By Connie K. Pombo
My husband gazed into my eyes and whispered, "I love you more today than when I first met you!"
Tears moistened my cheeks as Mark, my husband of 20 years, held me in a tight embrace. We had just finished watching a movie about a woman who had faced breast cancer and ultimately decided on a double mastectomy to reduce her chance of recurrence. Tears flowed freely as I recalled the scene when her husband carefully unwrapped the bandages from her chest. His eyes never left hers until she asked, "How does it look?" He glanced down — without flinching — and responded, "It doesn't look bad at all." And then he kissed her softly on the cheek.
I cried — no, sobbed — as I imagined myself in the same scene. Would I be that brave? And what about our marriage — would it survive or crumble under the uncertainty that a cancer diagnosis brings?
Breast cancer was my worst fear. My mom had been diagnosed five years earlier and I had put off a mammogram for fear of what they might find. I was 40 years old and in the best shape of my life, but I knew that was no guarantee of being cancer free.
I felt Mark's strong arms surround me as he whispered, "It's only a movie; now... go to sleep." I clicked the off button on the remote and let it drop to the floor. As I lay alone with my thoughts, I couldn't help but think, "What if..."
What I didn't know — what I possibly couldn't comprehend — was a year to the day after we saw that movie, I was told the words no woman wants to hear: "you have breast cancer." I had to make the agonizing decision between lumpectomy or mastectomy, and at one point the surgeon discussed the option of double mastectomy. I begged — no pleaded — with the doctors to tell me what to do. I even pulled out the trump card and asked, "But what if it was your wife, what would you tell her to do?"
Silence.
Not even my husband wanted to be responsible for the outcome of my decision. His answer was always the same. He kissed me lightly on the forehead and said, "I love you, and I know that you'll make the right decision."
A week before my surgery, I made a trip to the mall to "think and shop"; it was my own form of retail therapy. When I passed by the lingerie store with mannequins scantily clad in black lace bras, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. As I watched women leaving the store, swinging their pink and white striped bags with no care in the world, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of anger. "Why me? Why now?" And then, I took a deep breath and stepped inside the store where a young sales associate greeted me. Wearing a warm smile, she asked, "Can I help you look for something in particular?"
My tear-stained cheeks couldn't be hidden any longer — all traces of make-up were gone!
"Would you like to check out our new line of make-up?" she prompted.
I nodded my head "no" and then... "YES!"
She whisked me past the bras and headed for the cosmetic counter where I sat in a plush pink make-up chair, trying on several different shades of lipstick.
"I'll take that one," I said, pointing to a pink tube labeled, "Kiss and Tell."
"It's a great shade," she explained, as she put a dab on her hand to demonstrate its iridescent shine.
"I'll take everything you have in that color!" I said emphatically.
A strange look spread across the sale associate's face. "Umm, well... okay," she responded hesitantly. "Let me see what we have in the stockroom," she added, without asking more questions.
I waited... hoping that I had enough money in our checking account to cover the frivolous purchase. Breast cancer was not cheap! We had already dipped into our savings to pay for my biopsy and more bills were arriving each day.
When the sales associate returned, she was carrying 15 tubes of "Kiss and Tell" lipstick. "This is all we have," she explained, holding out her hands.
"That's fine. I'll take all of them," I said with a smile. The associate grinned, not understanding, and asked if there was anything else I needed.
"No, this is perfect. Thank you," I replied.
I walked out of the store swinging my bag with its pink and white stripes, holding my head just a little bit higher, and allowing the tears to wash into a smile.
The following week, the same bag accompanied me to the hospital for my partial mastectomy. When I woke up after surgery, the very first thing I put on was my "Kiss and Tell" lipstick.
I felt beautiful.
It's been 15 years since I first heard the words "you have breast cancer" and 15 lipstick tubes longer than I ever expected to live! When I go to bed each night, I cuddle next to my husband and ask the same thing: "Kiss me and tell me how much you love me."
My husband holds me tightly against his chest, kisses me lightly on the lips, and whispers, "I love you so much more than I did 15 years ago."
And that's all I need to hear!
