Target, Cancer, and Balls
When I had my biopsy last year, the radiologist was very honest about being “worried about this one.” She’ll never know how much I appreciated her REAL observation. The fact that she did not try to postpone my probable bad news was so kind. Kind because I KNEW in my gut it was going to be cancer; hearing “let’s just wait and see” would have done nothing but made me feel like I was being lied to. As I was aided in my attempt to sit up on the table after the not at all painless procedure, the radiologist said another thing I will be as forever grateful for as I am the fact that spiders can’t fly. “Look, the results from pathology will appear in your portal the minute they are done. You will have access to them the moment I do. Here’s what I suggest. Don’t look at your chart. Wait until you hear from me so I can explain things. Don’t look in your chart and try to understand it all alone. I want you to know I won’t be in until next Wednesday, and if the results come in before I can call you, I don’t want you alone in a Google search that will just scare you.“
Prior to my biopsy on that random Thursday in February, I had already made plans to head to my daughter’s house the following Wednesday. But since the radiologist said she wouldn’t be calling me until Wednesday, I asked Carly, the aforementioned daughter, if we could do Monday instead. “I don’t want to be in the middle of the 2 hour drive if the doctor reaches out,” I reasoned. Let’s do Monday, since I know for sure I won't be getting the call then.”
That Monday was a lovely day. I played on the floor with my sweet grandson, talked about all manner of things with my daughter, had one of those long lunches that makes you grateful for not having a day job, and decided to do a Target run. In separate cars so I could head back home after our Target adventure, we drove the 20 minutes or so and parked right next to each other. This is only an important detail because of what happened next. Just as we both climbed out of our cars and were freeing the baby from his car seat, my phone rang. I recognized the number- it was the cancer center .”It’s the doctor,” I said to Carly. My voice was shaking; my whole body was shaking. I know I clambered into the driver’s seat of her car, but I don’t remember doing so.
“Hello,” I answered.
“This is Dr. B.” She sounded so kind, so caring. “Are you someplace you can talk for a minute?”
“Yup. I’m in a Target parking lot. Not driving, just sitting in the car.”
“That’s good. I wanted to make sure you weren’t driving. So we already got your results back, and unfortunately just as we feared, it is cancer.”
Even words you know are coming can hit you like a Mac truck. I didn’t mention that she told me she wasn’t going to be at work today and therefore I was supposed to have more time before I heard the news; I was supposed to be home when I heard the news. I just looked at my daughter and nodded. We just sat in her car holding hands and crying. Oddly enough, it was already occurring to me that we had ON PURPOSE rescheduled our visit to this day because I was likely going to be getting this call on Wednesday, NOT today.
Here I must point out that in more than one instance, my path was arranged in such a manner as to absolutely assure me of a God who was definitely in the mix on everything. When people ask me what makes me so sure of God’s existence, I simply say I’ve seen too much of Him to not believe. I felt God in that moment; of all the times during that day I was driving alone -2 hours to Carly’s home, then to lunch, then to Target- that call didn’t come. It didn’t come when I would be alone on the 2 hour drive back home. It came when I was with my daughter, the only one who’s ever felt my heartbeat from the inside. The two of us? We’ve been through a lot together. I believe God made sure we were together in this moment, perhaps the most intimate moment of my life.
“Well, f*c%“ she stated, swiping tears from her face. I hadn’t heard her use that word in a long while, and hearing her say it actually made me feel better. Not better insofar as in “this whole cancer thing is nothing” but in a “Wow, She’s right to see it this way, and I feel so seen.” I needed her to say the F-word in that moment.
“I don’t want to go in Target anymore. F*c%Target,” I said, trying to get hold of myself.
“Yes, f*c% Target,” she agreed. (*Please note that my sweet grandson was only about 8 months old at this time, was asleep in his car seat, and will have no memory of his mother and grandmother saying the F word in front of him, so please suspend your judgment since you may be classier than us and NOT say the F word when there is a cancer diagnosis, but please give us a break on this one. Thanks.)
We just sat there crying, but also giggling a bit about how we were cursing at Target and that my newly diagnosed breast cancer was ruining the joy of that previously loved store, now and forever. “I want to go home. I need to call Jerms. I need to call my mom.” All of this made me sob, still in the Target parking lot. And then I realized something special…somehow, having to call my husband and my mom felt better than having to call my kid. Thanks, God, for putting that together. I thought I wanted to be home when I got that call, but I was actually right where I was supposed to be. Because if I had found out at home and had to call my daughter to tell her I had cancer? Nope. Don’t want to think about that.
What happened from there until now you’ll be able to read about in the memoir I’m currently writing, Laughing Through Cancer and Other Inconveniences. For this moment, know that I’m leaking sections of it for you here, my dear reader. And throughout my journey, Target was an easy target (I know, I know- it’s a horrible pun, but stay with me) for my hatred. It’s not a person. It’s not a mandatory destination. It won’t feel hurt by my disdain and use of the f-word as an adjective while describing it. It actually brought me pleasure to cast all my disparaging thoughts onto the giant chain store that everyone loves, to think of it as my cancer enemy. I could hate Target without hating any part of myself, the part of me with cancer cells.
Now here I am, about a year into my survivorship, with my daughter and my grandson at -you guessed it - flippin’ Target. This time as I get out of the car, there is no phone call from the cancer center to change the trajectory of my life. There are no tears, no f-words. There is only my now very pregnant daughter and my sweet grandson who is less than four months away from being 2 and obsessed with balls. All manner of balls..big balls, bouncy balls, beach balls, tennis balls, and peas, which he calls “small balls” (and if you made it through this sentence about balls without even giggling, you are too grown up for me). And the biggest balls of them all? THE TARGET BALLS!!! Those giant red cement, completely stationary Target balls that not only make the place recognizable anywhere, but keep cars from being able to crash into the building. When little E spots those things, he is so happy as he pushes on them, squeals at them, tries to make them bounce. And the unadulterated and profound joy E finds at the site of those things at the entrance of the retail chain I’d vowed to never feel happiness in again? It brings me back to joy; it brings me back to me. Thanks, God, for putting that - and me- back together.