Please understand I’m not recommending it. Suffering is involved here: when you learn that the lump you’ve been trying to ignore is a malignancy and if you find yourself disfigured in a way that makes you think no man will find you attractive.
And yet—cancer made me smarter. About doctors, for example. I now know how to separate personality from skill. In a perfect world, doctors are both nice and competent. But that isn’t necessarily so.
I came to understand that friends who avoided me weren’t being mean; they were just clueless about what to say. (The thing to say is “How are you?” and if the person wants to talk about it, she will.)
Meanwhile, most people are so kind when you’re down, it makes me teary just thinking about it. And they bring food! I loved that! And they tell you how brave and terrific you are, even if you aren’t.
Cancer improved my taste in men. I used to gravitate toward not-so-nice guys. Now that I had been roughed up by life, I wanted kindness big-time. My first husband wasn’t a swine, but he wasn’t the sweetie I now required. I found one, by the way, to whom I’ve been married for 28 years.
Breast reconstruction is awesome. I’ve got saline implants that are like two little water beds. They stay up by themselves, which means no sagging breasts and, better still, no bra! My friends are jealous.
The biggest plus is gratitude. You had a deadly disease, but you didn’t die. Sure, gratitude takes a dip now and then when the plumber doesn’t show or your car conks out, but then it returns. Like the sun.


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