Dear New Friend
I saw you in the elevator. You and your husband were holding hands as you watched the floors pass you by.
Floor 9 came really quickly as you walked off and turned left.
You scanned the room to see if anyone else was watching you. You didn't want them to see you staring back at them but you couldn't turn away either.
You were them now.
You held out your wrist as the administrator put the ID band on then took a seat to wait.
I know you're terrified. I know you cannot believe that you are now them. You hold back the tears as you see a woman clutching her bag as she leaves the lab with her bald head exposed. You want to throw up at the thought that in months; this will be you.
The fact that the waiting room is filled with women of all ages makes you contemplate your life.
You think about your husband's colleague who lost her life at the age of 35. Your high school friend, your camp friend, the woman from your town. You wonder how breast cancer became an epidemic. You wonder how you got here.
The scar along your newly removed breast is bothering you. It's itching and you are uncomfortable. You search your husband's eyes wondering if he is also wondering how he got here. For better or worse. Through sickness and through health. You squeeze his hand and think of your mother saying how lucky you are to have him by your side. You know this.
You cannot believe you now have an oncologist in your life. You will be assigned a radiation oncologist down the line. And meet with your plastic surgeon to discuss your new breast.
No one talks in the 9th floor waiting room. If you catch someone's eye you quickly turn away. Or offer a warm smile. Everyone is respectful. Everyone is quiet. Everyone is welcoming you to the 9th floor. You want to make a beeline for the door.
But you're one of us now.
“Some people never find it
Some only pretend
But I just want to live
Happily ever after, now and then” #buffettknowsall
I saw you in the elevator. You and your husband were holding hands as you watched the floors pass you by.
Floor 9 came really quickly as you walked off and turned left.
You scanned the room to see if anyone else was watching you. You didn't want them to see you staring back at them but you couldn't turn away either.
You were them now.
You held out your wrist as the administrator put the ID band on then took a seat to wait.
I know you're terrified. I know you cannot believe that you are now them. You hold back the tears as you see a woman clutching her bag as she leaves the lab with her bald head exposed. You want to throw up at the thought that in months; this will be you.
The fact that the waiting room is filled with women of all ages makes you contemplate your life.
You think about your husband's colleague who lost her life at the age of 35. Your high school friend, your camp friend, the woman from your town. You wonder how breast cancer became an epidemic. You wonder how you got here.
The scar along your newly removed breast is bothering you. It's itching and you are uncomfortable. You search your husband's eyes wondering if he is also wondering how he got here. For better or worse. Through sickness and through health. You squeeze his hand and think of your mother saying how lucky you are to have him by your side. You know this.
You cannot believe you now have an oncologist in your life. You will be assigned a radiation oncologist down the line. And meet with your plastic surgeon to discuss your new breast.
No one talks in the 9th floor waiting room. If you catch someone's eye you quickly turn away. Or offer a warm smile. Everyone is respectful. Everyone is quiet. Everyone is welcoming you to the 9th floor. You want to make a beeline for the door.
But you're one of us now.
“Some people never find it
Some only pretend
But I just want to live
Happily ever after, now and then” #buffettknowsall
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