One Damaged Headlight

Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love

BY: Alice E. Muschany

Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.
~Victor Hugo


Three years into my marriage, I was diagnosed with Advanced Stage III breast cancer. From the beginning, my husband was there for me. He called for referrals, scheduled my appointments, and gave me extra tender, loving care. His gentle, quiet force wasn't just a nice guy act. He was my unsung hero, and I loved him deeply.


He drove me from one doctor's visit to another without complaining. He laughed and cried with me and was more faithful than Lassie. I don't know what I would have done without him.


After my second chemotherapy treatment, tiny little hairs began shedding all over, so he offered to shave my head. He buzzed the sides, and then stopped long enough to take a picture of my Mohawk before finishing the task.


He handed me a mirror and said, "Smile, Mr. T."


"Very funny."


Our song when we first started dating was Randy Travis's "Forever and Ever." The words couldn't have been more fitting: He sings about how he is not in love with her hair and if it fell out he'd love her anyway. And he did.


After six months of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor, the surgeon performed a partial mastectomy. Due to the huge bandage, I had no idea what my incision looked like.


On the way to the doctor to have the sutures removed, my husband read the troubled expression in my eyes. He'd assured me from the beginning that all that mattered was that I win the battle against cancer so we could grow old together. But now would he still feel the same way?


"Honey, don't worry," he said. "It's going to be fine."


When my name was called, he offered to go in with me. Not sure of my own reaction, I promised I'd be okay. The doctor unwound the last of the gauze, and I was shocked to see the damage to my breast.
But he seemed pleased with his handiwork and said, "It looks great."


Easy for him to say.


My husband jumped up when I walked in the waiting room and asked "Is everything alright?"


I nodded, but deep down, I worried about how he'd feel when he saw my body. We tried conversation, but silence worked best.
Back home, I ran for the privacy of our bedroom and took a good long look in the mirror. Quietly, my husband joined me and gave me a gentle hug. But when he looked down and started laughing, I was not amused.


"Honey, you remind me of my '55 Chevy."


"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.


"You've got one headlight pointing in the wrong direction."


Glancing down, I discovered he was right. Removing over a fourth of my breast had the effect of an upward lift -- one was pointing due north, and thanks to gravity, the other was headed south. His belly laugh filled the room. He explained that he and his brother had taken their old wrecked jalopy raccoon hunting. The damaged headlight shined up into the trees and assured a successful hunt.


He tried to keep a straight face, but a huge grin spread to the corners of his mouth. When I broke out in fits of giggles, he supported me in his arms and we laughed till it hurt.


When we finally stopped cackling, he said, "The hides are probably worth a lot more today."


Without skipping a beat, I said, "When are we going hunting?"


I was ready to move on with my life with my partner at my side.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/03/One-Damaged-Headlight.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter