Through the Looking Glass
Over the last week or so I got a taste of what it must have felt like for my friends to learn that I had breast cancer.
A dear friend of mine just went through a very scary medical emergency, which I found out about after receiving an unexpected message from her husband. All he said was that he was calling to talk to me about my pal.
My first reaction was to freak out, because although his tone wasn't ominous, it was highly unusual for him to be calling me.
My second reaction was to convince myself that he was calling about plans for her birthday, which is approaching. I actually kept this fantasy going for a pretty long time—long enough for me to call him, leave a message, and wait for him to call me back.
As soon as I heard from him, I went right back to freaking out—inside, anyway. I stayed remarkably calm while I spoke to him, mainly because I knew that's what he needed me to do—and I knew that because of the people who stayed calm when Zach or I told them about my first diagnosis back in 2001 and my second in late 2005.
I continued to simultaneously freak out and remain calm for the next five days, until my friend's name flashed at me from my cell phone's caller-ID screen and I finally heard her voice.
Those were five long days of fear and helplessness, which I realize must be what our friends felt after hearing our scary news and having no choice but to wait for further word.
A few days later, my dear friend called again with the best possible update: she's OK, she's expected to make a full recovery, and there's every reason to believe that she will be perfectly fine forevermore.
So now I also know what it feels like to release a long-held emotional breath, to uncross one's figurative fingers, and to feel the whoosh of metaphorical air as a just-dodged bullet whizzes by.
A dear friend of mine just went through a very scary medical emergency, which I found out about after receiving an unexpected message from her husband. All he said was that he was calling to talk to me about my pal.
My first reaction was to freak out, because although his tone wasn't ominous, it was highly unusual for him to be calling me.
My second reaction was to convince myself that he was calling about plans for her birthday, which is approaching. I actually kept this fantasy going for a pretty long time—long enough for me to call him, leave a message, and wait for him to call me back.
As soon as I heard from him, I went right back to freaking out—inside, anyway. I stayed remarkably calm while I spoke to him, mainly because I knew that's what he needed me to do—and I knew that because of the people who stayed calm when Zach or I told them about my first diagnosis back in 2001 and my second in late 2005.
I continued to simultaneously freak out and remain calm for the next five days, until my friend's name flashed at me from my cell phone's caller-ID screen and I finally heard her voice.
Those were five long days of fear and helplessness, which I realize must be what our friends felt after hearing our scary news and having no choice but to wait for further word.
A few days later, my dear friend called again with the best possible update: she's OK, she's expected to make a full recovery, and there's every reason to believe that she will be perfectly fine forevermore.
So now I also know what it feels like to release a long-held emotional breath, to uncross one's figurative fingers, and to feel the whoosh of metaphorical air as a just-dodged bullet whizzes by.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 9:59 PM
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