“Did you have a port?”
The Starbucks barista touched her right upper chest, and I followed suit, momentarily unsure what she meant. Then BAM! Instantly, I understood her words while simultaneously realizing, for the first time in 20 years, I didn’t remember where my own chemotherapy port had been.
It was on my right side, too, when I looked down to check. I was wearing a tank top. And, faint as a 20-year-old scar on a senior citizen’s sun-baked chest could possibly be, it drew Christine’s attention like a beacon.
“My goodness!” I said. “Thank you for noticing!” For anyone else, that might’ve been a weird response. But I said it with the kind of smile reserved for sister warriors. It was time to share war stories.
I touched my own scar. “This was 20 years ago—and MAN! was it annoying! … What’s your story?”
My beautiful bald barista, shining brightly in the middle of the Arizona desert, told me she was just 2 years out. And boy-o, her battle was one hell of a ride. Diagnosed with “triple-everything,” she endured chemo that messed up her blood so badly she required transfusions, and later, lots and lots of radiation. Still bald? Yeah, she had contracted alopecia a few years earlier when her daughter died.
While prepping my iced chai latte, she related words like “neutropenia,” “lipids,” “platelets,” and rattled off blood counts and up-and-down weeks and days.
I listened, remembered ALL that important data I’d finally, surprisingly, forgotten, and shared deep gratitude with her that we’d each won our battles.
See that amazing smile? That’s real joy. That’s someone who’s faced more challenges than you can imagine. And continues to fight; to come out smiling.
Here’s to Cristine M., at the Kingman Safeway Starbucks. One hell of a warrior! 💕
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