"So when do you see your oncologist? Wednesday?"
Her question stabs with the energy of her hyperdrive emotional state. My reflex is to shield myself from it.
BFF Ramona Brandes had pushed me into BFF Serena Cruz's car for the ride over the hamburger joint from campus. She's a wise one, that Ramona.
"Thursday."
"I'm not really worried about the appointment. I kinda know what I'm in for."
I'm irritated, defensive. I don't want to talk about this. I can feel my emotional armor, heavy and cold, but safe and protective.
But then I take a moment. I look inside. I breathe.
I remove my plackart and share.
"But in this moment, I'm feeling a general blanket of bummerness descending upon me. I'm a bit tired. I'm not looking forward to going back home and walking into the pain that will be lining the house, waiting to trip us up."
And sitting there in the car, next to Serena, the blanket transformed into a fog. And it evaporated.
Thank you, Ramona, for pushing us off.
Thank you, Serena, for pressing, for asking.
And thank you, dear therapist Hemlata Mistry, for teaching me to open.
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