Nothing to See Here…

There is a girl at my office named Lisa.  I don’t know her very well.  Oh, we’ve said ‘hi’ to each other and nodded in the hallway.

She’s much younger than me, maybe 25.  She is bright and beautiful and wears cute clothes and has a great smile.  Lisa could almost be my daughter.  Really, she’s not that far in age from Katie, who is 23 today.  But there is one thing Lisa has that Katie does not.

Cancer.

Several months ago, Lisa was out of work frequently and then when she’d be back in the office, she’d be wearing this adorable pink ball cap.  She’s worn that ball cap for months - since before Christmas.  Lisa lost all her hair.  She also lost both of her breasts.

Lisa has lots of friends at work - I always see her going out to lunch with people or in the break room having pizza with them.  I’m not sure she needs a 41 year old friend, but I feel compelled to give her something.

I don’t, however, know what she needs.  Does one go up and say “Lisa, what is it you need?  Is there anything I can do?”  Perhaps she needs as much normalcy as possible.  Perhaps she doesn’t want it spoken of or discussed.  Then again, perhaps the silence on the subject is deafening to her and what she needs is for someone to speak it out loud.  Maybe she needs me to say “Hey, Lisa - how’s the cancer treatment going?”  It’s this big pink elephant, maybe, and perhaps she wants it acknowledged.  Or not.  I don’t know.

I don’t know what Lisa needs.  I don’t know what I have to give her. 

So I give her the one thing I have to give… my smile. 

I hope my smile says “We’re behind you!”  I hope my smile says “You, my dear, are brave and beautiful and we are all pulling for the best possible outcome.”  I hope my smile imparts care, concern, and hope for a healthy and long life for her.

I hope my smile says to her whatever it is she wants or need to hear.

Today, I glanced up from my computer screen to see Lisa walking past my office. 

Today, Lisa didn’t have her ball cap on.  Her hair is coming back in; it’s adorably short and pixie-like, a little blond cap.  She reached up and smoothed it down over her ears.  She almost seemed a little nervous walking into the office for the first time in months without her hat, but there was a spring in her step.

Today, Lisa didn’t wear a hat.

I wish this was VICTORY.  I wish we could all throw our arms around her and say “You DID it!  You BEAT that damn monster!” but that would be premature.  Because all this means is she made it through chemo.  Her battle, I’m guessing, will be much longer.  Perhaps a lifetime of check-ups and treatments.  Surely a lifetime of worry.

Still, this is big.  It’s huge.  I want to buy her some pretty barrettes and leave them, anonymously, on her desk.  I want to write a little note and attach it saying “You GO, girl!”  I want to stroke her hair, to tuck in behind her ears, and tell her everything is going to be alright.

I can’t look at Lisa without thinking about my own children, or even about her mother.  I hope Lisa’s mother strokes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear and tells her everything will be alright.  And I’m hoping that proves to be true in the end, too.

I’m happy today, because Lisa isn’t wearing a hat.

Topic for conversation:  how do you handle these situations?  Do you acknowledge the pink elephant?  Do you go the normalcy route?  Do you ask the person what they need from you, if there is anything you might have to give to them in the interest of helping?  I’m at a loss.  I keep thinking of the movie St. Elmo’s Fire where Mare Winningham’s character talks about how her mother can only whisper certain words - cannot bring herself to say them in a normal voice.  Cancer is one of those words.  It seems to me we are all whispering it.  And yet I don’t know if that is frustrating to those who have the disease or if that is what they prefer. Have you been in this situation?  What worked?  What do you recommend?  What would you do in my situation?