Like many brilliant ideas, the creation of my cancer skirt was born out of adversity, and the frame of mind one finds oneself in while sitting on one’s deck on a sunny June morning, having just been diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. The doorbell rang. It was the UPS man, delivering a denim skirt I had ordered days before I had discovered the lump. I opened the package, took it out of the box, and the proverbial light bulb went off in my head. This would be no ordinary skirt. This was a gift from the gods.
The first time I wore the skirt was to an appointment with Chris, a quiet, mild-mannered X-ray technician who appeared amused when I asked her to autograph my clothing. Carole, the world’s best chemo nurse, signed her name with words of encouragement eight times, one for each treatment. When my hair started to fall out, Victor, my hair stylist, wrote he would love me forever. Ray, at the wig shop, inscribed his signature with a flourish, as did Shawnette, the nursing assistant who smiled every time she took my vitals. In typical doctor fashion, my oncologist and surgeon scribbled names that were barely legible. Lillie, in radiation, told me that I would beat this cancer because I was a champ, writing I “would float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”
The skirt was working its magic. I was starting to feel like a champ. Kathy, my wise neighbor, left her message on the skirt’s rear end: “don’t look back”. The names kept coming. Lucky for me, treatment was winding down just about the same time as space was running out on my skirt. There was room for only one more signature when I met Denise.
Denise received her bad news six months after I was done with radiation. Her children attended the same school as mine, and a mutual friend suggested we get together in hopes that I might be able to help Denise navigate the maze of Cancerland. We met for coffee and talked for three hours. We haven’t stopped talking since. Denise wrote on my skirt that I have been her inspiration. I hope she knows that, with her sense of humor and take-no-prisoners personality, she is my hero.
Five years later, I put on my skirt to wear to my annual checkup. I’m happy to find Shawnette behind the front desk, and we chat briefly about how time flies. I find a seat, pick up a magazine and turn to one of those self-help articles that seem to be proliferating by the minute. This one is about how you can lead a more satisfying life by expressing gratitude. I look down at my skirt and smile.
I think I thanked everyone who helped me along the way, but having had a case of “chemo brain,” the feeling of walking through a thick fog, I can’t be sure. I remember baking cookies, sending valentines and dropping off gift bags. But how can I adequately express my gratitude to Sue, the nurse practitioner who, when I was at my most frightened, feeling vulnerable and exposed, took the time to listen to my tearful concerns and then showed me the road out of despair? How does one say thank you? These people on my skirt gave me hope. There are no words.
I knew the day the UPS man delivered my skirt that I was lucky to have friends and family who would stick with me through thick and thin. What I could not have anticipated was the kindness and generosity from strangers and people I barely knew. None of us can or should go through this experience alone. Hillary Clinton would say it takes a village. I say it takes a skirt.
