Canadian Woman Studies / les cahiers de la femme (E-Journal, York University)

Lachmann, Insheera

VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 145
L’auteure raconte son expérience comme jeune fille affligée 
d’un cancer des ovaires et les tourments liés aux traitements 
prescrits. Elle décrit l’aide de sa famille comme faisant partie 
intégrante du traitement et du processus de sa guérison.
Okay so this is the official 15th straight day I’ve spent at 
the hospital and it’s not exactly a walk in the park. In early 
February I was feeling pain and a swelling in my tummy 
but took no notice of it really. I thought that it was my 
appendix and so I went to a walk-in-clinic.
The clinic turned out to be no help whatsoever. The 
people there simply told me I needed an ultrasound and 
that I needed to book it on my own. That was soon forgot-
ten though, as when my boyfriend called the ultrasound 
place they didn’t have appointments available for another 
two to three weeks.
It wasn’t until the following week, when I was in school, 
that something major happened. I was simply going up 
the stairs to my class when my body suddenly couldn’t do 
it anymore. I couldn’t breathe or anything. My tummy 
looked as if I was at least seven months pregnant (it was 
very swollen and uncomfortable). 
It was that day, Tuesday, February 10th, that I went to 
the nearest Emergency Room. I waited eleven hours to 
see a doctor who in turn told me there was nothing she 
could do except prescribe local antibiotics, which were just 
“given” to patients with my complaints. She also said that I 
would need to come back for an ultrasound the following 
day because she didn’t have time do it right away, so I was 
told to go home and wait for a phone call. 
I got that call around 8:00 a.m. the next day. On 
Wednesday, February 11th, I had a 2:00 p.m. appoint-
ment for an ultrasound. When I did the ultrasound they 
found a massive build up of fluid in my pelvis and abdo-
men. It wasn’t until this point that the doctors became 
alarmed. They sent me back to the Emergency Room to 
wait another long four hours until I saw the doctor that 
I’d seen the previous day.
Ovarian Cancer at Twenty-Two
A Survivor’s Story
insheera lachhman
She basically told me that it was abnormal and that there 
was still nothing she could do until she had a ct scan 
done. They needed the ct scan to find out, or pinpoint 
exactly, where the fluid was coming from. Then she told 
me to go home and wait for another call, this one regarding 
my ct scan. Again, I went home and waited…
I waited from Wednesday the 11th to Friday February 
13th until I finally got that call … only to be informed 
that they were extremely busy and couldn’t book the ct 
scan appointment until the 3rd of March. There was noth-
ing I could do. I waited swollen, uncomfortable, and in 
extreme pain. I was anxious to find out what the problem 
was. I mean, how could someone go from having a flat 
stomach and within a week look like they were seven or 
eight months pregnant?
During the afternoon of Friday, February 13th, I was 
trying to take a nap, hoping to sleep off some of the pain. 
Instead, I just couldn’t breathe. The fluid in my tummy 
was crushing and putting extreme pressure on everything 
inside of me, including my lungs I guess…
My mother called 911. The ambulance arrived fifteen 
minutes later. And that’s when it all really began—me 
being here and all. 
Friday, February 13th I was driven to the Emergency 
Room and finally admitted into Scarborough Hospital. 
Because I’d been here so many times that week, it didn’t 
take long for the doctors to come to the conclusion that 
I needed a ct scan urgently!
While in the Emergency department, the doctors tried 
to drain some fluid to relieve me of some discomfort. I was 
poked and prodded and a biopsy was attempted not once 
but twice. My body wasn’t reacting to the local anaesthetic. 
Throughout the ordeal I was in excruciating pain and it 
felt like I was literally being butchered. 
I got a room later that night. There were three other 
women in the room with me. One of the women was 
infected with a virus she caught in a nursing home. She 
was moved shortly after I arrived. And the rest of us had 
146 CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME
to be put in quarantine. Oh, I have a room all to myself 
now though, so it’s kind of nice.
Enough of being sidetracked. I got admitted on a Friday 
which I discovered isn’t the best day to be hospitalized 
since doctors and rns like their time off. 
They were unable to do anything regarding the ct 
scan I needed so urgently because it was the weekend. I 
had to wait until Monday. With my wonderful luck, it 
turned out that Monday, February 16th was Family Day, 
a holiday here in Ontario! 
So, once again, the ct scan was pushed to the following 
day, a day before my twenty-second birthday. On Tuesday, 
February 17th, I got the ct scan and they drained some 
fluid for testing, etc. The doctor decided that draining the 
entire thing might not be smart and asked that a tube be 
left inside my tummy for only four hours. 
Within the four hours, they drained eight and a half litres 
of fluid from my tummy that was causing me discomfort. 
Relieved at no longer being bloated, my spirits were lifted 
and I believed that this terrible ordeal would soon come 
to an end. I excited to go home. But I was mistaken. I got 
my hopes up in vain.
Being in the hospital on the day of my birthday, I de-
cided, was no excuse for me to not have my birthday party. 
My family and friends brought a cake, presents, roses. It 
seemed as if the fourth floor of the hospital belonged to 
us on my birthday. Even the nurses joined in the fun and 
had cake and beverages. I was happy to be surrounded by 
my loved ones but I was still in some pain, and somewhat 
high on drugs they gave me to help keep me as calm and 
as comfortable as possible.
No one knew the results of my ct scan, so my family 
and I were waiting patiently. We were told that the doctors 
suspected something but an official biopsy would have to 
be done so that they could test the fluid in my stomach 
before they knew exactly what they were dealing with. 
It turns out that the fluid extracted from me was filled 
with cancer cells. The doctors have no idea what kind of 
cancer it is, so their job now is to pinpoint exactly where 
the cancer originated. I was told that this would be a dif-
ficult task for them because the cancer is everywhere 
in my stomach and pelvis, and it could have come from 
anywhere, and it could have also spread easily and attached 
itself anywhere in my body because the fluid was touching 
nearly all of my organs. They had pretty much put me on 
a “not surviving” list in the hospital and gave me more 
drugs to keep me comfortable and sedated. 
That was the first time I ever saw my father shed a 
tear! I had just turned twenty-two and I was juggling 
two part-time jobs and full-time school. How can I be 
diagnosed with cancer? No one in my family has ever 
had cancer, not even distant family, so how could this 
happen to me? This is a question that will haunt me for 
the rest of my life.
The hospital was clear in telling me that there was 
nothing that could be done for me in their care. I need 
to be transferred to another, more specialized, hospital. 
Apparently, Sunnybrook, the cancer hospital, is full too. 
So, I’m waiting…
So—there you have it, everything that’s been happen-
ing. Not to mention:
•Not only having to deal with cancer
•My boyfriend and I being over (thank God) but 
what timing
•Family stressing me
•I’m so stressed: worried for my mom and dad 
•I have a million bills to deal with
•Work
•School
•Receiving employment benefits or not?
•Trying to get started on a procedure that will help 
me and stop waiting
•My parents are taking so many days off
•Insurance!
•Everything
•I wonder how Ash [my brother] really feels about 
all this
•Man oh man, my list could be never ending but for 
now it’s about 6:00 am and Sivani [my best friend, 
who I also call Sister] needs to wake up in 1 hour 
and 15 minutes.
I’m going to try to get some shut-eye. 
I have faith, hope, and I believe I’ll be okay by the 
grace of God.
Pray for me.
Insheera
***
During my stay in the hospital the head nurse on my 
floor, Concordia, took a liking to me, thank God. She 
pushed for me to be seen at Sunnybrook’s Odette Cancer 
Center. I was taken there in an ambulance and then back 
to Scarborough General Hospital after the appointment, 
my beloved head nurse at my side. She had finished her 
shift but decided to come along with my family and me 
for moral support. At Sunnybrook another biopsy was 
done and a sample was taken for testing and a draining 
tube put in again for another four hours. A second eight 
and a half litres of fluid were extracted from me. 
The results obtained at Sunnybrook showed that I had 
ovarian cancer. This is very strange for someone my age 
apparently. It turns out that most women diagnosed with 
ovarian cancer are over the age of sixty-five. I was scheduled 
to start a series of chemotherapy treatments to reduce the 
mass in preparation for surgery. After the surgery, I was to 
have a month to recover, and then I would be expected to 
continue chemotherapy for another three months.
A pic line was surgically inserted through a vein in my 
arm that led right above my heart to allow the chemotherapy 
agents to be pumped through my heart evenly to all the 
areas in my body that needed it. This was done under 
local anaesthetics and I felt the entire process as if I had 
VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 147
not been given any medication at all. The doctor doing 
the procedure actually ended up cutting herself with the 
