fly buzzed in the kitchen, aggravated by dishes in soapy water. I followed the tinkling of wind chimes and my daughters out to the porch. I pulled my swimsuit over my remaining breast, folded my prosthesis, and attempted to wedge it into the flap in my bathing suit. The thing slipped out of my hand like a bar of soap, flew into the air, hit the low ceiling, and flew past Sierra’s face.

Sierra, thinking it was an enormous silicon bug—the child was terrified of bugs— let out a blood-curdling scream as the blob flew past her face and landed at her feet in front of her. We looked at the prosthesis, then at each other.

“Mommy?”

“You okay, Sierra?”

We erupted into a fit of giggles. Gaela, witnessing the event, picked up the fake breast and held it out to her sister. “It’s not a bug.” Causing the giggles to erupt again.

“You two are so weird.” Gaela rolled her eyes.

“We’re off Gramma,” we chirped. Like freed creatures, we pushed past the screen door, through the gate, past the rose climbing over the fence, and out to the road that led out of the tiny town of Paisley, Oregon.

“Wait for me,” Sierra cried. The sticky, chip-sealed road slowed her pace and she jogged to keep up with her sister. Her fine, blond hair curled about her face, and her pumping knees and elbows made her look like a little bird.

Pungent sage soaked the dry, high desert air, but my lungs found it hard to swallow the heat. “Gaela, pumpkin, please slow down. I’ll faint on the side of the road at this pace.” I wiped the sweat off my bald head.

She fell back. “Mom, you forgot your hat.”

“Good thing you remembered our towels. I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.” Gaela, slender and sturdy, dark-brown hair falling about her shoulders, carried herself like a princess, with our towels folded over her arms.

The pavement turned to gravel at the abandoned lumber mill which denoted the end of town. From there, the forest folded up dry hills blanketed with pine and scrub juniper. The river ran to our left, wide and ear