When Breast Cancer Attacks My Friend (Needless to say, I've got a lot on my mind)

There are three types of phone calls I've dreaded getting in my life. One: Your mother is in a coma (which really did happen). Two: The test results are back (this has happened, too). Three: Kelly, I have breast cancer. I got the third call this week while I was busy re-painting my kitchen and juggling three other home improvement projects while Dr. Thyme (DH has requested to be called "Dr." vs. "Mr." from now on) was away on business. With paint covering my arms, hair, hands and clothes, the phone rang about eight the other night. I usually keep my ringer off, I just hate talking on the phone and REALLY hate tele-marketers (and now the annoying robo-calls with elections right around the corner)--I simply avoid the area where the phone sits as much as possible. But this call was one of our best friends. She is someone who was part of my husband's life, pre-Kelly, whom I have come to know and love and hold as dear as I do my sister and my only other three best friends in my life. It's unusual for her to call. She knows of my phone disdain. But I saw it was her calling so I answered. Given the hour (it was late in the evening by my standard) and the tone in her voice, I knew immediately something was wrong. So I just dove right in, Is everything alright? "Well, not really. I have breast cancer." That was it. The third phone call I had dreaded. I was stunned. Silent for a moment. But stunned. Then said WTF, and all kinds of other non-sensical things, finally stopping and asked her what I could do for her. She said, Can I come over for dinner?--and right then I knew I would be able to help through food.


Our friend is in the "Almost Sixty" age group--so a bit older than me. She has three lovely daughters. She is a hairdresser. She is one of the most spiritual people I know. She is a no B.S. kind of woman. We don't see eye-to-eye on everything. Politics for one. But we don't hold that against each other. Ironically, she participates every year in the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer walk. I have strong feelings about this "fundraiser" and all its well-intended "cause" mission worthiness.( I may be in hot water for stating this in a post about a friend who's just been given The Diagnosis. But this is my blog, and I am documenting my life, with it comes some of my opinions.) In the early days, I believed the SGK walk was a super idea, well-meaning, full of this spirit-of-survival and a cure-driven mission, feel-good stuff. That was like ten years ago. Today, however, I think it exploits the disease while lining the pockets of its many "executives" whose compensation and effect I am quite skeptical of. She and I have debated the SGK merit many times. But walk she does, religiously. Every. Year. She is a Tai Chi instructor, too. So she brings all this "Om" and centeredness with her wherever she goes and has earned the nickname Mother Earth from me. (I am very jealous of this because while I have tried the "Om" in my life, I am just too manic one minute and too depressed the next to ever be all "Om-ish".) She is solid as a rock for the most part. I've always admired that about her. Plus anyone that could remain in my husband's good graces for as long as she has has certainly earned the right to at least play some role in my life.

Here's what I know about breast cancer: Pink. Bald. Pink. Chemo. Pink. Loss. It's every woman's greatest fear. We have no way of knowing when or if this little demon will strike. Well, family history bears some indication. But for a person like me--mother adopted, now deceased, father sort of "gone" too, and with it all of his history, I don't get that "benefit" of knowing much of anything that might strike me--sort of a blank slate in terms of "predisposed to getting". . . I am petrified of it. So, after my litany of nonsense responses to my friend, I finally asked how she found out. She said through self examination. Whoa. This blew me away. I could not fathom this moment. This question of, What in the world is THAT? going through my head. The inevitable? being the possible and most likely answer. And it was. The doctors and medical community scooped her up and began a week of very aggressive line-of-defense action--so scripted and so organized--the way she shared it with me, it was like listening to someone from a war explaining an attack strategy. Which is what I suppose should happen. The speed at which they are attending to this as she related it all was impressive, but also very scary. Is the speed and attentiveness owing to its "stage"? And of course I asked this question: What stage are you in? Well, that will be told in the coming weeks as she has her chemo port installed this week and all sorts of analysis and continued diagnosis takes place. I am here for you is all I kept saying.

I have a hard time with sickness of any kind. Even when it is me as "the patient". Talk about "snap out of it already" attitude. I have a history of mother issues that have left me in my adult life a bit of a "Don't worry, I'll (You'll) be fine" sort of person. My natural inclination to any "illness" is: Hope you get better soon. And then wait. For the "get better soon" to happen. I am not heartless--I'm just not wired in that "Oh you poor thing" way is all. There is a reason I didn't go into nursing.

And so, the three of us had dinner last night. I was just a bundle of, What the heck should I do? Cry? Hold her hand? Ask more questions? What do I do?! I spent eight hours cooking a multi-faceted Indian-themed dinner with all the fixins. I had two slow cookers cranking by eleven, all four burners on the stove heating, and pie and bread in the oven--I baked her some bread to take home. I was just wrapping up dinner prep when she arrived about six-thirty. This after she had worked a full day at the hair salon. I don't know how she does it. The last thing I would want to do as a hairdresser knowing the fate of my own hair is help someone else with their hair. (But that's me. Again. . . I have issues.) So here we all were. Well, now what?

With Dr.Thyme in your life, with his science background, with his amazingly high IQ--his role in this will be to help our friend glean from these multi-syllable words what in the world is really going on in the labs and doctor-speak notes. So she came ready with her testing information and documents for my husband to help navigate. And of course, he made a few astute observations and suggested recommendations for her to take back and ask her doctors about. If nothing else, this gave her comfort and a bit more confidence. All I could give was dinner and apple pie.

In all honesty, I told my friend, You know I am not good at "sickness" and I would not be the "Oh you poor thing" kind of friend. I could be the food healer. I could be comedy relief. I could be the friend that is angry. I could be the one who keeps it "real" but not in a hand-wringing sort of way. She said the best thing I think she could have said to me after my whole diatribe on my ability to cope: That is exactly what I would want and need from you, Kelly.

This disease is not about me. It's about her. It's about the unknown. It's about the miracle of medicine and the madness of medicine. It's about praying every night for all of the people I love in my life having health. It's about this: There but for the grace of God go I moment.