Finally had the mammogram this week, and everything was fine. But man, I was a nervous wreck, much worse than usual, due to the fact that a couple of days earlier, a Cancer Witch tried to put a spell on me.
I was doing a reading for my book in Manhattan. We were standing around eating and drinking before the reading began, and an older woman came up to me and asked how long it had been since I'd finished treatment. I told her it was four years, that I'd waited to get some perspective and also to make sure nothing untoward happened to change the ending, as it were.
“Oh well, four years is when I had my recurrence,” this woman cackled. "I had to have a second mastectomy."
Ok, maybe it wasn't really a cackle, but I felt as though I'd been slugged in the stomach. Who was this woman, some kind of Cancer Witch, casting a spell on me out of jealousy for my better health, my relative youth and my new book?
I am a fact-based, not a faith-based person. I don’t believe in Hope Angels, fairies or the power of positive thinking. But she got to me. Oh yes, she did. And how did I respond?
I just backed away from her before she could offer me a poison apple or who knows what.
I did NOT say to her, “Wow, that was thoughtless. Were you that thoughtless before your two bouts of breast cancer?”
To tell the truth, I didn’t think of saying that until later. All I could think of at that moment was Must. Get. Away.
Actually, I suspect she did put a spell on me. Ever since the encounter, I've been unable to speak up and defend myself. My usual snarky voice is gone. And I'm not referring just to my inability to respond during the spell-casting moment.
The day after my all-is-normal mammogram, I was having my hair washed and blown out at a salon by my office, and I watched, mute, as the "stylist" poufed and teased my hair into a Sheena Easton style, circa "My Baby Takes The Morning Train."
That's right--this guy was actually teasing my hair, and I couldn't bring myself to say, "Dude--where'd you park the Wayback Machine?"
Instead I over-tipped him, bolted from the salon, and then undid the 'do as best I could while gazing at my freakish reflection in a nearby store window. Clawing at the back-combed bangs that made me look like a refugee from an "I Love the '80s" episode, I managed to make my hair look simply odd, which was a big improvement.
People say really stupid shit sometimes. Even those who should absolutely know better. So, if you’re reading this and you know someone with a serious disease in their past or present, be careful, ok? I will accept that you really don't mean to be hurtful and frightening, that in fact you may not be a Cancer Witch, if you will accept that if you do insist on sharing your unrequested advice, your scary story about your own experience or that of someone you know, you will be thought of as a thoughtless boob. Pun intended.
I just hope this spell wears off before I have to get my hair blown out again.
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