Sisters of Circumstance

This vignette is an excerpt from a novella currently in the works. A fictional short story, it was developed through participation in Visible Ink, a writing program of Memorial Sloan Kettering.

            Ava Russell and Sarah Lipmann had been best friends since fate paired them together in the ordered chaos of a hospital waiting room more than a decade earlier. 

Sarah had endured an abusive childhood that had left her indelibly marked both physically and mentally.  Street tough from years on the run, the willowy Sarah had grown into a young woman who chain smoked cigarettes and drank eight ounce mugs of Turkish coffee.

By contrast, Ava, dark-skinned with a slight frame and jet-black coiling hair, was an orphan out of circumstance. Born into wealth, her life changed when a conservator drained her trust fund after her mother became very ill. 

The two were like oil and water, but they mixed. 

Sarah's background was desperate.  Raised in rural squalor, she was beaten regularly by her father.  Her alcoholic mother would subject Sarah and her sister to long hours of work without food.  

One day a representative from the state's child protective services showed up.  Sarah welcomed in the nice lady with the pretty smile who smelled of lilacs and jasmine.

"Hello Sarah," the mysterious woman said from outside the screen door. "My name is Ann.  I'm here to talk to your dad."

Sarah presumed Ms. Ann had come to attend to the business of grown-ups, so she let her in and went to find her father.

Ms. Ann spent more than an hour talking with him in the kitchen.  After Ms. Ann left, Sarah heard her father's footsteps coming fast through the house.

"Sarah!" he called out.  He spoke angrily gasping for air. "Where are you?"

Before she could respond, she felt her father's palm connecting with the right side of her face.  He slapped her so hard that she fell off of her stool.

Yelling unintelligibly, he dragged her by her hair out the door and tied her to the railing on the deck. Blood spilled from her mouth where two front teeth had been loosened by his blow. 

Her father was furious that Sarah had let Ms. Ann inside the house.  He was angrier at the interrogation that had ensued.  His brutal and unforgiving actions now were intended to make his point clear.

He left Sarah sitting on the back porch for two days without food and with a warning that “This spot is the closest you will ever let strangers into our home again."

The night he untied Sarah, she ran away and never looked back.

***

Sarah became a ward of the court after she was picked up by police. She had blacked out partying with new friends she'd meet on the streets.  During her intake physical, she had shown signs of brain trauma and was sent to the hospital for testing.

The nurse performing the procedures cooed soothing comments.  "You're doing great.  We're almost done."

Sarah arched her back away from the prick of the final syringe.  “Owe!” Sarah whined, squinting one eye and slouching toward her side.  

More than three years as a runaway, Sarah had begun chronically cutting herself.  She bore fresh and healed razor marks which encircled her wrists like cobweb bracelets.  Sarah's scars were exposed as she lifted her blond hair up and out of the way of the nurse performing the spinal tap.

"Okay! We're all done," the nurse said cheerfully. 

Sarah reached around her back to rub and sooth the tender spot.

"Who is we?" Sarah grumbled under her breath.  "I'm the one getting poked, bitch.”

She cut her eyes and pursed her lips as she slid down from the examining table.  Walking slowly as if bound by shackles, Sarah moved through the doorway of the hospital examination room.  Her face was expressionless and her eyes glazed.  She sat down next to another girl there, Ava.

"What happened to you?" Ava asked.

Sarah replied with silence.

"Hey!" Ava said again trying to get a response.  "What's wrong with you?”  Ava started to feel a growing discomfort being alone in the room with the despondent teen.

"Huh?" Sarah finally grumbled in reply.

"Are you all right," Ava said. "Should I call someone?"

"No." Sarah muttered. "I'm all right.  What's wrong with you?"

“Me?" Ava said in disbelief.

"Yeah," Sarah said.  "What's your problem?  You ain't never seen nobody chill-axin' before?"

Ava was afraid, but more afraid to show her fear.  Suddenly, her composure broke and she began to cry.  "I hate hospitals.  Everyone is sick and people are so fake.  The nurses won't tell you anything and they act like they don't know you’re here."

