Everyone who knows me well, knows I am passionate about being a shrink. From the moment I embraced this career, I’ve never looked back. I can no longer distinguish what I do from who I am. And this is a good thing.

And, sometimes, it’s hard to be a shrink. Like when I hear someone’s story and it’s so tragic and horrifying that it haunts my dreams forever. Or, when someone’s heart is shattered and all I can truly promise is that time will help heal it—somewhat. Or when I have to stay neutral in matters of religion and politics and, inside, I am screaming!

Fortunately, I’m also passionate about writing, where I can safely speak my personal truths. I know most of you reading this already know where I stand on political issues. Those who don’t agree have “unsubscribed” to my blog. During this election season I suspect I’ve been unfriended on Facebook, and I know I’ve done my own unfriending when reasonable discussion proved futile.

As my grandma used to say, “There’s no percentage in arguing with a fool.”

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We are coming to the end of Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I want to share my personal experiences—yet again. I am now a two-time survivor…fourteen years and almost two years. Both times, my cancer was found through my yearly mammogram and caught in the very earliest stages. I remain profoundly grateful. While there is an abundance of confusing, conflicting, and scary information out there, one thing holds true—early detection saves lives. It may have saved mine. My mission, in continuing to share my story, is to inspire readers to take action on their own behalves, as well as to bring comfort and HOPE to those who are struggling with their own diagnosis—or love someone who is.

Original published: October 22, 2012

I didn’t realize what a daunting task it would be when I decided to write my very first blog in October on the topic of breast cancer.  The original idea came from a celebratory place—on Friday, September 28, I had my yearly diagnostic mammogram and was declared cancer free.  I am now a 10 year survivor—which puts me in the 82nd percentile of women who make it this long.

Evanston Northwestern Hospital Breast Cancer Treatment Advertisement. Photo & Advertisement © 2003, ENH

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This is one of those stories that, if written in a novel or as a scene in a movie, would be dismissed as contrived. Unbelievable. And yet, it happened just as I describe. And all the circumstances, the timing, the spontaneity suggest more than mere coincidence. For me, it was the most profound experience of my entire ten-day trip to France.

Thursday, July 21st was my last day in Paris. In three days, I’d only seen the Eiffel Tower from afar, so I decided to pay her a visit. Recent flooding on the Seine had closed part of the subway system, resulting in a long, circuitous metro ride from where I was staying on Isle St. Louis to the tower. I had to change lines in the middle and close to an hour had passed when I finally reached my stop.

All of Paris is on heightened alert. The terrorist attack in Nice happened on July 14, my second day in France, while I was in the far north, near the English Channel. At the airport, the train stations, and on the streets, heavily armed soldiers and police patrol in packs of three. Vigilant. Hand-held automatic weapons at the ready.

Nowhere in Paris are the extra precautions more apparent than at the Eiffel Tower. The entire perimeter at the base is fenced off, and to enter one must go through a rigorous security check. Every time I’ve visited in the past, I’ve wandered about freely, walked into the base, and gazed straight up. This time I chose to stay outside the fenced area. Still gazing up, but nowhere as close as before. The Eiffel Tower is still magnificent. Even more striking and awe-inspiring in reality than in pictures.

I took shots from every possible angle, then, spontaneously, decided to check out the river cruises called Bateaux Parisiens. I walked down the steps to the banks of the Seine and there was no wait for tickets. It was 7:15 pm and the next boat was departing at 7:30. I paid my 15 Euros and joined a zig-zagging line like those at amusement parks and airports.

Ahead of me were six Arab women in hijabs and full-length abayas. Their faces were uncovered. The four oldest wore all black. One of the youngest was covered in taupe, the other wore navy. Standing in line, I had the chance to study them.

One in particular seemed to be in charge of the rest. I guessed she was about my age, but it was hard to tell because all her hair was covered. She had a round face, dark eyes behind large, black framed glasses, and her complexion was light olive. With only her face visible, it occurred to me she had the look of a nun.

She was looking at me and smiling. She had a beautiful smile that lit up her face. When she saw me looking back, she made a slight waving hand gesture. I smiled and nodded. Still smiling she turned to the other women and spoke to them, nodding toward me. The others all smiled and looked as if they recognized me. As if they knew me. Had I known them in Saudi? They kept looking at me and I wondered what they saw. An American tourist? A woman alone?

One younger one was pretty in a plain, round-faced way. No make-up. The youngest was striking with fine, beautiful features. Her dark eyes were thinly lined in a “cat-eye” look, beneath them, like I’ve never seen.

When we boarded the boat I watched where the women went, hoping they would sit up top where I wanted to be. They did, all lined up on a bench. Looking out toward the banks. Taking pictures with their iPhones. I sat close by, on the next bench down, and surreptitiously tried to take pictures of them.

