One Year After a Cancer Diagnosis

I hope you never hold your newborn knowing you have cancer, but not knowing if it’s spread.

I hope if you draw the cancer short straw, you don’t have to wait a week to recover from a c-section before test week begins.

I hope if you have test week, you don’t have to power through the squishing that comes with a MRI or mammogram when you’re willing your breasts to stop producing milk.

I hope you never have to quarantine yourself in the guest room because you’re radioactive and are dangerous to your baby after a PET scan …. and a heart scan.

I hope you never have to convince yourself to bond with your new baby because a little voice in your head tells you it would be easier to say goodbye if you didn’t.

I hope you never have to hop in the shower to wash away pink-tinted chemo sweat before picking up your crying newborn from her bassinet.

I hope you never carry the worry of potentially hurting your baby with your draining staph infection.

I hope you never, ever worry about your first, and second, round of shingles potentially giving your too-young-to-be-vaccinated baby the chicken pox.

I pray you never have to do any of the things that come with a cancer diagnosis.

But if you do receive a cancer diagnosis, I hope it’s filled with a million silver linings.

Like being present for every little moment of your new babe’s first year.

And, becoming friends with real-life life savers.

And learning true intimacy can look like your brand-spankin’ new husband taking up wound management as a hobby. (okay, I could really have done without that one and that what in the Sam Elliot lymph node biopsy incision that didn’t heal for five months.)

But, really, I hope when crocodile tears run down your steroid-puffy cheeks you realize you’re stunning without eyelashes.

That sweet baby doesn’t care what you look like. As a recovering beauty product junkie who put way too much stock into the reflection in the mirror, I can stand on the tallest rooftop you can find and shout to the masses that your baby is going to love you regardless of confidence levels.

She just loves her mama.

She’s going to want post-surgery snuggles and it’s going to crush your spirit when you can’t use your arms to lift her.

But, man, that first time you can pick her up is going to feel like Christmas morning.

I hope, most of all, that you find the good in a difficult season.

I’m cheering for you, sis. I’m always cheering for you.