The day you find out you have breast cancer, you go and get a pedicure. An expensive pedicure. You pick out the most fabulous shade of pink and request an orange scrub and parifin wax. Because… cancer. Because you’re 30. And because you purchased two extremely cute bras just yesterday, and the irony hasn’t escaped you. Neither has the massive cry headache you’ve developed from crying, or the sudden lack in appetite. You’re also sitting present with the guilt of dragging those who love you through the pain; you hate that people weep for you.
You hate that you weep for yourself and have never wept for another survivor in your life. You’re ashamed for never seeing people as clearly as you do now, ashamed that it takes a diagnoses such as this to move you to earnest compassion. You’re appalled.
You laugh a little. Because “What?” You can’t fully process the crazy that has just been spoken and it truly does seem ridiculous. Because 30. Because you already have Sickle Cell Anemia Disease and how many more chronic disease can you possibly acquire?! So, you laugh because what else are you going to do? There are no more tears and your eyes are slightly raw from wiping them.
You tell your dog that you have cancer. He licks you in the mouth and looks away. You try again, this time providing him with more details, so that he may better understand and sympathize. You realize that you’re rehearsing just how you’re going to tell family, friends and loved ones. What’s the order of operations on news like the this? How much time should pass before you share? Surely someone has written a cancer etiquette book, a “how to tell family your boobs is failing” guidebook. You google it.
You obsess over which shoes to wear tomorrow to show off your pink breast cancer toes, although you have no intentions on telling anyone! You want the reminder for yourself, a privet constant message of survival and strength. (You have the urge to paint every wall in your home pink. ) After all how will you tell people? Who will you tell? How much pity will be reserved for you and how much of it can you possibly take? You purchase breast cancer warned magnets, bandannas and temporary tattoos. Seems like a requirement to own them.
The absurdity of it all surprisingly has you thankful to God. After all, when He does something of this magnitude, at this caliber of insanity, He clearly has a big amazing plan to match it. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else rings truer than this fact: my life is about to be AWESOME. I’m destined for a life so blessed that it will be foolishly envied. Why? Because…cancer. Because James 1:2.
“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”