When I was diagnosed with breast cancer 4 years ago, among the shock, horror, and disbelief was this little 5′ pink star who became the bell that notified my husband something was wrong. Like a little fairy, she hovered quietly, listening, watching. The only time I saw her laugh was when we held a shaving party because my hair was falling out in clumps. I was wobbly, sick. I felt like I was dying inside, but that day there were two pink stars beside me. . . .
At my last chemo, my family came to watch me ring the bell signaling I was done. Finished. Hopefully. My daughter was 16 but looked about 5—scared to death to walk through that room. I thought back to when my husband and I first saw the chemo room. I felt a bolt of lightning run through my veins so powerful I had a physical reaction. I did not want to go in that room. Ever. It wasn’t a pretty room, but the people in it were gorgeous. Absolutely stunning and beautiful.
After chemo, this little pink star really shone. Who else would have enough courage to wear a Save the TaTas’ shirt to high school and upon being made to change out of it by a pious, ignorant principal, would wear the exact same shirt on her very last day of school? Who else would chalk her car windows with pink ribbons and breast cancer awareness messages for the past three years, and upon being told by Better Half to please clean her windows so she could see [a good thing], would rebel and chalk tinier ribbons on her car windows? A breast cancer event? There she is, all bejeweled and pink-ribboned!
A pink rock star. My pink rock star.
Flippin, AR