same scalpel she used to make a small incision in my arm 
and was furious. It wasn’t pleasant to have to endure more 
testing and pokes due to someone else’s careless mistake. 
I was tested for hiv and everything else you can possibly 
think of after that incident. She never apologized, but I 
assume she was happy to hear that I had nothing conta-
gious. Cancer isn’t something that can be transferred by 
bodily fluids; there are a variety of different possible causes 
or factors that contribute to its appearance. 
womanly parts. He did assure me, however, that he would 
remove only what was necessary, but I should not expect 
too much because my case was very bad to begin with.
After the four-hour surgery, thirty staples, and three 
stitches later, I was overjoyed to hear that only my left 
ovary was extracted along with my appendix and some 
fatty tissue in my stomach and pelvis. I was subjected to 
the hospital for another week before I was sent home to 
recuperate and prepare myself for more chemotherapy 
that would start in June.
The second time around doing chemotherapy was more 
Anyhow, before chemotherapy I had no idea what to 
expect, but I assure you, it’s not something I would wish 
on my worst enemy. The chemicals had me vomiting 
within an hour. I was unable to smell certain things. My 
nails turned black, my skin pigmentation darkened so all 
of my scars and imperfections were greatly highlighted, 
and to make matters worse, all of my hair fell out. I lost 
fifty pounds over the two months of treatment. And the 
blood transfusions I was given made me smell different, 
only for a few days, but nonetheless it was a strange ex-
perience that confirmed for me that everyone really does 
have their own scent.
I got to go home for the first time in mid-April. I shed 
a few tears of joy to return to the familiar place I called 
home. My joy was short-lived though, for I returned to 
the hospital two days later because I was unable to eat or 
drink. I had to be given iv fluids twenty-four hours a day, 
seven days a week. The chemotherapy had taken its toll 
and I had to be restored to handle the surgery scheduled 
for April 30th, 2009. There were no available operating 
rooms at Sunnybrook, so my oncologist was going to come 
to Scarborough General to do my surgery there.
The surgery was the only thing that profoundly affected 
me throughout the entire experience. The chemotherapy 
I could take. The pain I could endure and the pokes and 
butchering were just part of the process to me, but to have 
a complete hysterectomy and strip me of my womanhood 
I could not deal with. There was nothing I wanted more 
than to be a mother. I love children and I’ve always hoped 
and prayed for two happy, healthy children that I carry 
to full term and birth from my own body. Nothing could 
bring me more joy than to create a little life of my own 
with my own flesh and blood. So you can understand the 
dread and sorrow I felt when I was forced to sign those 
papers giving the surgeon full rights to remove all of my 
intense it seemed, or maybe it was because I was in and 
out of the hospital weekly or at least every few days. I was 
assigned a home care nurse who was very helpful but I only 
saw her when I was lucky, or strong enough I should say, 
to be at home. I missed her quite often because I was so 
frequently in the hospital. My blood count would drop 
massively and I was lacking potassium and magnesium 
and a bunch of other things that a normal human being 
would require in their blood to survive. I was also prone 
to infections and needed to be rushed to the hospital every 
time my temperature was above 38 degrees Celsius. Oh, 
not to mention that I was not only being fed poison to 
get rid of the cancer that was already killing me, I was 
also literally starving to death. I wanted to eat but every 
time I did I vomited. I couldn’t even hold down liquids 
at one point. It got so bad that one can of Ensure used to 
last me a period of five hours or more. Every half hour I 
was awakened by my parents or family members just to 
take a sip or two and go back to sleep.
I couldn’t walk very far because being bedridden for 
months caused my muscles to deteriorate and because I 
was so weak from no nutrients, I was forced to use a cane 
to keep my balance. I needed assistance to shower, eat, and 
move. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. I was 
barely able to hold a spoon for even that was too heavy. All 
the while going through this physical trauma all I could 
think about was how it affected those around me.
Only after my surgery did my parents reveal their real 
concerns. They had apparently asked doctors before I had 
started chemotherapy what stage my cancer was in when 
they found it. The answer was shocking—my cancer had 
been stage four. My parents also asked what my chances 
were of coming out of this entire ordeal alive or cured and 
they were told five to ten percent. Apparently the treatment 
was surely going to kill me, and if that didn’t, the surgery 
The chemicals had me vomiting within an hour. My nails turned black, 
my skin pigmentation darkened so all my scars and imperfections were 
highlighted, and all my hair fell out.  I lost fifty pounds over the two months 
of treatment. And the blood transfusions made me smell different.
148 CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME
would. If I was lucky enough to survive tthe surgery, my 
body would surely give up during the subsequent set of 
treatments. Thankfully, their sharing this with me just 
made me stronger and encouraged me to push harder to 
live, not only for myself but for my loved ones as well. My 
family had supported me throughout the entire process 
and I got as far as I did because of it. Although no one 
believed I would make it, I had to stay alive for everyone. 
There was no other option.
I can’t imagine what that news must have been like for 
my parents and loved ones. I was concerned about them 
and their jobs. I was worried about my parents’ health who 
seemed to never sleep. My mother would spend nights at 
the hospital with me only to get up at 4:00 am to go home, 
shower, change, and go to work only to return again in 
the evening to be at my side. My brother would visit every 
day after school, and I would see how he stressed because 
chunks of his hair were beginning to fall out too. My best 
friend, whom I call my sister, would rotate nights with 
my mother so she could get some rest and she also went 
straight from the hospital to work and back.
I was never left alone. Not for one second did I feel 
unloved or neglected. I was constantly encouraged and 
reminded that I was needed and wanted and loved. I was 
always in a positive environment and I never believed that 
I was not going to make it out of that experience alive, 
strong, cured and happy. Even when I was at home from 
the hospital and was continuing treatments, my cousin 
would come and stay with me until my parents were home 
from work. She also used to wait hours for my chemo-
therapy appointments to be over while holding my hand 
at the hospital. I was so loved and supported that I simply 
couldn’t imagine disappointing everyone by not being here. 
I was always happy, energetic, outspoken and outgoing. 
The nurses at Scarborough General, whom I still visit to 
show my progress, will all tell you the same thing.
***
August 18, 2009 [after my first surgery, and my father’s 
birthday]
My world is spinning 150 miles per hour. 
The darkness is blinding. I’m fighting,
I’m gasping for breaths. The air is so cold! 
I see nothing—I hear nothing—I feel nothing.
Holding on to this fine thread is my only link to 
my past
my only link to who I was
the only link to all that I know.
I struggle as I feel my lifeline slip away…
Gone, forever … I’ll never be the same.
I’m left bloody and broken on these razor sharp rocks 
in the darkness.
Now I’m trying to find myself.
Trying desperately to pick up these pieces of my life 
and hold my head high.
As I look into the distance I see a light approach 
me. 
Without knowing what to expect I hold my breath 
and anticipate the worst.
I’m cold. I’m shivering. But somehow its presence 
warms me, calms me. 
It comes to a halt before me. 
Enchants me with its brightness. 
I’m lost in a mesmerizing gaze—its beauty is a total 
phenomenon.
The way it makes me feel is foreign—so new.
My battle scars of life are welcomed by open arms.
I drown in the warmth of its embrace. There is an 
aura around that glows—it’s extraordinary.
Their smiles are priceless and I truly melt away in 
the love and emotion given to me. 
Never before have I been held like this. 
Never before have I felt so completely and utterly 
safe and secure.
Never have I felt love like this. This is so real. This 
is us.
Family
Forever and always
Insheera
***
I would have never been able to endure all that I have nor 
be as strong as I am if it wasn’t for my wonderful, amaz-
ing and highly supportive family and friends. Mom, dad, 
Ash, Sister and Lisa, I love you with all my heart! Thank 
you for helping me through a near impossible situation! 
You are my light! 
     —Insheera, May 2010
In June 2010, Insheera Lachmann graduated from Seneca 
College. She was in the hospital on the date of her gradua-
tion because her doctors found a mass on her surviving ovary. 
Luckily, surgery revealed the mass to be a cyst and her right 
ovary reamins intact. Every three months she has routine ct 
scans or ultrasounds to ensure there are no signs of the cancer 
returning. So far so good. In September 2010, Insheera Lach-
mann married Nevill, her knight in shining armour,who was 
extremely supportive during her second cancer scare.


