Brave Friend Beats Cancer

 

I have a friend that I love very much. 

In the fall of 1994 divine intervention placed us in the same pledge class in the same sorority at Texas A&M University. She took some stalking and convincing when she first met me, but eventually she came around and we became more than just sorority sisters, we became friends.  The real kind and the true kind.

She’s the kind of friend that turns life in the sorority house into a comedic adventure. 

She’s the forgiver of flaws, including the time at the age of 19 when you ditched your sorority sisters on Big Event day to paint a house with the Sigma Chis because the boy you had a crush on at the time said, “Hey, you want to paint a house with us?” 

She exchanges the same, “are we allowed to think the offensive and inappropriate content of this movie is funny?” glances during There’s Something About Mary.

She flashes you at the top of the stairs during rush because she realizes rush chair won’t be the most important job you’ll ever have and she wants you to lighten up and smile before you open those big double doors. 

She’s your roommate. 

She’s the keeper of all secrets that begin with the words, “I can’t tell anyone else but you…”

She stands next to you on your wedding day.

She visits you in your new house even though it is far away.

She walks the road of infertility with you and compares drug induced hot flashes.  She selflessly worries when she tells you she is pregnant and you are not.

She’s the guardian and protector of your darkest and most shameful places.

And so, when her husband calls you in March and says, “Christy asked me to call you.  She has Stage 3 colorectal cancer.   But it’s going to be ok.” You panic.  Not the small kind of panic, the big kind of panic that moves from the top of your head to your toes in the blink of an eye. 

And so you “Google” the words “stage 3 colon cancer.”

You learn about all the places her cancer may or may not have spread.  You read about blood tests and biopsies and wonder whether she’ll have a CT scan or a PET scan. 

You want to send her a text every hour to remind her to rest and eat right and you want to ask her “are you ok?” at least 10 times a day.

You want to call her doctors and get a list of their qualifications as health professionals including where they went to undergraduate school, medical school, completed residency, as well as a list of professional post graduate coursework.

You want to remind the doctors to get plenty of sleep and to eat a good breakfast before they see her because they have to be at their BEST on those days.

You want to explain to all the doctors and nurses and people in the hospital who see her that she has absolutely the most wonderful sense of humor and you want to ask them to make her laugh.  A real laugh, not a fake polite laugh.

You want to threaten everyone who comes in contact with her during radiation and chemo to be kind and gentle with her or they will be sorry.

You read about treatment options and survival rates.

You pray.  You ask God to stop the cancer from spreading to her serosa, her nearby organs, her lymph nodes, and anywhere…please don’t let the cancer spread anywhere.

You pray for her two precious children and her loving husband.

You know she will beat this cancer because, well, she has to beat this cancer.

And so, when she tells you on Wednesday, November 5 she will get her pump out and be finished with chemotherapy, you send up all your prayers of thanksgiving and praise to the almighty God who healed her.  Because He is good, always.

And you feel so proud of her for being so brave.