The Little Iron Bench

Sarah and me having lunch after Dr. Zander's appointment

I woke up yesterday morning. It was an ordinary day. The sun was shining, the temperature was cool, the humidity had dropped, the sky was blue, the clouds were white, there was a slight breeze and the birds were singing. The sound of the birds always makes me stop and listen. I wonder what it is they are singing about or are they talking to one another. Sometimes you can hear one call to another, and you wait for the answer, and then.......there it is coming from somewhere off in the distance.

It was an ordinary day, except it was the day I was going to meet Sarah at Dr. Zander's office. Dr. Zander is Sarah's oncologist. Five words. Dr. Zander is Sarah's oncologist. That makes it not an ordinary day.

I took some time before getting ready to read her most recent CaringBridge entry. It was a good entry, a happy entry. It was filled with good things. She and Alyssa, her nanny, had taken the boys to a movie that morning.

When the movie was over, a woman sitting in front of Sarah turned around and spoke to Sarah. She said, "Excuse me, do you have cancer?" Momentarily, Sarah didn't know what to say. She finally said, "Yes, I had cancer." You see, Sarah's cancer has been removed. It was taken out. The cancer was removed when she had her double mastectomy. She sports a bald head now. She wears it everywhere. None of us thinks twice about it. But, it identifies her as having or having had cancer. She is a member of that community now.

The lady and Sarah continued to talk and Sarah shared her CaringBridge site with her. Sarah invited her to go to a cancer support group with her that night. Sarah even picked her up and they talked for a long time after the meeting. The whole story, as Sarah told it, was heartwarming.

It was supposed to make me happy. It was a happy story with a happy ending. I was surprised when I started to cry. There was something about the woman reaching out to Sarah. That was the moment that got to me.

I thought about it. I thought about how cancer patients can recognize another cancer patient out there in the world, and they reach out. There is an automatic bond. All the exterior things that seem to identify us in our normal lives fall away. None of them matter. Cancer touches people no matter what sex, age, color, rich or poor.

I kept thinking about it. And, then I knew. All of a sudden I felt alone, separate, isolated. I thought how wonderful it is to be able to recognize another human being who shares your story. And, what I said to myself was, "A cancer mother can't recognize another cancer mother out in the world, and reach out and say, 'Does your child have cancer?'"

Sarah's happy story touched something that made me cry. I talked with her about it. I didn't know if I should. That feeling was about me. She hasn't had room, until very recently, to know how this has affected those on the outside of her. I told her I read her entry. I told her it was a happy entry. I told her I was glad she had had such a nice experience. And, I told her it made me cry. She said, "Why?"

I told her what it made me feel. We talked. She understood. She cared. We went to lunch. We talked some more. We went to Target to fill her prescriptions from Dr. Zander.

We sat on a little iron bench while the prescriptions were being filled. I thought it was a comfortable little iron bench. She said, "It is iron!" I laughed.

We talked some more. She looked at me and said, "Did you think I might die?" She had asked Dave that question a while back. She said, "I haven't asked you that question." I said, "Yes, I did." She said, "I haven't been able to find my tears, but that makes me want to cry."

The prescriptions were filled. Sarah went to get them and we left the little iron bench, the bench where Sarah and I talked.