Editor’s Note: Warning The following article contains graphic images.
He created this project Eleonora Ghioldidescribing her experiences during breast cancer treatment.
“We have been sad long enough for this land to either weep or become fertile.”
— Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals
“Breast cancer is the leading cause of cancer death in women, causing 685,000 deaths per year worldwide,” I read. “In Argentina, it is estimated that 1 in 8 women who reach the age of 80 will develop the disease at some point in their lives.” The number is shocking, but it is still just one more piece of information compared to the passage of the disease through the body.
I had cancer, yes. It’s still hard for me to describe how it feels.
Suddenly the world has an expiration date. The first advances. Failures. Fear of not being there for my children. A look into the past, a connection in time with those who once preceded us in this pain.
Connect — (re)connect — with the body. When you look in the mirror, you find yourself scarred (or not). Western medicine in general and oncology in particular often become labyrinthine paths for most people. This directly affects the decisions we make about our bodies and desires.
The word doctor (that is, in the masculine gender) becomes unique and indecipherable. Satisfied with patriarchal mandates, rushing to get everything back on track, to erase gaps and traces, the medical corporation has returned the body to the path of hegemonic desire. There is a blanket of silence, sometimes with a gesture of regret, sometimes with the taboo of cancer. “Not being noticed” becomes a pressure on bodies receiving cancer treatment, often focusing on beauty demands that have little to do with health.
There is also the struggle that always gives us meaning in the face of so much pain. When we talk about breast cancer prevention, we talk about being able to touch ourselves, knowing how, breaking the mandate imposed on us from childhood that says, “Girls don’t touch their own bodies – that’s wrong.” Prevention is also autonomy. over your own body.
No two cancer journeys are the same, every woman is different. This was mine. My ground for reality was photographing my days; every moment in the hospital was to be documented. Secret, stolen images. That they shouldn’t exist, like my cancer, but they do, they’re real.
Cancer changed my life, photography saved me.
For more Eleonora’s projectsvisit her social networks.
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