"Why are you here?" Sarah asked.

"My mom," Ava whispered.

"Ya mom? What's wrong with your mama?"  

"She has cancer," Ava answered.

Seeing her mother Camilla dying had been difficult for Ava.  A woman of means, Camilla had undergone months of chemotherapy and appeared far from the woman she had once been.

Camilla’s cancer treatment had been aggressive, but radiology scans had shown that it had now spread throughout her body.  She was in the end stage, and Camilla’s doctors were simply trying to keep her comfortable.

During Camilla’s battle, a deceitful, appointed conservator proceeded to drain Ava’s trust fund.  The conservator and all Camilla’s money disappeared before anyone took notice.  With no other family to support her, Ava was sent to a group home. Ms. Ann was the social worker charged with overseeing Ava. 

During visits with Camilla, Ava didn't have the heart to tell her mother of her desperate situation.  Instead, she quietly climbed into the hospital bed and rested her head on her mother's shoulder, until Ms. Ann came in to lead her away.

Seated side by side in the hospital waiting area, Sarah and Ava -- two girls whose worlds had seemed so drastically different -- were suddenly very similar.

From that day forward, Sarah and Ava would have each others' backs. They would become best friends and forge a friendship that would rival family ties.  Beyond their circumstances, they would become sisters in spirit.

© 2012 Valerie Williams-Sanchez. All rights reserved.

This work also appears in Sloan Kettering's 2014 Visible Ink Anthology, http://ow.ly/MqDXp. 

Hot Cocoa and Conversation with Friends

It is hot cocoa season 2012, and after a long respite, Valerie's Vignettes is waxing nostalgic about, what else? Hot Chocolate! This time 'round, the conversation is expanded to include a little help from my friends, The Cocoa Chronicles' guest contributors.  
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Anthony Rainone is an established writer of mystery and other genres of fiction.  His vignette is a memoir of sorts, a nod to his youth, his mom and of course, hot cocoa.

 

A Cocoa Chronicle Vignette -- by Anthony Rainone

One of my earliest memories of hot cocoa is a happy consequence.  In the winter, my mother would make me and my siblings hot cocoa by shaving bittersweet chocolate into heated milk and then adding sugar to taste.  On the day of my sixth birthday – a cold January afternoon, my older sister met me at the school bus stop to walk me home.  She told me that a package had come in the mail for me. While a birthday card from a relative wouldn’t be surprising, a package was downright intriguing.  Who sent me something?  Our house was only two blocks from the bus stop, but the anticipation made it seem like miles!  I raced into the kitchen and there on the table was a brown paper wrapped box.  I tore through the wrappings and discovered inside a big red boat with white sails.  Man, it was a thing of beauty.  Unbeknown to me, my mother had noticed an offer on the chocolate label for a red boat.  My mother sent in the label.  Fate added its own peculiar twist to deliver that boat on a special day.  Maybe best of all: in the hold was a packet of cocoa!  The boat is long gone and so is my mother.  But that memory will stay with me forever, especially on those winter days when I have a cup of hot cocoa.

-- Anthony Rainone is a novelist and screenwriter.

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Anne Shisler Hughes is a freelance writer and cultural journalist, covering art, design and history as well as food for Edible Queens, QueensNYC.com, and Fruit of the Forest. 

"Le Chocolat Chaud," a Cocoa Chronicle Vignette -- by Anne Shisler Hughes 

What do Americans call breakfast?  It’d be great if each of us could muster up something involving protein, even better if that plate could be served hot.  Or if we could attain a humble bowl involving truly untouched whole grains, wholesome dairy, or a piece of fruit.  But I’m willing to bet that most of our country – both for the sake of the limited early-morning palate and for that of the early-morning rush – go with a combination of bread and sweets. 