My husband gazed into my eyes and whispered, "I love you more today than when I first met you!"
Tears moistened my cheeks as Mark, my husband of 20 years, held me in a tight embrace. We had just finished watching a movie about a woman who had faced breast cancer and ultimately decided on a double mastectomy to reduce her chance of recurrence. Tears flowed freely as I recalled the scene when her husband carefully unwrapped the bandages from her chest. His eyes never left hers until she asked, "How does it look?" He glanced down — without flinching — and responded, "It doesn't look bad at all." And then he kissed her softly on the cheek.
I cried — no, sobbed — as I imagined myself in the same scene. Would I be that brave? And what about our marriage — would it survive or crumble under the uncertainty that a cancer diagnosis brings?
Breast cancer was my worst fear. My mom had been diagnosed five years earlier and I had put off a mammogram for fear of what they might find. I was 40 years old and in the best shape of my life, but I knew that was no guarantee of being cancer free.
I felt Mark's strong arms surround me as he whispered, "It's only a movie; now... go to sleep." I clicked the off button on the remote and let it drop to the floor. As I lay alone with my thoughts, I couldn't help but think, "What if..."
What I didn't know — what I possibly couldn't comprehend — was a year to the day after we saw that movie, I was told the words no woman wants to hear: "you have breast cancer." I had to make the agonizing decision between lumpectomy or mastectomy, and at one point the surgeon discussed the option of double mastectomy. I begged — no pleaded — with the doctors to tell me what to do. I even pulled out the trump card and asked, "But what if it was your wife, what would you tell her to do?"
Silence.
Not even my husband wanted to be responsible for the outcome of my decision. His answer was always the same. He kissed me lightly on the forehead and said, "I love you, and I know that you'll make the right decision."
A week before my surgery, I made a trip to the mall to "think and shop"; it was my own form of retail therapy. When I passed by the lingerie store with mannequins scantily clad in black lace bras, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. As I watched women leaving the store, swinging their pink and white striped bags with no care in the world, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of anger. "Why me? Why now?" And then, I took a deep breath and stepped inside the store where a young sales associate greeted me. Wearing a warm smile, she asked, "Can I help you look for something in particular?"
My tear-stained cheeks couldn't be hidden any longer — all traces of make-up were gone!
"Would you like to check out our new line of make-up?" she prompted.
I nodded my head "no" and then... "YES!"
She whisked me past the bras and headed for the cosmetic counter where I sat in a plush pink make-up chair, trying on several different shades of lipstick.
"I'll take that one," I said, pointing to a pink tube labeled, "Kiss and Tell."
"It's a great shade," she explained, as she put a dab on her hand to demonstrate its iridescent shine.
"I'll take everything you have in that color!" I said emphatically.
A strange look spread across the sale associate's face. "Umm, well... okay," she responded hesitantly. "Let me see what we have in the stockroom," she added, without asking more questions.
I waited... hoping that I had enough money in our checking account to cover the frivolous purchase. Breast cancer was not cheap! We had already dipped into our savings to pay for my biopsy and more bills were arriving each day.
When the sales associate returned, she was carrying 15 tubes of "Kiss and Tell" lipstick. "This is all we have," she explained, holding out her hands.
"That's fine. I'll take all of them," I said with a smile. The associate grinned, not understanding, and asked if there was anything else I needed.
"No, this is perfect. Thank you," I replied.
I walked out of the store swinging my bag with its pink and white stripes, holding my head just a little bit higher, and allowing the tears to wash into a smile.
The following week, the same bag accompanied me to the hospital for my partial mastectomy. When I woke up after surgery, the very first thing I put on was my "Kiss and Tell" lipstick.
I felt beautiful.
It's been 15 years since I first heard the words "you have breast cancer" and 15 lipstick tubes longer than I ever expected to live! When I go to bed each night, I cuddle next to my husband and ask the same thing: "Kiss me and tell me how much you love me."
My husband holds me tightly against his chest, kisses me lightly on the lips, and whispers, "I love you so much more than I did 15 years ago."
And that's all I need to hear!
http://www.chickensoup.com
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