Ovarian Cancer at Twenty-Two: A Survivor's Story

Sharkey, April

CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME152
who are deemed ‘abnormal’ or born 
out of wedlock?
Ultimately, Demons of Aquilonia is 
not just any mystery novel, but also 
a book of questioning one’s place in 
society, one’s social class, and the ten-
sions inherent in racial, sexual, and 
gender norms. Just as the characters 
bend and manipulate truths to serve 
their own nefarious and altruistic 
purposes, so too must characters 
wear a variety of masks, much like 
the Greek masks of theatre—the 
innocent maiden, the mistress, the 
scholar, the wise fool, the slave, and 
the master. At times, Licia sports all 
of these masks, and her catharsis lies 
in navigating through the conflicting 
expectations inherent in all of these 
roles. En route to accepting her own 
true nature in a world that has little 
tolerance for keen-eyed sentinels, 
Licia challenges the status quo, for 
she is a natural fighter for knowledge, 
honesty, and righteousness.
When her family immigrates to 
Toronto, Ontario, Canada, Licia 
passionately pursues education, 
literacy, social mobility, and en-
lightenment but is hampered by 
the paradoxical memories of her 
troubled childhood in Italy. This 
necessitates a trip back home to 
Calabria, for to know oneself, and 
where one is going, one must first 
examine the past. 
Licia juggles acceptance in her 
family, social circle, and relation-
ships, whilst battling her pragmatic 
desire for knowledge and truth, for 
she knows that only truth may lead 
she and her loved ones to a difficult 
rebirth … and rebirth for this eter-
nally morphing anti-heroine might 
bring greater common understand-
ing, bonding, and even the illusive 
mutual acceptance she spends her 
life striving towards. However, what 
price will Licia, her family members, 
and her childhood neighbours and 
friends be prepared to pay? 
In addition to the stirring plot, 
the poignant description, and art-
ful, straight-forward writing style of 
author Lina Medaglia are commend-
able. There is not a word de trop in 
this novel. One has the impression 
of being seated in the cozy kitchen 
of Licia in downtown Toronto, and 
while sipping fragrant caffe, she starts 
spinning yarns of her hometown in 
Italy, that are at once mesmerizing, 
enchanting, and disturbing…
Douglas Gosse is the editor of Breaking 
silences and exploring masculinities, 
a critical supplement to the novel 
Jackytar (2008), and author of Jacky-
tar (2005), The Romeo & Juliet 
Murders (1997), and The Celtic 
Cross, A Vampire Journal (1995).
tell me a stoRY, 
tell me the tRuth
Gina Roitman
Toronto: Second Story Press, 2009
reviewed by april 
sharkey
The title—Tell me a Story, Tell me the 
Truth—exudes mystery and entices 
readers. After all, who gets to define 
what truth is or whether or not it 
even exists for that matter? While 
truth is often linked to history, those 
traditionally in charge of writing it 
have mainly been men. Since the 
second wave of feminism, scholars 
and activists have compiled their 
own histories that focus on personal 
experiences and often deconstruct 
problematic concepts such as truth. 
Despite the void left in traditional 
historical texts, it is these narratives, 
handed down through generations 
of women, that construct and best 
represent some of their experiences 
and truths. 
While the title seems a bit contrary 
and somewhat suspect, there is no 
confusion about the photos that 
adorn the front cover—photos that 
offer the only material evidence of one 
family’s experience of the Holocaust. 
The cover represents the author’s own 
personal history and lends itself to 
the narrative. Through the photos, 
author Gina Roitman confounds the 
boundaries between truth and fiction 
even further with the inclusion of 
evidence of her history.
It is this glimpse of one family’s 
history, a history that travels from the 
concentration camps and displaced 
persons camp, or lager of post wwii, 
to the tenements of Montréal, where 
Jewish immigrants negotiated the 
challenges of starting over in a new 
country after losing familial identi-
ties, home, and homeland that signi-
fies the strength of a people’ history. 
What captures the reader’s eye is 
Roitman’s seamless ability to move 
fluidly between first person experi-
ences and third person narrative, ex-
posing the presence of fiction in truth 
and truth in fiction, and a little bit of 
both revealed through myth. While 
writing in the first person, Roitman 
peppers readers with Yiddish terms 
and names, claiming and symbolizing 
her Jewish identity. The third person 
reveals the North American story of 
a young Jewish girl’s “coming of age” 
in Canada following wwii.
Roitman begins by recounting her 
own relationship with her mother. In 
the introduction, she gives readers 
a common story—one of a mother 
and daughter struggling to co-ex-
ist—with one firmly entrenched 
in the past and the other heavily 
influenced by a very different present. 
As the book progresses, it becomes 
evident that it is about the mother’s 
responsibility to make sure Leah 
Smilovitz (and Roitman) will always 
remember her words, despite the 
fact that she did not live them. It is 
through this storytelling (narishkeit) 
that Leah can feel some connection 
to her mother and history. It is this 
symbiotic relationship between story 
and truth that provides a foundation 
for the book. 
Indeed, Roitman has presented a 
work that blurs the lines and is in 
constant tension. The most difficult 
task for the reader is keeping in mind 
that Tell Me a Story, Tell Me the Truth 
is a piece of fiction. Roitman quali-
