The day the doctor called to tell me that the lump I had found in my right breast was cancer, I thanked her. Isn't that crazy? She said, " I am so sorry, "Okay, thank you." and I hung up. And the world fell apart. The next several months were a horrific whirlwind of doctors and surgeries and medicine and needles and sickness. I got gifts from people I'd never met. Blankets and bracelettes and books and cards. I got a box of cookies from a friend that had cost $25 to mail! Are you nuts? My first gift was from one of the nurses who had done my MRI guided biopsy. Her name was, and I'm not making this up, Nurse Jolly. She had told me to hold her hand if it hurt. She said, "Does it hurt, 'cause you're squeezin' my hand kind of tight..." I had blood down the front of my gown when I walked past my sister who waited for me. Nurse Jolly gave me a pink teddy bear. I hated that damn bear! I told my sister that I was scared. She said, " I know you are, honey." My sister is not one for endearments, so I know she was scared, too. We both cried in the car, albeit briefly, which solidified our sisterhood.
It's funny how thinking about running and breathing brings it all up again. It is always a part of me. The crazy gifts, (apparently cancer is the ultimate gift giving occassion...) the other bald pink women in the chemo room, the wires protruding from my chest surrounding my tumor on surgery day, the weird sharpie map drawn on my chest and breast for the radiation...it is all a part of me, now. Anyone who says cancer doesn't define them is lying. It absolutely defined me. It brought everything into critical sharp focus. Once you have the guy with the black hood and the scicle knock on your door, you are never the same. Mortality. It's for the birds, but it is a part of all of us. Just like cancer will always be a part of me.
And so I will run. Because the hooded dude is just going to have to wait just a little while for me. One day, I may run straight into his arms. But it won't be one day very soon.