But Sue seems to understand what Maya Angelou once observed: that bitterness, like cancer, eats its host. “But anger is like fire,” Angelou notes. “It burns it all clean.” Recalling the day she got the news, Sue says, “I swore a lot.” Eight days after the tumor was found, she was back on the operating table for a double mastectomy. In a few weeks she’ll find out what comes next. But she’s already back in the fight. She hated missing the walk this year, so we e-mailed and texted and sent pictures to her all along the route. I’m counting on her to lead us next year.
None of us know how our days will be numbered. We think nothing can touch us–the car that swerves, the lightning strike, the cells that go insane and start setting fires. So we skip along, stopping to complain about lesser things: plans that fail and doors that stick and people who don’t know yield from merge.
I’ve heard people talk about cancer as a wake-up call, even a blessing in disguise. Sue was born wide awake. She’s like sunshine with skin. Her friends learn by watching her. Courage is said to be the virtue that makes other virtues possible; maybe joy is the gift that makes other gifts possible, the compliment that doubt pays to hope.
You may not know my Sue, but if you’re lucky, you have one of your own. Someone who lifts you up because she lives above the waterline of distractions and temptations that drown out things that matter more. I found when we went off on spring break last year that Sue is a skilled shell hunter; her grandfather taught her. You have to see through the debris the waves bring in, so much random waste, so carelessly tossed aside. She walks that beach with her eyes sharp, and she finds treasures, and gathers them, and brings them home.