Dorita did not want to go out, I was insisting her, in addition the neighbors were asking. "What did happen to Dorita? I haven´t seen her for such a lot of time, why are you in her department? ". She was sad, very sad, she was saying to myself that if they saw her they were going to say with suspicious face: " this one has ’it’, is going to die, she lacks little " and she did not have desire of listening to these flocks of idiots.
Dorita had breast´s cancer, the tumor was extirpated but to the people does not like to hear these words because they are apparent synonymous of death. The language, at the time, has to mask the unmentionable thing, instead of cancer, "she has it", instead of tumor "small nodule". I was so worried that I gave her a book, "Illness as metaphor" of Susan Sontag. The authoress analyzes the halo of mystery and danger on the cancer and it been relating with the psychosis that in past times was awarding to the tuberculosis.
When I gave the book to Dorita she remained perplex, like scared and looked at me surprised saying: " The book is for me? ", I agreed with my head and her look remained like lost, looking for the window.
The psychosis of the neighbors was what Dorita at the time was not supporting I thought that probably the book was going to serve her. Even many of her friends had had cancer but none was encouraging to name it, this it was Ramos Mejía's new cuckoo. The silence was the problem, how could she share the pain that was feeling? Dorita needed someone to speak with her about the wigs, about the handkerchiefs (occulting the peeled head), about the "fever of vomits in the night ", about the fear, about the distress.
The cancer was of others, never of one and the confinement she was in contribute to this fiction - Soothing of consciences-. Every time I was endearing more with her, I was spending days in her home. This night when I went away there was the neighbor of "a" apartment looking out of the door and looking for in, he asked me: " how is Dorita? " I remained immobile, looked for in and Dorita was doing desperate signs in order that I close the door, I was afraid that he could see her. My inconvenient response was "well, well " and my mind imagined Dorita going out, showing without modesties this peeled head.
Dorita had breast´s cancer, the tumor was extirpated but to the people does not like to hear these words because they are apparent synonymous of death. The language, at the time, has to mask the unmentionable thing, instead of cancer, "she has it", instead of tumor "small nodule". I was so worried that I gave her a book, "Illness as metaphor" of Susan Sontag. The authoress analyzes the halo of mystery and danger on the cancer and it been relating with the psychosis that in past times was awarding to the tuberculosis.
When I gave the book to Dorita she remained perplex, like scared and looked at me surprised saying: " The book is for me? ", I agreed with my head and her look remained like lost, looking for the window.
The psychosis of the neighbors was what Dorita at the time was not supporting I thought that probably the book was going to serve her. Even many of her friends had had cancer but none was encouraging to name it, this it was Ramos Mejía's new cuckoo. The silence was the problem, how could she share the pain that was feeling? Dorita needed someone to speak with her about the wigs, about the handkerchiefs (occulting the peeled head), about the "fever of vomits in the night ", about the fear, about the distress.
The cancer was of others, never of one and the confinement she was in contribute to this fiction - Soothing of consciences-. Every time I was endearing more with her, I was spending days in her home. This night when I went away there was the neighbor of "a" apartment looking out of the door and looking for in, he asked me: " how is Dorita? " I remained immobile, looked for in and Dorita was doing desperate signs in order that I close the door, I was afraid that he could see her. My inconvenient response was "well, well " and my mind imagined Dorita going out, showing without modesties this peeled head.
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