Pink is the colour on the bow of support,
millions of women every year; distraught.
The moment the consultant confirms the worst,
fears overwhelms, your future plans cursed.
The facts, the statistics and discussions now blur;
White noise. Not me. Denial starts to stir.
Reflections in the mirror no longer seem yours;
One lump. The smallest thing, now the biggest of flaws.
Surgery, recovery, then poison in the veins,
scars replacing breast tissue forever remains.
Your cells have betrayed you, a mutated foe,
the battle will continue till you cease to grow.
As we near the end of our exhausting war,
weakened yet somehow, more awake than before.
Thankful for life, my breathing and being.
Simple pleasures now magical, every day worth seeing.
What surprises most when I talk about this life,
is that the person in this story has a beautiful wife.
Breast cancer invades all genders, all chests;
My father; a man; his mastectomy of breasts.