fies the title by revealing the tensions 
VOLUME 28,  NUMBER 1 153
inherent in her own relationship with 
her mother, or Mameh. In many ways, 
the novel does capture an example of 
any mother/daughter dynamic. The 
words and memories that constitute 
a story from her mother, which 
permeates the pages of the book, 
offers readers part biography, part 
history, and part novel that transcend 
a conventional third person narrative. 
Viewed as one collection of stories, 
Tell Me a Story, Tell Me the Truth, 
takes readers on an emotional jour-
ney through history, and transforms 
into a collection of many stories. 
While growing up and “coming of 
age”, Leah, while reluctant, absorbs 
her mother’s stories. Long after her 
mother’s death, she recounts the 
abundance of tales she has grown ac-
customed to as well as the words that 
influence her so much, and begins to 
understand the importance of them. 
Leah grows into adulthood bound 
by her mother’s words, but clings 
to one of the only stories her father 
(tetah) shared with her. The topic 
of how he had escaped the Angel of 
Death (mallaach homuvet) five times, 
complete with climax and adversity, 
fascinates her. Despite Leah’s need 
for this connection to her father, 
she knows better than to share it 
with her mother, who has carefully 
constructed the history, she wants 
Leah to know and remember.
To be sure, a good number of 
biographies, historical texts, and 
novels offer personal experiences of 
the Holocaust. Tell Me a Story, Tell 
Me the Truth, can be added to that 
collection. What Roitman has done 
with this book is relate the personal 
to the public by interspersing family 
stories into a work related closely to 
experience.
April Sharkey is a Ph.D. candidate in 
Women’s Studies at York University. Her 
dissertation is titled Beyond Suffering: 
The Possibilities for Celebration, 
Exhilaration, and Empowerment 
While Growing up Queer.
fieRce 
depaRtuRes: 
the poetRY of 
dionne BRand 
Leslie C. Sanders, Ed. 
Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University 
Press, 2009
reviewed by elaine 
jackson
and beautiful. The speaker’s voice is 
dynamic, full of intensity and energy 
regardless of the emotions at play. 
Brand is fluent in two languages: 
“Received Standard” (English) and 
Trinidadian, and she uses both with 
great facility. These poems throb, they 
embody and disembody; they long, 
they circumscribe a sense of lack, of 
uprootedness and exile. One does not 
get the sense of the speaker being an 
isolated, atomistic ego; but rather the 
sense of many souls in one, genera-
tions of women (and men) caught 
in currents beyond their control and 
often beyond their comprehension. 
One gets the feeling of wrestling with 
a reality that often seems dreamlike, 
of a struggle to pin things together 
and make sense of them, of following 
a map that keeps changing every time 
one looks away. Yet at the same time, 
there are tangible moments, people 
and objects to hang onto, however 
briefly. An early example is the poem 
that begins, “I walk Bathurst Street 
until it come like home/ Pearl was 
near Dupont,” and what follows is 
a string of Pearls: Pearl as labourer, 
lover, mother, and friend; Pearl as 
fellow traveller, and co-conspirator, 
sharing a nostalgia that the speaker 
admits “was a lie.” Brand’s poems 
constitute an animated conversation 
between figure and ground, person 
and place. The borders are indistinct, 
clean separations are impossible, and 
every extraction leads to haemorrhag-
ing. Although based on instances of 
forced migration and exile, the issues 
of identity are universal and expressed 
so well that any reader could relate 
to them. 
Brand’s poetic Afterword serves 
as a return to images of maps, ex-
iles, and communal hauntings. The 
bulk of the Afterword is comprised 
of a “Ruttier for the Marooned in 
the Diaspora” in which the speaker 
explains that “an oral ruttier is a 
long poem containing navigational 
instructions which sailors learned by 
heart and recited from memory.” The 
final two verse paragraphs describe 
the speaker’s grandmother, who was 
confined to her house, and yet “sent 
The publication of this collection 
of Dionne Brand’s work could not 
have been timelier. In his Foreword 
Neil Besner remarks that the purpose 
of the Laurier Poetry Series is to 
promote “real engagement with our 
poets. There needs to be more access 
to their work in more venues….” 
Dionne Brand made a similar remark 
in a recent interview with CBC host, 
Matt Galloway, stating that her desire 
as the newly appointed Poet Laureate 
of Toronto was to bring people into 
contact with poetry in a “ubiquitous” 
way, including taking it to the side-
walks.* Fierce Departures represents 
a collection of thirty-five of Dionne 
Brand’s poems, selected from four 
of her poetic works. Leslie Sanders 
provides an insightful and engaging 
introduction which delineates some 
of the central themes and dilemmas 
that course through Brand’s work, 
and calls attention to some of her 
unique poetic gifts. 
As a reader who was aware of 
Brand, but had never read or studied 
her work, I found this format very 
effective. The collection provides a 
broad sampling across Brand’s writing 
career and makes it possible to trace 
the evolution of her thematic con-
cerns and also the diminution of some 
themes and the growth of others, a 
perspective that could not be easily 
achieved by reading the individual 
works. This collection serves both 
as an overview and as an appetizer, a 
small feast that serves to awaken the 
desire to seek out the works in their 
original, organic forms. 
The poems themselves are strong 