The boat ride was a lovely hour. The weather had cooled from the brutal heat on Monday and Tuesday, and there was a pleasant breeze off the water of the Seine. There were many children on board and every time we passed under a bridge a roar went up, like we were in a tunnel.

French music played along with commentary on the bridges and buildings we passed. Parts of the river bank were covered with sand, blue umbrellas, and lounge chairs replicating a beach. People waved at us from bridges and the shores, and we waved back. It all felt light and joyous. We had beautiful close-up views of the Eiffel Tower as we ended our tour.

Once docked, we began disembarking. There were two sets of stairs on the roof leading down to the interior of the boat—one fore and one aft. The five women moved toward the front stairs, as I lined up behind others who started down the back. I was downstairs and halfway through the cabin as the group of women reached the bottom of their steps.

Suddenly, I was facing the woman with the glasses. She stopped walking and smiled at me. I smiled back. Still smiling, she nodded and raised her left hand, holding it palm toward me in a motionless wave. I did the same. At that, she reached out her right hand to me and I took it. She squeezed my hand firmly, leaned close, looked me directly in the eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

I was stunned, speechless. She quickly let go of my hand, turned, and the six women walked away. I was left fighting tears, pushing back a sob. Overwhelmed with emotions I still cannot completely articulate.

I can still see every detail of this woman’s face. I can feel her hand in mine—large, soft, strong. I hear her voice and feel the powerful emotions of the moment. I will never forget her and I will forever feel connected.

People I’ve told have theories. Maybe she knew me in Saudi. Maybe she was thanking me for making eye-contact and smiling, not looking away in fear, hatred, or mistrust. Upon hearing the story, my intuitive spiritual adviser immediately said, “She’s read your book and she recognized you from your picture. She thanked you because you wrote her story.”

I know there was a sense of recognition from the moment we first made eye-contact. Maybe we just recognized each other on a different level, as two women from totally different worlds who are somehow very much the same.

All I know for certain is that I received a gift when she thanked me—and for what, I will never know.

Last week I sat with a man talking about his eight-month-old son—his antics, amazing accomplishments at his early age, how much he loves him. Suddenly the dad stared off with a pensive expression. “I told him he’s growing too fast,” he said.

All I could do was smile gently and nod. He’s right. They all grow too fast.

Loss is on my mind this beautiful spring day, when, finally, it’s warm enough to be outside without a down jacket. I’m on my enclosed front porch, my cat Blue curled asleep in the chair beside me. The sun is shining, birds are chirping. A woodpecker is climbing the trunk of the catalpa tree, making that familiar tapping sound. Bees harvest pollen from the bright yellow forsythia blooming just outside my window.

I once read an essay about spring being the “treacherous season.” I wish I knew the author who wrote of vulnerability—tiny baby birds, blind puppies, toddlers walking outside for the very first time. All tragedy needs is a hard wind, a fast rain—a moment’s distraction. Just weeks ago a late snow blanketed my tender lilac buds.

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All doubt, despair, and fear become insignificant

once the intention of life becomes LOVE.

~Rumi

We who are cancer survivors have different kinds of anniversaries. We speak in code to one another, inquiring about health, sharing the latest—especially when it is good news—because we know the wolf is always at the door. We are in a club none of us chose to join, but we cherish our fellow members.

On January 23rd, a friend in my club asked how I’m doing. He asked in the nuanced way we ask. And when I inquired about him, he quietly told me he’d had his four-year check up the week before, and, “All is well.”

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“New Year’s most glorious light is sweet hope!”

~Mehmet Murat ildan

Of the many milestones in a year—birthdays, holidays, anniversaries of any kind—none force us to reflect or compel us to look forward as much as the New Year itself.

In late December, we are bombarded with “Best of” lists—movies, music, theatrical productions, and books. There are also “Year in Review” lists—recaps of newsworthy events occurring over the past twelve months. Photographs. Last week, a posting of 2015 in international photographs brought me to my knees. There is no denying the world is a hot mess.

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October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I want to share my personal experiences—yet again. Last year at this time, I was a twelve-year survivor. Those who know me or follow my posts are aware that I had a reoccurrence this past January. Once again, it was found through my yearly mammogram and caught in the very earliest stages. Once again, I am profoundly grateful. While there is an abundance of confusing and conflicting information out there, one thing hold true—early detection saves lives. My mission, in continuing to share my story, is to inspire readers to take action on their own behalves, as well as to bring comfort and HOPE to those who are struggling with their own diagnosis—or love someone who is.

I didn’t realize what a daunting task it would be when I decided to write my very first blog in October on the topic of breast cancer.  The original idea came from a celebratory place—on Friday, September 28, I had my yearly diagnostic mammogram and was declared cancer free.  I am now a 10 year survivor—which puts me in the 82nd percentile of women who make it this long.

Evanston Northwestern Hospital Breast Cancer Treatment Advertisement. Photo & Advertisement © 2003, ENH

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