The Silver Lining

Several weeks ago, when I'd begun chemo, someone said this to me in a conversation about keratin hair straightening: "Maybe your hair will grow back straight. That would make it worth it." ‘It' was my cancer.

All the blood in my body rushed to my head.  "Not really," I said.

The person knew I was upset.  

"I'm just looking for a silver lining," she said apologetically.    

"If there is a silver lining that is definitely not it," I snapped.

I knew she'd meant well, but there is nothing good about having cancer — except coming out of it alive. Or receiving a 20 percent discount on already reduced merchandise at Lord & Taylor a day before the coupon start date because the cashier observed my head scarf and took pity.

So far, my cancer experience had been horrifying, life-hijacking and physically brutal. But maybe the commenter was on to something.  What she'd said got me thinking that perhaps I should lighten up a tad. Perhaps it isn't all bad. 

For instance, from day one of this medical nightmare friends and family and co-workers wrapped me in a cocoon of support and protection. They reminded me in a continuous stream of touching and inspiring phone calls, cards, emails and text messages that they cherish me.     

Strangers who'd survived breast cancer or who were still working their way through it shared their experiences to give me hope. People who knew about my diagnosis excused me for being rude, cranky and self-centered.  My children, 16, 14 and 11 mothered me. My husband Pete loved me.

And wasn't it nice that my dentist's office manager didn't skewer me for missing my teeth cleaning appointment shortly after my diagnosis?  She'd called to ask me — in a somewhat snarky manner – why I hadn't shown up, and I pulled the cancer card for the first time. She couldn't have been more compassionate and accommodating about a new appointment, which I greatly appreciated, especially given the necessity of having a good teeth cleaning before starting chemo.

Once I discovered the power of the cancer card, I shamelessly dealt it. I popped it on Pete after I bought a few pretty things for the house and when I wanted a glass of water at 2 a.m. I also employed it to secure a bargain Triple Play rate from Comcast (Listen, I'm allowed to be a little nervy … I have cancer).

Then there's my hair stylist Anthony, a prince, who invited me to his salon on a weeknight after hours to chop off my hair so I wouldn't be traumatized by it falling out in long clumps. He created an adorable pixie, buzzed my husband's head (think Smith Jarred in Sex and the City) and expertly styled three wigs he'd selected for me from a wig shop.

We were in his salon for hours. My girlfriend, Kathleen, had come along for moral support, bearing snacks and many 'do-rags. Anthony refused to take payment for the appointment. Plus, he practically gave me the wigs for free.

I guess I'd already found some silver lining (just forgot it — ya' know, chemo brain): Family and friends. Kindness. Community. Knowing that somehow I've managed to make people love me and think I'm special.  And maybe my hair will grow back thick and glorious, with a little less kink and a little less gray. That would be a bonus.