Tell Me a Story, Tell Me the Truth

Bain, Beverly

English

Uncovering Conceptual Practices: Bringing into "Lived Consciousness" Feminists' Activities on the Toronto Police Sexual Assault Audit and the Follow-up Sexual Assault Audit Committee

Natoli, Anna

Reading My Mother's Care: On the Fringes of a Compassionate and Empathetic Ethic

Martonfi, Ilona

26 CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME
2Declared unconstitutional in Ontario and Quebec, Soci-
ety of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. See <http://www.
sexualityandu.ca/adults/sex-12.aspx>. 
3shepp is also partnered with Good For Her, a sex shop 
in Toronto specializing in women’s sexuality.
References
Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission. Final	
Report. 2001. Manitoba Government. Online:  <http//
ajic.mb.ca/reports/final_toc.html>.
Assembly of First Nations, Health and Social Secretariat. 
“The Relationships Between Domestic Violence hiv-
Infection.” December 2007.
Banister, Elizabeth M. and Deborah L. Begoray. “Com-
munity of Practice Approach for Aboriginal Girls’ 
Sexual Health Education.” Canadian	Academy	of	Child	
Adolescence	Psychiatry 15 (4) (2006): 168-173.
Boonstra, Heather. “Young People Need Help in Preventing 
Pregnancy and hiv: How Will the World Respond?” 
Guttmacher	Policy	Review 2 (6) (2007): 2-6.
Canadian	Guidelines	for	Sexual	Health	Education. Public 
Health Agency of Canada. Online; <http://www.phac-
aspc.gc.ca/publicat/cgshe-ldnemss/index-eng.php>.
Declaration of the Rights of the Child. 1959 gar  1386 9x1v, 
14 un gaor Sup. (No. 6) at 19, un doca 4354.
“Queer and Youth-Led Groups Say ‘No’ to Age of Consent 
Charges.” Upping	 the	 Anti: A	 Journal	 of	Theory	 and	
Action	February 25, 2008. Online: <http://auto_sol.
tao.ca/node/2969>.
Fenton, Kevin. “Strategies for Improving Sexual Health 
in Ethnic Minorities.” Current	Opinion	 in	 Infectious	
Diseases	14 (1) (2001): 63-69.
Fruhstuch, Sabine. Colonizing	 Sex:	 Sexology	 and	 Social	
Control	 in	 Modern	 Japan.	 Berkeley: University of 
California Press, 2003. 
“Sex Education That Works” 2009. Online: <http://www.
avert.org/sex-education.htm>.
RapeLay: Sexually Explicit Video Gaming and Youth 
Culture. <http://cyberbullying.us/blog/rapelay-sexual-
ly-explicit-video-gaming-and-youth-culture.html>. 
Smart, Carol. Women,	Sexuality	and	Social	Control. London: 
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978.
Strande, Taylor. “ndp Holds Firm on Age of Consent.” 
xtra	Magazine October 26, 2006: 5.
Tackling	Violent	Crime	Act. Online: <http://www.justice.
gc.ca/eng/news-nouv/nr-cp/2008/doc_32273.html>.
United Nations (un) General Assembly Document. 
a/res/44/25 (12 December 1989).
Viner, Russell and Maggie Bake. “Young People’s Health: 
The Need for Action.” British	Medical	Journal (April 
16 2005): 901-903.
Weaver, Angela and Sandra Byers et al. “Sexual Health 
Education at School and at Home: Attitudes and Expe-
riences of New Brunswick Parents.”	Canadian	Journal	
of	Human	Sexuality	11 (1) (2002): 19-31.
Wilson, Alex. “Living Well: Aboriginal Women, Cultu-
ral Identity and Wellness.” Prairie	Women’s	Health	79 
(2004). Online: <http://www.pwhce.ca/ethicalGuide-
lines.htm>.
ILONA MARTONFI
FOURTH GRADE
Herr Lehrer stood beside Helga with his leg up on her chair,
while the black-and-white movie flickered. She sat quiet,
squeezed by him, in her blue wool sweater. After school,
teacher rode on his motor scooter to Regensburg.
Home to his wife and two young sons.
The children who had sat with their backs to the blackboard
went to their houses beside the church, where six nuns lived
and the Catholic priest, Pfarrer Anton Böhm,
came to teach Catechism and asked teacher:
“Who didn’t do their homework? Who didn’t go to mass?
Who played behind rhododendron and buttercups?”
Rope swing on a tall linden tree.
Grandmother Kisanyuka’s wash line.
I played in front of the house, because I would die,
if father knew teacher touched me again.
Ilona Martonfi’s poetry appears earlier in this volume.