While those enormous boxes of cereal with their dusty stream of sugary bites is perhaps okay for filling the insatiable bellies of teenage boys, none of the rest of us can really pull it off.  But hear this, America, for all of our excess and highly-processed habits:  the French have no business scoffing at us – their petit déjeuner is simply one big chocolate fix, with pains au chocolat and endless chocolate spreads and especially, especially, chocolat chaud, the precious morning bowl of hot chocolate. 

So eager are they to consume this stewy delectable that they can’t even be bothered with handles on cups.  The sweet stuff is served in not-terribly-small bowls that are gingerly lifted with both sets of fingers and sipped accordingly. 

I’ll give the French this – there is a proper way to prepare chocolat chaud.  Start by heating milk in a saucepan, add in small pieces of bittersweet chocolate, stirring as they melt, let boil for a few minutes and, if desired, add a little light brown sugar.  It’s rich and creamy and is the perfect anecdote for day-old, crumbly baguette. 

The French are busy, too, and they occasionally purchase readymade varieties. Nearly all of the great chocolate shops make and sell their own specialties of the house in cans: Maxim’s, Angelina’s, Chapon, MarieBelle, and Pierre Herme.  There are also many brands available in grocery stores such as Poulain Grand Arome, Monbana, Le Gamin et le Chocolat, and many others.  Demand for a morning treat as beloved as this must be met from as many different angles as possible.  

If you make your own chocolat chaud from scratch or purchase it to prepare on the fly, don’t be afraid to dive right in - sip at it, soak pieces of bread in it, waft in the aroma.  The French do it.


-- Read more of Anne Shisler Hughes' musings at her blog: theglobalgrocery.com.    

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Gerry Wendel lives in Southern California, and is the Founder/Owner of 2 businesses, ModlandUSA (a marketing consultancy) and Groovy Reflections (specializing in one-of-a-kind hand tie-dyed t-shirts). Her writing ranges from nostalgic and pop culture pieces to tips on social media, market research, and branding.

"Hot Chocolate on Ice," a Cocoa Chronicle Vignette -- by Gerry Wendel

How lucky was I as a kid to have my very own, almost private, ice skating rink?

An asphalt basketball court that saw little use was located right behind the town firehouse. During the cold New Jersey winters, the firemen, including my Uncle, would take turns squirting a fresh coat of water on the existing ice. The newly smoothed surface was ready for another evening of skating!

Several nights a week I’d make that eight minute walk to the rink, thermos in hand and skates dangling from my shoulder using the laces as purse straps.

Sometimes a friend or two would be there. It didn’t matter. I was there to skate! Upon arrival, if it wasn’t already on, I’d flip the switch that would flood the court in fluorescent light; you didn’t think I was skating in the dark, did you? Seated on the bench, I’d shed the fur lined rubber boots and switch to skates, removing the plastic blade protectors moments before hitting the ice. My thermos stood proudly on the bench, keeping that all important hot chocolate ready to warm me with piping hot liquid.

No instant hot cocoa here! Warmed milk over the stove, a few tablespoons of Nestlé’s Quick, and lots of stirring with a wooden spoon created that delicious elixir.

Time to skate! For some odd reason I enjoy skating backwards most of all. I was able to fly backwards at lightning speed. For what purpose? Who knows? Guess it was a challenge.

Break time! A little hot chocolate; sometimes shared with friends.

Back to the ice. Go home? Fuggetaboutit!

Sometimes my dad would come and pick me up.

Good night, skating rink! Until tomorrow…

Oops. Wait dad! Go back! I need to turn off the light.

-- Visit Gerry Wendel's blogs: www.modlandUSA.blogspot.com and www.groovyreflections.blogspot.com

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Leslie Fields-Cruz is a storyteller whose preferred media are stage, film, and television, particularily public television. 

"TV Time and Hot Cocoa," A Cocoa Chronicle Vignette -- by Leslie Fields-Cruz

When I was a little girl I remember winter evenings in California, sitting on the couch with my siblings drinking a cup of hot cocoa and watching TV. For a kid who loved chocolate as much as she loved watching television, TV time and Hot Cocoa was truly a treat.  

