If
I met Sheri’s cancer on the street I would spit in its face. I would go all Quentin Tarantino and the revenge would be epic. We’re talking Samuel
L.Jackson
and Uma Thurman and Brad Pitt and Jamie Foxx all rolled into one big ball of smack
down. It would beg for mercy but I would
not be swayed. (Souuunnnd guud, inglorious bastard? Yeah, CRAZY good.)
If
I passed Sheri’s cancer on the highway I would gun it to about 200 miles an
hour, cross over the lines in full traffic and slam on my brakes right in front
of that loser. I would eject out of my
sun roof right before the fiery crash, the big C reduced to a million shards of
shattering glass and twisted metal just as I land safely at the Dean and Deluca wine bar to buy Sheri a
glass of red. We would toast the amazing
sunset that had “somehow” appeared in the distance, the blazing yellows and
oranges lighting the sky over the Brookshire Freeway.
If
I was sitting next to Sheri’s cancer on an airplane I would notify the
undercover Homeland Security officer that there was a known terrorist in seat
11C, and I would help open the twist and toss side doors (as I earlier agreed
to do when approached by the diligent flight attendant checking my readiness to
assist with the emergency exit aisle.
Lady, I am so ready I am about to burst . . . you have no idea) and toss that psycho out
into the rolling Atlantic, right into a bevy
of swirling sharks. Ooops. So sorry about that. NOT!
OK, earth to Bess. Please back away from the keyboard. Goodness!
Please don't let my temper tantrum alarm you. Sheri is doing great -- there is not anything of note to warrant my outburst. I just had a flash of fury on behalf of my friend, and well, I decided to share it with you. Maybe you have felt this way, too.
When
someone you love has cancer, you may feel powerless as you watch her fight and
struggle, and recognize that she must bear such substantial physical and
emotional challenges all alone. When you see
someone you care for hurting it can make you really, really mad.
But
that energy coursing through your veins may prompt you to focus on trying to
help – and maybe you do help, in ways
that feel small . . . but that somehow, all
knit together with the efforts of others in your community of concern, grows
into a blanket of support that covers the rough spots and offers some
comfort. As it turns out, love can be
transformed into something tangible – food at the doorstep, flowers in the yard,
cards that bring laughter, words of hope.
When
I talked to Sheri earlier this week she felt OK -- and sounded great.
The harsher carbo does make her feel tired and “blah,” but she says it’s
still a million times better than the first difficult treatment. Somehow we got to talking about the positive things
that come from cancer – a topic that Sheri introduced to my amazement. She talked about all the ways that she felt good
– maybe better than before. She talked
about her superstar family, how everyone had figured out how this was all going
to work: when someone had to go another relative would come to lend a hand, ensuring that the help was seamless. She talked about how much she appreciated all
of the support from friends: being there for her, helping with food, picking up
the kids, checking in. She said that all
of that effort underscoring her fight was an amazing gift – that with all of
this, all she had to do was concentrate on getting better. All. Just battle the cancer
part. Still, I did understand what she
was saying.
Her
glad words and infectious laugh inspire me and make me think perhaps that awesome
quote from Marianne Williamson just might be true: “A miracle is just a change
in perception.”
(Still,
if I saw Sheri’s cancer lounging on the sidewalk, I’d squash it flat like a
bug.)
~Bess