Fourth Grade

Meulen, Emily van Der

CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME148
narrated moments of sheer joy, such 
as Kendra’s excitement about her first 
gallery showing, at which she sells 
some of her paintings. There is much 
beauty and tenderness in her blos-
soming relationship with Meghan, 
who is dealing with her own trauma at 
the hands of a physically abusive and 
neglectful alcoholic mother. Kendra 
also finds peace through her support 
network: Carolyn, Sandy, a family 
friend who facilitates her artistic pur-
suits where her own jealous mother, 
an artist herself, can only criticize, and 
Mrs. Archer, her compassionate and 
encouraging art teacher. The end of 
the novel also leaves readers hopeful. 
A heroic and dramatic confrontation 
with her abuser reveals the depth 
of Kendra’s strength and courage. 
Kendra also witnesses some develop-
ments in her relationship with her 
mother, but her ultimate ability to 
form a reconstituted family through 
her support network is what allows 
her to feel loved and safe. 
At the end of the book, Rainfield 
includes an open and honest author’s 
note, in which shares some of her 
personal experiences of abuse and 
self-harm, and an annotated bibli-
ography of web resources for queer 
teens, survivors of incest, ritual abuse, 
and self-harm. These make the novel 
an incredibly useful pedagogical tool. 
But the most important work that 
Scars does is to reveal the importance 
of bearing witness to trauma. After 
Kendra’s sexual abuse is revealed to 
everyone in the narrative, she says, 
“I’m not afraid. And I’m not ashamed 
either. I just feel a lightness now, like 
I can breathe easier. And I don’t think 
that’s going to go away.” Kendra’s 
is a profound narrative of survival. 
Yet through her strength, she is able 
to do more than merely survive; as 
Sandy tells her: “you, my girl—you’re 
going to thrive.” This might well be 
the most powerful message of Scars, 
and the most important one for 
anyone seeking to find solace and 
encouragement in its pages. 
Andrea Medovarski teaches in the Eng-
lish department at York University.
tRans/foRming 
feminisms: 
tRans-feminist 
voices speaK out
Krista Scott-Dixon, Ed.
Toronto: Sumach Press, 2006
reviewed by emily van 
der meulen
Krista Scott-Dixon’s Trans/Form-
ing Feminism: Trans-Feminist Voices 
Speak Out is an insightful introduc-
tion to the complicated and often 
contentious union of feminist and 
transgender/transsexual theories, 
politics, and lives. The editor and 
contributors challenge feminists to 
build bridges with trans communities 
and activism though an exploration 
of transfeminism.
An interesting theme of the text 
is the significance of language and 
a critique of the usage of certain 
terminologies and classifications. 
Scott-Dixon draws on bell hooks’ 
definition of feminism as a movement 
to end sexist oppression but chooses 
the plural ‘feminisms’ in both the title 
and in the introduction to point to 
the varied history of the movement 
and the term itself. Likewise, the text 
employs the term ‘trans’ to refer to 
“the many forms of crossing gender 
boundaries.” This transgression of 
gender boundaries and engagement 
with non-normative gender expres-
sions, according to Scott-Dixon, 
can be located in one’s behaviors, 
identification, and/or experiences. 
The contributors’ thorough explo-
ration of gender binaries effectively 
destabilizes the conventional catego-
ries of man/woman, male/female, 
his/hers.
The text is divided into four 
themed topic areas: Narratives & 
Voices, Identities & Alliances, Inclusion 
& Exclusion, and Shelter & Violence. 
The first section begins with writ-
ings rooted in the contributors’ lived 
experiences and day-to-day realities. 
The essays in this section draw into 
question determinist ‘ways of know-
ing’ and critique overly simplistic 
assumptions and theories about 
gender, sex, and sexuality. As Darryl 
B. Hill’s essay demonstrates, debates 
on the origins of gender (essentialist 
vs. constructionist) do little to encap-
sulate trans peoples’ perspectives and 
lived realities. 
In the second section, aptly titled 
Identities & Alliances, the essays focus 
on the complications of building soli-
darity and alliances across multiple, 
and often fragmented, identities. 
reese simpkins’ particularly compel-
ling chapter makes the argument that 
trans and feminist struggles can ally 
themselves based on the shared aim of 
disrupting normative gender-based 
discourses and oppressive systems of 
gender coherency. I am persuaded to 
agree with simpkins’ argument that 
“trans politics are key to feminist 
politics” and am simultaneously 
sensitive to Kyle Scanlon’s critique 
of the feminist/queer co-optation of 
trans identities and the importance 
of true trans allies.
Possibly the two best known 
examples of the barring of trans 
peoples from feminist activities and 
organizations are the focus of the 
third section, Inclusion & Exclusion. 
The essays center around Kimberly 
Nixon’s expulsion from Vancouver’s 
Rape Relief and the Michigan 
Womyn’s Music Festival’s womyn-
born-womyn only policies. The poli-
tics of “women only spaces” are hotly 
debated and (mainly) critiqued as 
unjustifiable. Most interesting is Lara 
Karanian’s chapter that advocates for 
the development of more complex 
and nuanced legal arguments that are 
not based on exclusionary strategic 
essentialist positions. 
Building on the examples raised 
by the previous contributors, the 
essays in the final section, Shelter 
& Violence, reveal the impacts of 
transphobia and violence on trans 
peoples’ lives. The contributors 
discuss trans-specific violence and 
barriers that trans people face when 
trying to access services. Wolfgang 
Vachon argues for the importance 
of developing trans-inclusive shelter 
VOLUME 28,  NUMBER 1 149
policies even though they might not 
be fully implemented or respected by 
shelter residents or staff. 
Interestingly, and not surprisingly, 
the various essays often contradict 
one another in their positioning and 
understanding of both feminism and 
gender. Some contributors discuss 
their gender identities (regardless as 
to how they identify) as though they 
are innate or essential truths about 
themselves where others clearly 
argue that debates about biologi-
cal determinism are more harmful 
than helpful to trans communities 
and activism. The nuances in the 
arguments and variations in the 
personal politics of the contribu-
tors are educational and thought 
provoking. While these differences 
make for an intriguing read, two 
chapters in particular stand out. I am 
left bewildered as to why the editor 
would include A. Nicki’s reactionary 
piece which she concludes by argu-
ing, “To include transsexual and 
transgendered people in women’s 
spaces would, in fact, undermine 
a feminist commitment to human 
liberation….” 
Similarly, I wonder what is the 
purpose of Joanna Harris’ essay 
written in support of Rape Relief ’s 
decision to exclude Nixon from 
volunteering. These essays are 
particularly problematic for a text 
that claims to support solidarity 
building between trans and feminist 
communities. There are plenty of 
other anthologies in which Nicki 
and Harris can publish. 
In spite of the gaudy front cover de-
sign and the extremely odd inclusion 
of some transphobic content, Trans/
forming Feminisms is an important 
text for those interested in critiquing 
the limitations of gender-normative 
theories. This impressive anthology 
will make an excellent addition to 
introductory women’s studies courses 
as well as more advanced studies of 
gender and sexuality.
Emily van der Meulen is a Post-Doc-
toral Fellow at the Centre for Research 
on Inner City Health at St. Michael’s 
Hospital, Toronto. She completed her 
doctorate in Women’s Studies at York 
University. Her research interests in-
clude sex work, labour organizing and 
decriminalization. She is a member 
of the Board of Directors of Canada’s 
oldest sex worker run organization, 
Maggie’s: The Toronto Sex Worker’s 
Action Project.
challenging 
lesBian noRms: 
inteRsex, 
tRansgendeR, 
inteRsectional, 
and QueeR 
peRspectives
Angela Pattucci Aragón, Ed. 
Binghampton, NY: Harrington Park 
Press, 2006
reviewed by alisa 
grigorovich
As Aragón writes in the introduction 
to this collection, the relationships 
between lesbian, queer, and trans-
gender subjects and communities 
are often fraught with tension and 
disagreement. In some cases, there 
is outright hostility and exclusion 
of transgender and intersex subjects 
from lesbian spaces and communi-
ties. As Aragón notes, much of this 
tension arises from the ‘homonor-
mativity’ that is based on an essential 
view of gender and sexuality that 
exists in many lesbian and lgbt com-
munities. In particular, many lgbt 
communities and organizations pay 
little attention to the experiences and 
perspectives of intersex, transgender, 
and queer people from diverse back-
grounds and abilities. Using her own 
experience of ‘coming-out’ as intersex 
and the negative reactions that it has 
generated, Aragón argues for the 
need for lesbian communities and 
their members to critically examine 
their practices of exclusion and their 
politics. This timely collection of 
essays offers an example of the ways 
in which intersex, transgender, inter-
sectional, and queer subjects, theories 
and experiences can be used to en-
gage with and confront exclusionary 
practices within lesbian communities 
and expand the meanings of lesbian 
identity and sexuality. 
Published simultaneously as an 
edited collection and as an issue of 
the Journal of Lesbian Studies, this 
text is primarily aimed at profession-
als working with lgbt communities, 
activists, post-secondary professors 
and students and other academics. 
The essays are written in a clear and 
engaging manner by professionals 
from multidisciplinary backgrounds 
and fields ranging from cultural stud-
ies to mental health. While many of 
the essays use personal experiences 
to illustrate their main points, the 
collection is well balanced in terms 
of methodological approaches and 
theories offering discussion based on 
both sociological research studies and 
literary and cultural criticism. Topics 
include marginalization within les-
bian communities, the relationships 
between transsexual/transgender 
theories and lesbian theories, prac-
tices of teaching transgender, queer 
and intersex perspectives in Women’s 
Studies as well as explorations of 
lesbian narratives and films.
While the essays are written as 
separate pieces, they are anchored 
together in that they all tackle the 
issue of the consequences of lesbian 
homonormativity and the ways in 
which lesbian theories, communi-
ties, and norms can be using trans-
gender, transsexual, intersex, queer, 
and intersectional perspectives and 
theories. Most of the essays in this 
collection also end with a brief section 
of issues and questions that could be 
used to further discuss and expand 
the themes and concepts raised in 
the article. Some of the essays that 
stand out from this collection include 
Coogan’s analysis of the relationships 
between transsexual and lesbian 
subjects and Detlof ’s exploration 
of the investment that lesbian com-