But the activity of watching TV has changed so much since then. My parents placed several restrictions on our viewing time (no TV until homework and chores were complete, or, no TV programs with strong sexual innuendos like SOAP or Love American Style), and we only had about five or six channels to choose from back then, appointment-viewing TV was one of my favorite things to do.  Nowadays, with the ability to watch programs on any and every device invented since the turn of the century, I wonder if there’s something that we’re missing from the very act of appointment viewing.

Perhaps I miss the way in which appointment viewing taught siblings how to get along. Many of my big brother and my verbal fights were around who controlled the TV dial.

“I sat down first!” I'd say.  “So!" He'd counter, "you already watched your program, now it’s my turn.”

Other times, he'd bark, “I said MOVE! I can’t see!" Or even: "I’m still WATCHING that!"

Which always drew the inevitible response: "I’m telling, MOM!”

Although we had different tastes, I learned to appreciate science fiction (Star Trek, Twilight), and superhero cartoons (Justice League), as much as he learned to appreciate old movies (Casablanca), musicals (Singing in the Rain), and insipidly stupid sit-coms (The Brady Bunch).

We agreed on another thing, too: we both liked hot cocoa. Nowadays, there are few disagreements my brother and I can’t resolve. More, I still enjoy appointment TV-viewing whether it is done on a Saturday morning via laptop, while on a train rushing towards the city with a smartphone, or curled up in an easy chair with an IPAD. 

But most of all, now married with children of my own, I still like my cup of hot cocoa sitting on the couch with my family, watching TV on a cold winter’s night.

-- Leslie Fields-Cruz is Vice President of  Operations & Programs for National Black Programing Consortiam in New York. Check out some of her favorite tales on, "AfroPoP: The Ultimate Cultural Exchange" streaming at www.blackpublicmedia.org, or the WORLD Channel, at worldcompass.org -- hot cocoa and couch, sold separately.   

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Hot Cocoa Diagnosed

A Cocoa Chronicle Vignette by Valerie Williams-Sanchez

My sister-in-chocolate, Gloria*, had become quite unsettled, almost nervous. It was a notable and noticeable change from the normally unflappable demeanor I have known her to have since we became college friends more than two decades ago in California. Her uneasiness got my attention. After all, this is a woman who has traversed to India, Latin America and the Caribbean, several European countries and had even done a two-year bid, teaching in Central Africa, dodging termite showers and stomach parasites in post-war Chad. More, and perhaps as challenging, after surviving all of that, she'd gone on to become a high school math teacher in New York City. 

Gloria isn't an emotional light weight. But she was worried. And I could tell. She was tutoring me in math, in preparation of my sitting to take the GRE, but something else was up. It seemed she had recently had an irregular mammogram and had been scheduled for a biopsy in the coming week. She was on pins and needles about the possibilities. "One in seven women get breast cancer," she told me in true mathematician style. The look of worry seemed to give way to momentary relief at sharing what had been bothering her.  It was an opportunity to voice her fears.

I listened. 

She continued telling me about how one abnormal test had given way to another inconclusive result, and how the waiting had been tough. Then I leveled with her. If the stats were one in seven, she was probably in the clear since I too had recently had an irregular mammogram.

"But I have it," I said flatly. "I have Breast Cancer."

"Really?" she asked with incredulity.

"Really," I confirmed.

Then she asked me the question one ob-gyn, three radiologists, two breast surgeons, two reconstructive plastic surgeons and myriad nurses, physician assistants, hospital and insurance forms had posed to me previously: "How did you find the lump?"

The  Diagnosis

It began as just another lump. This time, in my left breast, the knot was like others I'd found while doing my self exam. I have had others before. I even joked one year after my annual mammogram how looking for one, which at the time was deemed benign, had been like an Easter egg hunt, in which the technician had to push, probe and prod, until the familiar mound had been hunted down, and checked. That's why this year when I was told my mammogram was irregular, I wasn't so alarmed, at least not at first. 

