“Lucky Me!”

“LUCKY ME!” was the subject line on an email I sent to all coworkers on my floor in 2006.

Twenty years ago…

I had breast cancer. And my journey to fight it was about to begin. I wanted to explain my upcoming absence and what my level of participation at work might look like over the next several months.

I guess I also wanted to put a face to this widespread disease. To be transparent about a mortal illness — to experience it, and to share it with others.

Once I got over the surprise diagnosis and prepared for surgery and treatment, I wasn’t all that afraid. In fact, I considered myself lucky — and said so. In the panoply of amazing personal experiences throughout my then-48 years on earth, this was a new one. And like so many of those other experiences, as a writer and documentarian of life, I knew this was going to be an interesting journey — one I wanted to share with as many people as I could. Because breast cancer is scary for many. And it’s everywhere.

What I didn’t expect was how many of those colleagues didn’t just write back, but came by my desk to talk. About their experiences, that is — their mothers’, in particular. I was older than most of them, but not as old as their parents — so maybe my illness felt more tangible, close enough to reach out and touch. They had varying levels of experience with their mothers’ journeys, but now they had a colleague nearby they could relate to, or relate with.

How I appreciated that. I became strangely grateful for the unintended result of becoming a walking billboard for breast cancer. As chemo started, my bald head — apparently it was perfectly round — shone like a beacon, drawing people to me who wanted to tell me their own stories. They needed to unload a burden onto someone who got it.

At the mall. The grocery store. Wherever I went, we were suddenly in this heinous predicament together. And I was so glad to be the one who could listen, who could be present for them. Some of their mothers had never told them about their illness until it was too late — heartbreaking, but understandable-ish, too. When your own child is just starting their life, maybe you don’t want yours to feel like it’s on hold. One friend wanted every detail — he hadn’t been there for his mother, on the other side of the continent, when he was in grad school. A complete stranger, a retired British rocker, broke down in the middle of a grocery store aisle, telling me how much he still grieved his sister, gone now, an ocean away.

So I was there for them. It cost me something, some days — to be the person everyone unburdened themselves to, on top of everything my own body was doing. But it also gave me something: a strange, steady sense of purpose on the days I needed it most.

And they were there for me, too. Coworkers scheduled happy hours for the one week I was at my healthiest during each chemo cycle, so I wouldn’t miss out.

Twenty years later, I’m still turning that word over: “lucky.” Lucky to have had friends and colleagues who showed up like that. Lucky to have made the decisions I made. Lucky, especially, to still be here to write about it.

And to keep raising funds for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer. Can you join me? Give, join our team, share a story: https://secure.acsevents.org/goto/lesliegospill