Sitting in the plastic surgeon's office waiting for a consultation on an unusually busy day, I was struck by the diversity of women I knew were there, because they had breast cancer. When I mentioned that I noticed he had a number of women that were seeing him today related to their reconstruction surgery, he at first was a little taken aback, maybe he was worried he was violating HIPPA laws, but after thinking about it he said, "yeah, you can kind of tell can't you?" I am, if nothing else, observant. Five years of supporting my mom and I know what cancer looks like. But I also know what I need new bigger breast looks like versus, this is just part of my process to save my life. I know what tired and worn out look like. I know what I'm not giving up looks like too though.
As I watched the women, I wondered what their stories were, not just their cancer story, but their life story. "How did you get here?" "What other battles are you fighting?" I wondered as I looked at the women who ranged in age, race and ethnicity. White women get breast cancer more often than other races, but African American women are more likely to die from breast Cancer. But in that waiting room, there was no discrimination by the disease. There were immigrants both European and Latin American. There were women who worked and women with flexible schedules. There were suburbanites and city dwellers. I wanted to hug them all and remind them that they are warriors. In the end I decided against it, because well that would just make me a weirdo. But as I continue on my journey of love, I'm collecting mental snapshots in the waiting rooms. I will take their many faces with me. I will make silent prayers and give silent warm wishes. And maybe someday, I will hear their survival stories, but for now I will be a witness from the waiting room.
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