It’s amazing how often the
C-word comes up during the day. Billboards, radio, newspapers, T-Shirts, and bumper stickers. Or, from the lady who’s trying to steal the last green bowl from Dollarama.
It was Friday afternoon and
I was flying through the store, trying to buy some bowls. It was a favorite friend’s birthday, and
we were heading up north, to her
surprise pig roast/pot luck for 150 people. I was making pesto pasta salad and
was looking for bowls that would show off dish and make it look pretty.
Secretly, I wanted mine to be the best looking dish on the table.
Turns out she’d had a couple
of surgeries, and was no longer nimble. I told her I understood. Then she said, somewhat apologetically,
that the cancer was also to blame for her hair being so thin. Her hair was indeed a bit sparse, and because
I could look down on her I could see a lot of scalp – but bless her heart –
she’d given herself a perm and dyed it red, the same colour as her lipstick.
‘I went through chemo too.’
I told her. Her eyes bulged. ‘You did?! But your-a hair is so thick!’ I tried not to gloat. Inside though, my
heart was swelling with pride. I haven’t had a ‘thick hair’ comment since last
summer, and it was long overdue.
Then I saw the bowl that I
wanted. It was apple green on the outside, and white on the inside (A bargain
at $1.25!) and would certainly compliment my pasta. It was perfect. I grabbed
it, and then grabbed a second one.
'That’s a nice bowl,’ said
the lady. ‘Its-a what I want for my salad. It’s-a pasta’. Uh-oh! ‘Are there more?’ she asked. I
told her no. ‘I’m going to a barbeque,’ she told me. I nodded. ‘Tomorrow
night,’ she said, ‘For my son’s-a
birthday.’
Barbeque. Potluck. Birthday. Chemo. Saturday
night. There were definite
similarities. But I didn’t want to share my bowls. There was a whole wall of
bowls but I had the only two green ones in my hot little hand, and I intended
to use them.
Then she lifted up her
shirt. ‘Look-a at my scar.’ Across her round belly was a pink line about 14
inches long. ‘They-a said it
spread like Octopus. But it’s shrinking. It keeps a-shrinking. I’m-a going on-a
Thursday for my test results. I’m-a very nervous and my husband won’t-a talk to
me about it. He just watches TV.’
Okay! I couldn’t stand it
anymore. She’d won. Her scar was worse, her prognosis was worse, and her crappy
husband was the final straw. I handed her my green bowls. She smile up at me
and asked if I thought her tomato fusilli salad would look good in them, or, if
she should get the fake cut crystal bowls (a bargain at $1.50). Well, I
honestly thought that her pasta salad would look better in fake cut crystal,
and I reached up and handed them to her. She thanked me, and asked if she
should get one or two. Two, I told her. Then she told me that she couldn’t
concentrate because all she thought about were her tests. ‘Pray for me,’ she
said. I gave her a hug, and told her that I would. Then I took my green bowls in left. I haven't thought much about her until today.
But it's a-Thursday, and I’m-a
praying.
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