Several weeks ago, a friend reached out and used the word I have come to despise.
Cancer.
I read a bit more of what was written, and I set the phone down, screen still bright. I was in a place packed with noise and strangers. A place I had visited only once before. A place where a path was not always apparent. The one thing in this large room that was a constant to me was my sister.
I had been silent for a few minutes, as we were both checking our phones and grabbing handheld lunches. My quiet must have touched her as different, as she asked, “What is it?”
I said, “Cancer.”
She knew it wasn’t a cancer of my own, and she knew to say little and to briefly touch my shoulder.
I typed back. And forth. Five minutes passed, and then I turned to Casey and said, “I am going to cry, and then I will be ready to move on.”
After I had swiftly soaked the paper napkin and quickly dried my eyes – which she commented as “just like you” – and we started walking again, I looked up and saw this:
The beauty of this architecture – in a facility that holds little like this – spoke to me. My friend sees beauty in the littlest things: the curve of a teacup handle, the cut of a stone, the nap of a fabric, the drape of a gown.
This littlest bit of beauty told me, “It will be fine. She will be fine.”
I know exactly where I was all five times cancer has messed with my tribe on its first incursion into their bodies. Exactly where I was and what I was looking at. Who I was with. I also remember vividly what caught my eye after each of those painful revelations, when the diagnosis became truth because breath had pushed the word cancer further into their world and, therefore, mine. What captivated me, as I walked away from the initial pain looking for answers and clarity, was beauty – a combination of man-made and nature’s own.
Beauty. Each time, thus far, it has been a calm that comes from seeing something with new eyes and in a new way. A tree in Loose Park. A fountain’s watery movement in my sister’s courtyard. A reflection in a puddle. My young son’s singular blonde curl.
I guess I don’t really look for the signs so much as they find me, guide me, and soothe me.
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I have been there with friends and then with myself. I am happy to say that I am a survivor! Be there for your friend, support your friend, love and pray for your friend. We all have strength that we don’t even know we have!
Take care and I’m thinking of you with prayers.
Diane:
I appreciate your reading our blogs and finding time to send a note.
I am doubly thrilled to hear about your living through and with cancer. Casey and I have shared a lot in our blogs about our time with others as they deal with their cancer. We are lucky women to have lived such rich and full lives.
Happy New Year!
– sloane
i wish your friend well sloane.
i held a friend close a year and a half ago, as she told me. that morning was very clear. we cried and joked as best we could. i held her hand as she passed this past december. she gave us a beauty that day, with sunshine and warmth, just as she was in person. my time with her is so deeply embedded.
P. Claire:
Holding our friends and family through anything is a power unto itself. I am sorry for your loss but the heavy heart you carry will guide you well.
You are a sweet woman to read our blogs, take time to send a note, and share a bit of your soul.
xoxo
– sloane