I knew the drill, well. A former healthcare writer for a now defunct publisher of medical and healthcare industry news and reports, I had written about breast cancer, protocols and pharmaceutical therapies that had proven efficacies in treatment years prior. I knew the disease is caused when mutant cells in breast tissue grow rampant, creating tumors which could be benign or malignant, harmless or deadly. I also knew early detection through mammogram (x-ray of the breast) is still the best method for mitigating overall all risk, since currently, there is still no cure.

More, I understood that early detection offers more treatment options and a higher likelihood for survival. This was why years ago when I worked for almost a decade for a non-profit, even before this current incident, I subscribed and paid out of pocket to maintain costly health insurance, basic care and coverage for myself and daughter, care that included my annual check-ups. In these ways alone, I was perhaps dissimilar to many other black women, according to the website, BlackDoctor.org.

And so, like for so many women with breast lumps, I thought little of it, never dreaming I would be the one in seven or eight women for whom one of those lumps, would be life changing and that on a day in June would prompt me to hear these words: "Yeah, it's breast cancer," my initial, diagnosing physician had said. "It looked suspicious," and the results confirmed it.

Breast Cancer does not discriminate.

While awaiting my test results, I had been in denial. "I'm too young for any of that," I rationalized. "Besides, I'm years away from menopause. It's probably just another cyst (a fluid-filled sac that can be drained), or maybe a fibro adenoma (an abnormal noncancerous growth)." Maybe, if left it alone, it would, "go away" as other such lumps had in the past. But this year, this time, there was a difference.

Another lump, a bit higher up my side, nearer to my under arm, marked one difference. Pre-menstrual at the time of my mammogram, I'd been directed to have an ultra-sonogram to reach a more conclusive result. And so, I lay in the radiologist's office, on yet another day, while the technician worked the goo-slathered wand, up and down, massaging my side, until even I could see gathered, rising beneath my skin a small, protruding mound. This time what I thought would turn out to be a "pseudo lump," caused by hormonal changes, wasn't.

Completely painless, the new mass and the main tumor were firm to the touch. In hindsight, and at nearly 4cm, the growths were too large to be ignored. Like the young woman in the fable, The Princess and the Pea, I had felt the mass growing all along, but after one then another benign result, I had learned to live with the knot as an irritant.

I had not forgotten about the lump, and had been keeping watch on it. Something that size isn't easy to forget. But things in my life had gotten busy for the better part of a year, as I had begun to live the life of a bi-coastal commuter, traveling between New Jersey and California for work. Through it all, I had struggled to connect with my regular ob-gyn in Irvine, Calif. to have my annual exam. I'd finally given up trying to schedule an appointment in the West, and found a new doctor in the East. I went through the usual battery of test and exams, with all the usual results – with one exception.

With almost a week ahead of me to await the test results, I had agonized over and role-played most every possible outcome, in preparation of the best and the worst. But it was one day at work that proved pivotal in my mental preparation.

My Unbroken Bat
A co-worker regularly brings in the "broken bats" from her husband's and her budding business, which packages and sells pretzel rods or "bats," to major league baseball venues on the East Coast. Almost weekly, she brings in broken pretzel sticks for us in our department to gnosh on. Much like the water cooler in other offices, the large garbage bag of broken pretzels rests atop an island of file cabinets in our department work area, serving as an informal gathering spot. The day before I received the call from my doctor, I had reached into the plastic bag and pulled out, blindly, a whole bat.  With all the others broken, mine had been the long stick pulled in some cosmic draw. I saw it as a sign.

The next day, I got the call and the request to schedule a PET-scan. This test was to determine whether the cancer had spread to other parts of my body. I took the test and, fortunately, it had not.

African American women are more likely than all other women to die from breast cancer, according to BlackDoctors.com, because for black women, tumors are found at a later, more advanced, stage so there are fewer treatment options. Poor access to healthcare or not following-up after getting abnormal test results is common among women of color. Other reasons may include distrust of the health care system, the belief that mammograms are not needed, or not having insurance.

