We’ve swapped so many emails that I feel like I know her already. So when we meet each other for the first time at a café in a ritzy part of Washington D.C. The meeting almost seems anti-climactic.
Out of life’s lemons comes friendship. We can talk about the husband, the boyfriend, our work, and we can also ask questions like “So how quickly did your hair grow after chemo?” as casually as one might talk about the weather.
The sisterhood of breast cancer is on one hand awful (who wants to have cancer after all?), and also incredible. It is a reality that on many days life reverts to a norm, and there are other days when I am keen on connecting with other ladies like me.
The connection is crucial because on most days there aren’t too many folks to talk to about the realities of living with cancer - the fears of reoccurrence, the challenges of searching for a replacement breast surgeon and oncologist in a new city. On the most part it remains a lonely journey.
Cancer sometimes creeps into conversations and at times I remain oddly quiet about my own ordeal. A colleague mentions that a professor at the university died after her breast cancer returned “and kicked her in the ass.” The woman’s death was a sombre reminder that the disease is very real. I don’t know why I don’t chime in and say, “Oh I had breast cancer too.” Instead I shake my head and say “I’m so sorry to hear that.”