Trans/Forming Feminisms: Trans-Feminist Voices Speak Out

Trafford, Mary

VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 17
“Photodynamic Therapy and Cancer (pdt).” University 
College London Hospitals. Web. 29 Jan. 2011. <http://
www.uclh.nhs.uk/OurServices/Servicea-z/Cancer/
cancertreatment/pdt/Pages/Home.aspx>. 
Tamplin, Arthur R. and John W. Gofman. “The Radiation 
Effect Controversy.” Bulletin	of	the	Atomic	Scientists 26 
(7) (September 1970): 2-18.
Wood-Smith, Robert and Partners. “Medical Science is in 
Crisis Worldwide.” Authoritative Advisors in Radiation 
and Genomic Instability. 2002. Copy available upon 
request. 
about the guest editors…
Brenda L. Blondeau is a Ph.D. candidate in the Women’s 
Studies Graduate Programme at York University, To-
ronto, Ontario where she is completing her disserta-
tion. Currently, she teaches in the School of Women’s 
Studies Bridging Program, and instructs in the Writing 
Department.  Her research interests include women’s 
narratives, incest and other forms of violence against 
women, the long term effects of trauma on women, 
the impact of working with difficult knowledge, and 
feminist theory and methodology. She has presented 
personal/political narratives at a variety of conferences 
in Canada and the uk, and has published work in the 
Canadian	Woman	Studies	journal and in The	Narrative	
Practitioner	Conference	Proceedings (Wrexham, Wales). 
Her connection to this special issue of “Women and 
Cancer” is as a woman and researcher who has personally 
and peripherally experienced the impact of cancer. 
Lykke de la Cour teaches in the Health and Society 
Program in the Department of Social Science at York 
University. She has published articles on the history of 
women in the medical and psychological professions, 
in Ontario, and women’s perceptions of psychiatric 
institutionalization. Her area of research focuses on the 
historical and the contemporary experiences of women 
with disabilities.
Eva C. Karpinski has a Ph.D. in English from her 
native Poland, and a Ph.D. in Women’s Studies from 
York University in Toronto. She has lived in Canada for 
twenty-two years. She teaches courses on narrative, cul-
tural studies, translation studies, and feminist theory and 
methodology in the School of Women’s Studies at York. 
She has published articles in such journals as Literature	
Compass, Men	and	Masculinities, Studies	in	Canadian	
Literature, Canadian	Woman	Studies, Atlantis, Canadian	
Ethnic	Studies, and Resources	for	Feminist	Research. She is 
also editor of Pens	of	Many	Colours:	A	Canadian	Reader, 
a popular college anthology of multicultural writing. Her 
book ‘Borrowed	Tongues’:	Life	Writing,	Migrancy,	Trans-
lation is forthcoming from Wilfrid Laurier University 
Press in 2011. It is based on her doctoral dissertation 
that was supervised by Barbara Godard.
Gosia Wasniewski has training in clinical and applied 
psychology both from Poland and Canada. Her profes-
sional experience includes teaching and clinical work 
in the community agencies and hospitals. For the last 
15 years she has been working as a clinician at the 
University Health Network in the areas of addictions 
and mental health. 
MARY TRAFFORD
welcome to cancerland
Inspired by an article by 
Barbara Ehrenreich
you were warned:
maybe if you’d been more careful
this wouldn’t’ve happened
though I/you/they/we
will never know which
noxious substance / faulty gene / toxic 
chemical
pesticide/ herbicide/vaccine/drug / or if
a childhood spent in second- and third-hand 
smoke
(or that Export A you stole at age 10
from your sleeping uncle’s pocket, smoked
with your cousin in the bathroom
even though the window was open, maybe 
that)
started it all
that’s what happens when 
a naughty girl
gets caught:
a leg-hold trap
that never lets go
welcome to cancerland, little girl
now sit still
while I chew your leg off.
A two-time cancer survivor living in Chelsea, Quebec, 
Mary Trafford Draws poetic inspiration from teammates 
on Busting Out, a breast-cancer survivors’ dragon 
boat team. She received the 2002 Diana Brebner Prize 
for Poetry.