Now "in the club" few want to be in, I've been told by other esteemed and longtime members of the "cancer club," support groups and in reading and hearing testimonials, that if I have to have cancer, breast cancer is among the best forms to have. This is because I will get everything to treat it; surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Survival rates and quality of life following breast cancer treatment, at my levels, are high.

Thankfully, Gloria's case turned out to be a false alarm. Later, she told me she felt badly when I suggested that we celebrate her good news, given my misfortune. But to her concern, I told her: "Don't feel bad for me, I'll be living even more fully, now."

And in many ways this is true. I feel lucky, or stated differently, blessed by God and faith, to have been diagnosed and to have been afforded the resources that enabled swift action to address my cancer, which post mastectomy, has been determined to be a Stage II.

Ah, the luck of the draw.

V~


*Gloria is a fictitious name. This name has been changed to maintain anonymity. 

© 2011 Valerie Williams-Sanchez. All rights reserved.

Hot Cocoa Healthy

A Cocoa Chronicle Vignette

Luscious, lovely locks, they are any woman's crowning glory, be they long and luxurious, cut short and spiky or even tender, perhaps tough, curling tendrils. Hair is serious business for women, but especially for women of color. Hair sets the tone and sets the bar for beauty among women of color and can often speak volumes of each's personal politics, agenda, tastes, preferences and/or style. 

Hair, like body image, is a blank canvas of creativity for many women of color that is used boldly or conservatively at will, and often for affect. Hair can also be a harbinger, heralding details about a woman's health.

Hair and hairstyle 'flava' was the topic du jour, sipping hot cocoa yesterday morning with my mother. We were looking at and talking about celebrity manes. Specifically, I was considering Beyonce's white chocolate blond, Tyra's cinnamon-mocha red and Naomi's dark chocolate brunette, tresses.

I relished in the moment sharing a cup of one of my more exotic, hot cocoa elixirs – NibMor Organic Drinking Chocolate, Six Spice -- with her, which, she enjoyed while I had a more old-world cup of Payard Chocolat Chaud avec Pepites de Chocolat Ameres, laced with cocoa beans. My daughter who came along to join us a bit later sipped a cold Cola Cao, the Spanish equivalent of Nesquik or Ovaltine, she brought back from her recent trip to Spain visiting her Spanish relatives, my former in-laws. It was early morning and driving to a Starbucks for coffee wasn't an option. It was also my first day home from Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.  

In June of this year, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And on August 1, 2011, I underwent a unilateral, modified, radical mastectomy with axillary lymph node dissection. In plain English, a few days ago, I had a mastectomy to remove my left breast.

Diagnosed only a few months ago at another hospital, the procedure was the a result of a second opinion consultation at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan. It was through this consultation that I was afforded the option of a unilateral, as opposed to the bilateral, mastectomy, as originally prescribed. 

After what was considered an extended-stay in the hospital, I had been released, was resting comfortably on this morning after two, exhausting and nauseated days. I was not simply enjoying, but really savoring, the cup of sweet stuff like never before. Curled up on the sofa, I was warmed and comforted by hot cocoa, among the first foods I was able to keep down. Our talk of celebrity hair styles centered on cranial prosthesis, also known as wigs, and which brand and style I might select.

Now, preparing for chemotherapy, I am contemplating the next phase of my treatment and how to own my experience, embrace the forthcoming changes in my appearance, while continuing to love my body and myself back to good health.  

Much has transpired over the weeks between my first diagnosis and my procedure, about which I will write in subsequent posts. And still more, new things are yet to come. 

Now through to the first part of my recovery, in the days ahead, I'll be writing about most all of this experience, looking at breast cancer and treatment from the perspective of a woman of color, my point of view.

While cancer is cancer, I'm finding out that there are cultural differences, considerations specific to ethnic body image, and socio-economic challenges worth writing about as well as rich resources of spirit, hope and friendship that are only just beginning to unfold.

© 2011 Valerie Williams-Sanchez. All rights reserved.