Ron has a friend whose wife has breast cancer and recently
underwent mastectomy. I've never met this couple, though I have prayed for
them. Ron checked in on them a few weeks ago to see how surgery went. The
response was similar to “…going well, we made it…!” Just this week we received
a follow-up out of the blue that she was at that very moment being unexpectedly
admitted for breast cellulitis.
My heart immediately sank as Ron told me the news. I knew
almost to the letter what she was thinking and feeling. That fear of knowing
you had made it through the tough surgery with flying colors only to find out
you had an unexpected scary complication most likely resulting in a long course
of antibiotics and potential removal of everything your breast surgeon had just
finished adding. Your new breast is now defunct, damaged goods, lacking
quality. It has found itself diseased with bacteria, and honestly …that just
sucketh. Plain and simple. It is a bummer of bummers in breast surgery. You
find yourself very close to where you started wondering if you have to do it
all over again and the past many weeks falling dangerously close to wasted
time.
I immediately recalled exactly what I felt, but was quite
surprised to hear Ron continue the story without missing a beat to say “Sally,
that was the scariest part of our journey for me.” And at that very moment the
red light flickered in my head. The thing taken slightly for granted that
surfaced from my subconscious. Ron, being the spouse, experienced the same
journey and had his own emotions that are often missed in this process, much
less supported and advocated for. I had
not really thought about the fact that there were moments he was scared, or
worried, or frustrated and that he was often left to maneuver that alone. And
more so that those moments of past impacted him enough to immediately want to
reach out to this spouse to check on him and offer encouragement and support
(which he did and it made my heart melt in love for him). I wish I could have
him capture his experience on paper. I would like more insight into that, but I
know this Ron and that he is very private and would struggle with finagling the
thoughts to a written page. He processes in his own way and quite honestly
doesn't adore the literary side of the world. But hearing his simplest of words
(Sally, that was the scariest part of our journey for me) and propelling my
thoughts to “our journey” (refocusing me that this wasn't my journey alone) and
“for me” (bringing to my forefront that he had so much he was sorting through simultaneously
as I was) now actuates me to want to advocate not only for the struggles of the
woman in mastectomy, but the spouse who is just as blindly navigating something
that he perceives to be scary and concerning and so many other things. He’s
simply trying to get his wife through the experience intact, and I imagine that
leaves him in all sorts of internal quandaries he never once utters aloud as he
places her needs over his own. It is its own story. And I think that story virtually
remains sadly untold.
This Ron is amazing. And I know I had the luxury of having
the most incredible spouse at my side during this life event as he was selfless
and supportive and kind beyond words during my emotional outbursts at crazy
moments in the day. He changed bandages when I just couldn't bring myself to
view the incisions and emptied drains hour after hour when I just couldn't get
myself together. He missed sleep. And administered medications so I could get
some rest. He cried when I cried. I realize not all men would be so stellar in
such moments, but I don’t want to discredit that each spouse feels SOMETHING.
The magnitude may vary, and the response will differ on a continuum from amazing
to even less than stellar. But underneath the response we must realize there is
a motivator. They feel something. Without realizing it, Ron highlighted that point
in his concern for this husband and his wife now embracing breast cellulitis. He very much wanted to support this man who in
a flicker of a moment found himself mimicking a main character in our story. And
in that role he most certainly would be feeling something.
I’m reminded that I am not a monologue, but instead one
voice in a dialogue of many. There is a mother, a father, a sister, a brother,
a child, and very much so a spouse who is swimming (dog paddling? gasping for
air?) as fast as they possibly can in the very same stream and often in
silence. I don’t want to forget that. And I want to advocate for supporting the
many supporters of mastectomy, particularly the male spouse who may struggle in
silence.
If you find yourself in prayer today, please add this friend
and her husband to your words. I imagine they need a pick me up and a miracle
of healing, both emotionally and physically. Underneath the silence of the one
who supports you very well may lie a soul needing a little support of its own.
