I’m writing this during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and you’ll read it in a moment when thoughts turn to gratitude. The pink ribbons of breast cancer awareness, and the teal, green and pink ribbons of metastatic breast cancer awareness, have given way to bumpy gourds and mums.
At this time of year, I usually write about things — big and small — that bring me joy and deeply felt gratitude. This year I’m writing about the biggest one of all: silver linings. And having the presence of mind, in every moment, to hold your gifts.
Someone dear to me died after a nearly 11-year battle with metastatic breast cancer.
Ingrid was too young; younger than me, and she was a light. I know everyone says that about people when they die. Someone has to be next-level difficult to not be eulogized in the brightest terms. But she was luminous, and her light reached farther than most.
She was curious in a way that made me feel fascinating. She’d lean in, even over video chat, her interest warming my body, opening my heart and loosening my tongue. In her light, I was brilliant.
She spoke quickly, words tumbling to keep up with her thoughts. We agreed to be accountability partners, and we kept meeting and laughing, though we never completed our to-dos. She dreamed of possibility, and a moment with her could make anyone see all the possibilities. I can be optimistic to the point of having blind spots, and maybe her nature and mine were the perfect combination to leave me shocked by her passing.
And there’s no silver lining in this story — not because this moment doesn’t bring revelation, but because we’ve got to redefine silver linings and make every single day more profound.
Silver linings, the way we think of them, show up in extreme moments to wrap us in glowing warmth and comfort. They light up our brains like only an epiphany can, but that moment of knowing always comes after loss.
We should ask for more from ourselves, because those silver linings are with us all the time. They’re woven into the fiber of love, care and wonder. They are the foundation for our happiness and safety, not just in grief but every day.
I left every conversation with Ingrid a little lighter, and I clocked that feeling and tucked it away. I felt understood and believe I gave her the same gifts. Her friendship was a treasure, as tangible and precious as something I could hold in my hands, and I knew it.
Years ago, I was scraping peeling paint off the front of my house on a hot August day. I was working with grumpy gusto, annoyed in the way someone can be when they forget the privilege of having a house to care for, when my cousin and her husband pulled into my driveway. My cousin got out of the car, picked up a scraper, and started helping and chatting and helping some more. She had energy, and stories to tell, and if she noticed I was less than my best, she kept it to herself.
She halved the work, boosted my mood, and added another platinum strand to the braid that takes us from childhood through awkward teen years into adulthood, and will grow and hold us into old age.
She has a quick laugh that delights me. She knows secrets and shares. She roots for everyone, and her husband shares her delight, humor, aspirations and kindness. And he tolerates her expert trash talk when we play cards and win (of course we win). They won the lottery when they found each other, and I won too, the day we reconnected over peeling paint and the heat of summer.
Today they’re together at my cousin’s last round of chemo in her second cancer fight. Today she’ll ring the bell and walk out of that part of her journey for the last time.
In the midst of the chaos in their lives, they visited Roger and I in Harpswell last weekend and joined our community for the “Alive to This” book party at the Grange. They showed up for me. They showed up because sharing moments builds splendid, brilliant threads of connection.
I’m lucky to have them and I know it. I’m grateful for what we’ve built and nurtured: the weight and lightness, the strength and flexibility, the connection, grace and joy.
I know together, we’ll look back, wrapped in the precious glow of shared experience and adventure, and reminisce about how much this chapter sucked.
Cancer sucks and there’s no way around that.
And we’ll laugh because that’s what we do together. We’ll strengthen our bond and grow our history and it will be wrapped in silver, gold and platinum because we know the gift we have in the moment.
One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. One in three of those women will discover their cancer has metastasized. When you set your Thanksgiving tables, you’ll be sitting with survivors, patients and people who’ve born witness.
And you’ll have a moment to take in the magic of dancing candlelight, full bellies, funny stories and even that terrible thing that person said that you’ll get so much mileage out of when you talk about it again and again. Hold these moments in your memory. And, as you weave your vibrant foundation, encourage your loved ones to keep their doctor appointments and get the screenings, even when dealing with tests is a pain in the breast.
And if you’re thinking about year-end giving, please consider METAvivor (metavivor.org) or help launch an endowed research fund in Ingrid’s name at Georgetown University’s Lombardi Comprehensive Cancer Center (tinyurl.com/ingridroper).
We are all weavers of our life’s threads, and we should all take a moment to admire our work. We carry the silver lining with us every day. It’s the fabric of our lives, loves and wonder.