Welcome to Cancerland

Best, Clare

VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 41
Vital statistics
(i) The consultant put it like this
Most breast cancers are sporadic.
Only five percent
genetic – a defective gene gives the woman
an inherited predisposition. So when
two or more close relatives
develop the disease, we must
be vigilant. If one parent has a bad gene
there’s a fifty-fifty chance you have it:
if you do (we can test
for two genes – there are others
not yet found) the risk of cancer’s
eighty-five percent. How does that sound?
(ii) Eighty-five percent
Eighty-five percent of computers in China are infected with viruses    
Eighty-five percent of lost umbrellas are left on long-distance buses 
Eighty-five percent of embryos transferred during IVF fail to be born
Eighty-five percent of men over sixty spend Sunday mowing the lawn
Eighty-five percent of sunscreens don’t deliver their marketing claims  
Eighty-five percent of people want children in another part of the plane 
Eighty-five percent of western women wear the wrong bra size   
Eighty-five percent of English tomorrows have weather just like today’s
clare best
Poems from Self-portrait without Breasts
42 CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME
Two weeks before surgery
‘Cast me and I will become what I must be’
We’ve oiled my shoulders, collarbone,
breasts – olive-scented, shiny
as greased rubberwood, I’m primed for casting.
You soak chalky bandages, wrap me
in slapstick layers of white –
a sacrament to tender body and life.
Working fast before the plaster sets
we smooth wet dressings onto slippery skin –
keep my contours, take my shape;
at every fold and ruck we stop, look closer
to remember. I lie death-still, encased,
breath slow-drawn, not to crack my shell:
an end and a beginning. Beneath the carapace
I hum a lullaby – you lift the curves away,
cast off my breastplate,
air moving like shadow over sentenced flesh.
The surgeon’s album
He turns the pages for me:
full and partial reconstruction, implants,
muscle flaps from back and stomach. Creations
to match and balance. But how would I look
flat? No extras. Straightforward scars.
He frowns at a lop-sided photo.  
The absence doubled? I’ve not done that before.
Twelve months on, he wants
my picture, conforming to house style:
no head, arms at forty-five degrees to clavicle.
I stand anonymous against a stripped pine door,
knots and fissures dark behind my skin –
a knife-thrower’s object, still
until the last blade hangs from the wood.
VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 43
Countdown
Three turns in the corridor
to the anaesthetic room, one last walk
with breasts, the weight of them
familiar as my own name
and address. Slick of the Thames
through plate glass intoxicates.
A young man in a white coat small-talks
London, fixes a cannula into the wrist
where my watch is not. My lips
keep moving – explain we left
some years ago, not the stress,
more the desire to raise our child
on chalk hills, near the sea.
His eyes clear as a newborn’s
close to my face, he holds my hand –
a moment of love, I will call it that.
I lend him this life, veins freezing
from the forearm up. 
Removing sutures in the bath
Lap of water, deep
water, stitched
and rippled skin. Look
through fluid glass
to winter sky –
jet trails,
each quick cut
straight and white –
slow, the vapour
spreads, deforms,
reshapes. Impossible
to think
tomorrow’s
clear
and blue.
44 CANADIAN WOMAN STUDIES/LES CAHIERS DE LA FEMME
Self-portrait without breasts
Tangled hair, charcoal-socket eyes,
mouth slack after one more long night
restless on my back. This body’s fenscape –
manscaped, hills removed – the meaty joins
still livid, tight shut mouths
where distant territories were stitched
in touch. Blood seeps in deltas over ribs,
yellow and purple track to the waist.
You’re even more beautiful now, you say
and I believe, for though I never was, I am
explorer, seeker – I’ve travelled 
and I have an ear for truth.
Flat lands
Expanse of skin stretched over ribs:
this is the new terrain we’ll trace on paper
1:1, a detailed plan with code and key.
Our way to measure and record
how much feeling has been lost, how much
might be retrieved.
Let’s cross-hatch regions of polar snow –
uninhabited, no sensation.
In places, the surface won’t tell the truth:
mud on top of frozen soil and rock,
we map this permafrost with stars
held in parentheses.
Some areas are fragile: thin ice
on a lake – a leaf or feather settling
could start the crack, the thaw. We know
to plot these zones with question marks.
No adhesive necessary
Past the Hide ‘n Seek lingerie range, beyond Naughty 
Nurse and Hail Mary sets, to a screened-off area with 
rows of jelly-coloured vibrators and Jiggle Balls. By the 
time I’m examining a five foot inflatable penis, she’s 
close. Need any help? That confidential smile. Yes, do you 
have nipples? She’s not sure, she’ll check. I’ve lost mine, 
I add, for authenticity.
At home, I press the salmon-coloured discs back to 
back – a miniature ufo – then peel them apart, lick 
their flat sides, choosing where to place my one size 
nipples: near or far, high or low. They sit over the stripes 
of white scar like elastoplast. Under a T shirt they ap-
pear home-grown, virtually real. When I touch them 
they’re always firm.
Clare	Best	lives	in	Sussex,	England.	She	has	been	a	bookbinder,	a	bookseller	and	an	editor	and	she	now	teaches	creative	writ-
ing	at	Brighton	University	and	the	Open	University.	Her	poems	are	widely	published	in	journals	and	anthologies.	Treasure 
Ground	(HappenStance,	2009)	brings	together	poems	from	a	unique	residency	at	Woodlands	Organic	Farm	on	the	Lincoln-
shire	fens.	The	extended	sequence	Self-portrait without Breasts will	appear	in	her	first	full	collection,	due	to	be	published	in	
the	United	Kingdom	later	this	year.	
VOLUME 28, NUMBERS 2,3 45
Consolations 
Our hearts are closer
when we hug, no bra to grey
and ruin in the wash, less
bounce and wobble
running for a bus,
full horizontal contact
with the ground, I am
streamlined
in air and water, I remind myself
of me – and you
press your ear to this ribcage,
hear me live.
Photographs by Laura Stevens


Poems from Self-portrait without Breasts

First Day and Slow Dancing: Creativity and Illness: Duologue and Rengas

Meer, Carolyne Van Der

VOLUME 28,  NUMBER 1 27
CAROLYNE VAN DER MEER
The baby in her belly
  What small comfort
    there was in
    here
  is gone
  My mother’s 
  wracked and 
  damaged body
  no longer a haven
    splits, cracks, erupts
  upon impact
  Hunk of metal
  crashing
  Blood
  I ride its wave
     There is no point in staying
It’s the best of a bad situation. You really didn’t 
want to face  terminating the pregnancy—and now 
you don’t have to. Nature took care of it for you. 
Did I lose the baby because of the car accident? 
she asked. 
There is no way of knowing, no scientific proof, but 
it’s possible.
Possible, probable
With certainty
the mother grieves 
her stolen child. Stolen 
from her loins
Grieves that the home
in her womb
  was not good 
  enough
  couldn’t get comfortable
In good professional conscience, I can’t counsel you 
to have this child, she said. The risks to you and 
the fetus are too great.
  There is nothing for me
  to grab on to
  no purchase
  It does not feel
  like home
 
If you decide to have this child, I’ll see you through 
it, of course. But you could die in the process—you 
need to understand this. And if you do, your seven-
year-old son will be the one who suffers the most.
  I’m already tired
   (dot of life) 
  miniscule against the 
  crimson sky
  I feel the shudder
  am losing hold, begin
    spiralling into
  oblivion
You can’t put yourself at risk because you feel 
bound by a moral code. The consequences would be 
too great. Your age. Your heart condition. And the 
medication. There’s no telling what effect this has 
already had on the fetus.
Carolyne Van Der Meer is a Montreal journalist and pr practitioner who teaches at McGill University. Her poetry and 
short fiction have been published Ars Medica, Bibliosofia, Carte Blanche and Helios, and the wow! Anthology.


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