In the 70’s and 80’s sisterhood meant stealing my older sister’s diary and telling my younger sister all the juicy details. It meant tattling. It was Barbies. It was hunting for Easter eggs. It was building a raft to float a
river drainage ditch.
It seems I’ve been placed in a new category of sisterhood that five years ago I didn’t even know existed. Honestly, I kind of miss the days when ignorance was bliss.
It’s not that I don’t have commonalities with these new sisters. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Pink. Surgery. Scars. Pain. The list goes on and on.
I notice these new sisters at the grocery store. At the gas station. At doctors’ offices. We instantaneously recognize each other, which I don’t understand because my hair has long since grown back. How do they tell I’m one of them? Urgh, tell me how do I leave this club? Can I tell them I don’t really belong in this “exclusive” club? There must have been a mistake. No one in my family has had cancer. Seriously, it must have been a fluke. Let me out of here!
Nope. They won’t let me leave. They hug and embrace me (well, if I don’t hug and embrace them first!). They understand (and help) my fight to raise funds for breast cancer research. They listen to me when I tell them my aggravation with the American Cancer Society. We talk about doctors. We share tips. We speak in secret code that no one from the “outside” can understand.
We’re always praying that we’re closed to new members. To put is simply kiddo, we really don’t want you in our club. However, for me, I think I’m staying.