Not long ago you asked me why I still had that ugly ceramic bird. It had never occurred to me that you didn't realize its importance. That ugly ceramic tsotchke, a plump bird with peeling pink glitter, is sitting on a shelf in our bedroom, next to our wedding photo.
I love that bird for all it represents – I could never get rid of it.
I’d never seen you cry before, but you cried the day I told you I had breast cancer. You were twenty-eight, I was twenty-seven, and it caught us both by surprise. We were newly engaged, living together, and just starting our careers. Cancer was the farthest thing from our minds. We were young and seemingly healthy. We felt safe. We didn't think something like this could happen to us.
But it did.
I recognize that while I had no choice but to face cancer at twenty-seven, you had a choice. You could have left, but you didn't. It would have been easier to cut and run, but you stayed and supported me, even though I was overwhelmed, afraid, and very angry. I was angry at myself, angry at my breast, angry at life, and some days I was angry at you too.
You didn't yet know what my mutilated body would look like. You didn’t yet know if you would have to spend weeks comforting me as I vomited from the effects of chemotherapy. You didn’t yet know if you would be marrying a woman with no hair, or if you were on the verge of committing your life to someone who might not be able to give you children. You didn’t yet know if you would be a young widower, planning a funeral instead of a wedding.
Not really knowing what to do, you tried to keep a routine and you made sure we laughed every day, even if it was through tears. I never really knew what to ask of you during those weeks, but on the morning of my surgery, there was just one thing I needed.
Standing in that gift shop, filled with the fear of overwhelming obstacles for our future, you only knew that you had to find something horribly tacky. Something that would make me cringe and laugh no matter what my biopsy revealed. In the end you chose that ugly ceramic bird, and you held it with you while you sat in the visitor’s room and waited.
You didn't yet know that the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes and I would not need chemotherapy. You didn't yet know that at our wedding just three months later, I would be in the final stages of breast reconstruction. You didn't yet know we would soon be traveling the world together, or that we would eventually own a beautiful 100-year old yellow house with a blue wooden swing on the front porch. You didn’t yet know that someday we would sit in that swing, watching my belly grow.
You didn't yet know that in less than four years, we would be back in this same hospital meeting our baby boy for the first time. You didn’t yet know that my five year anniversary of being cancer-free would come and go without fanfare because our sweet little boy, with his budding vocabulary, mischievous smile, and sense of adventure would keep us too busy to realize the significance of the day.
Sitting in that waiting room, full of fear and confusion over what the future held for us, you only hoped that bird would make me laugh.
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