“HEY DOC! EYES UP HERE!!” The impossibly young-looking head of plastic surgery was laser-focused on my breasts, black Sharpie poised — ready to mark his targets.
I figured a little levity could ease the tension in the pre-op bay.
Then my mom stepped in — bless her heart — and exclaimed, “Oh my God, you ARE Doogie Houser!”
Yep. That’s my mama! Right on cue! I might have blushed, except I was sitting on the edge of the bed, torso exposed for all to draw on, discuss, contemplate. Maybe my stepdad was even in there. I didn’t care. I was at a place where embarrassment doesn’t exist. And where humor should be essential.
Because I thought, what’s the alternative?
The day didn’t start out so lighthearted. That morning, April 18, 2006, before we headed to the hospital for my double mastectomy, mortality was pretty much the only thing on my mind. My anxious folks were at my apartment waiting to go to the hospital with me, just staring at me, with … Fear? Pity? I had to step away to take the trash out … And to cry one more time without anyone else seeing my fear.
My mortal fear.
Mortality is a word I probably never used before 2006. But that’s what cancer does to you. It’s not always a death sentence. But it sure makes you think …
And then, thanks to that little walk to the dumpster, something shifted. I accepted my fate — and my mortality. I didn’t know what would happen next, but I knew I’d made the right choice. I’d done the research. I felt powerful in my knowledge.
And, I told myself, I’d lived a full and exciting 48 years already. If I were to lose this cancer battle, I would accept that fate, too. The only thing left undone was raising our 13-year-old son. But I had faith in his dad.
Just like the faith I was putting in those doctors.
That was 20 years ago today. I’m celebrating my two decades as a Breast Cancer Warrior by participating in Making Strides Against Breast Cancer. Please join me! Walk with me in October, and/or donate. https://secure.acsevents.org/goto/lesliegospill
Good News Is Gospill 