By 
on saying no to plastic surgery and yes to the b team
By Mary Ellen Mitchell, Lydia’s House co-director
The night before my partial mastectomy we went to my son Sam’s middle school soccer game. He’s playing for our neighborhood, Norwood, instead of his club team because, with the addition of my mid summer breast cancer diagnosis, we just couldn’t manage the transportation and weekend demands of select athletics. Our neighborhood, while rapidly gentrifying, shows few signs of that in its school sports program, so it’s been a bit challenging for Sam to lose and lose again.
When we pulled in for that particular match, I noticed a woman pacing in the pothole pocked parking lot. Her skin was tight, her lips large, her hair a blinding blonde. I was caught off guard because she clearly had had work, the kind of work I rejected earlier that week when asked if I’d like my breasts reconstructed, post surgery. Confused by her presence, I said to my husband, “where did she come from?” And then I realized our rag tag team was playing the most expensive private school in the area.
Our dented van parked next to a Lexus SUV that resembled a bubble, we walked in, me moving kind of weird because I had on compression stockings (a byproduct of side effects from cancer drugs). We sat in the bleachers and a family we recognized sat behind us. They were excited to see us, as their daughter played soccer with my daughter Annie at Purcell last year. They are from Mexico and El Salvador, the dad is a construction worker, and they speak Spanish to each other, often cheering: “Adelante, Eso, ESO!” Their 5 kids lined up on the bench watching patiently, proud to support their brother, who quickly showed his skills to be worthy of enthusiasm. I know these parents don’t miss a game— if it can be attended outside work hours. We traded notes on our son’s strengths, each complementing one another’s athlete, cheering together when Sam ran ahead of the pack to score a goal.
Up to the left, behind us, everyone looked the same. There were far more parents from the elite school than in our section; their middle school soccer crew numbered 23 to our 13. It takes 11 to play, so we barely fielded that night. There would be no break for our players, few subs, no margin for injury. Our team had some overweight kids, short kids, kids who had never played before, even a kid with a leg brace who hobbled a bit, but kicked mightily with his good limb; theirs did not. Dads in their section wore ball caps from the University of Michigan and Notre Dame; moms were all thin, donning expensive athleisure. On our side were grandparents who were raising grandchildren, moms who looked too young to have an 8th grader and too old for the baby they were chasing, T-shirts with American flags, unattended adolescents with Kool aid dye jobs, adults with acne, crooked teeth, bald heads. In the end, our team lost 2:1, but I’d say it was a tie, noting that Norwood went up against 2 rosters worth of pre-teens that evening.
I felt a little self conscious, though not that much, removing my compression stockings with this crew seated behind me. My legs got really hot.
As life progresses and I age, I find myself more and more on this side of the bleachers. My own graying hair shows roots seemingly the day after I attend to them, my clothes are, at times, donations dropped off at Lydia’s House, albeit carefully curated by my fashion forward teenage daughter. Middle age has delivered to me wrinkles and sagging eyes. As of today I have a small dent and 4 inch scar in my right breast. The imperfections are showing, and growing, with no plans for being fixed. My boys run around in our mixed income neighborhood, hosting too-frequent lemonade stands with sons of foremen and dental assistants and nursing aides, kids who get themselves up each weekday because the parents’ shift starts at 7am. Annie matriculated to high school with more kids who were born in Central America than kids who look like her. I’m not sure what parents at the elite school talk about but I’m guessing vacations and children’s activities and being too busy. Because of the families in our circle, I sometimes chat with parents about heroin recovery or how English is progressing. Honestly, these conversations are more interesting for me. Probably our family’s best experience of the summer was not the carefully planned trip to Europe that cost a fortune, but a weekend of camping with the guests and volunteers of Lydia’s House, where our autistic 8 year old suite mate walked around beating sticks together and squealing gleefully for rides in the golf cart.
Jesus warned us not to take the best seat at banquet tables, but to take the humble seat, and then perhaps we’d be invited up. Sometimes an upward invitation feels good, like when we were offered a friend’s lake house in August, and got to use a speedboat we personally can’t afford. But mostly, I think, Jesus also asked us to take the lesser seats because he knew it was the better time. It’s at the table on the edge of the party that the conversation is more lively, the companions more loyal, the food more soulful. He wanted his disciples to experience abundant life, so he gave them an insider tip on a lesser known premium product: “Not there,” I can imagine him pointing, “but over there, in the bleachers with the Salvadorans. They cheer louder, run onto the field when the game ends, and love fiercely. You don’t want to miss out on that.”
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