As I'm online with my friend, Lisa (who is still filed under "B," and half and hour after I thanked my peers in advance on behalf of us survivors and my sisters whose time ran out, keeping Mary Caprio in my mind, whose name do I see next in my contacts but Mary's.
Lisa can tell you, I couldn't even make it through the call. I can barely make it through typing this note. I'm flooded, yet again, with why me - by why did I get cancer, but why did I survive? Why did Mary, and Suzy and Tiffany and so many others die? How does this make sense? My doctor says I'm in the clear, but for how long?
How many more of my beautiful friends will have to suffer and ensure surgery after surgery, chemo and radiation? And how many after that will still die?
How many more of my nearly 100 young, thriving classmates here at Paul Mitchell hear those words?
I looked at so many of their faces today, and after that call, all I think about is, "Will it be her? Will it be her?"
I can't even bear to be in the building right now because I feel like a pink Grim Reaper, trying not to look them in the eyes looking for a sign, a hint as to who will be the next one.
One of those days.
