The Big C

Oh, man, what is this about?

Today is supposed to be a post about how pitchers and catchers report in a week, or maybe about how bad the State of the Union sucked or about how long its been since I have written and how THANK GOD blogspot is allowing little old me to post again after an absence and major blog migration fiasco.

All of it to be explained later- maybe.

But tomorrow starts a new era. The era of being the Best Friend of the Girl With Cancer. Not really, that actually started when she got diagnosed a week ago, on February 9. The dramatic title of BFotGWC was not actually her idea or mine, but a concoction Shruti and I came up with for when I write my book or go on Oprah. It is very theatrical and whoa-is-me and I think perhaps an ABC afterschool special if we were 15. But we are not 15, we are 31 and 32 and have known each other since she was 15 and I 14. I think we bonded over New Kids on the Block and a friend that neither of us even sees or speaks to anymore. Now we have breast cancer to bond over, but that has happened only to one of us and that is the good news. The other good news is that its treatable and treatments are more tolerable, quicker, and more successful than ever.

There will be no pink ribbons here. I think she is boycotting them, and I for one am mad at them. I mean, if you wear pink ribbon t-shirts and buy candy with pink ribbons and bottles of wine that benefit pink ribbon funds and eat and drink and run and walk for pink ribbon campaigns- then why has that money not made breast cancer go away?

There will also be wigs, for her and I imagine for anyone else who wants to borrow the silver, pink, Cardinal red, or afro wigs that she ends up with. Probably she's the only one who will get to wear the genuine, luxurious Felicity wig that is the epensive one.

There will be pity and confusion and some pain, some surgery and chemo and radiation and hopefully some fantastic celebration in August when the remission comes. I hope I do OK as the Best Friend of the Girl with Cancer because I don't know how to do that. I already hope I have not told too many people or not enough, or called too much or not enough. I'm nervous about calling and also about not calling. Why is that?! How fucked up is it that you can know someone for 17 years and then get nervous about calling them? Ecchhhh. I'm inventing drama of course. Cancer is not like it used to be, they even do radiation around your work or family schedule and give you special parking so you duck in and duck out like you are running in to pick up some fast food- only its high dose radiation instead of breakfast or lunch.

I hope she's OK. I hope I'm OK at this. I hope we still get to go to games and make fun of mullets and ogle Mark Mulder and drink beer on Bryan Cave, even if we are wearing Cardinal scarves or cheesy Cardinal red afros. Of course I'll wear one too, if she wants. I'm not going to be allowed to touch the Felicity wig, this much I know from the first 17 years. Hair is HER thing.

And being the Best Friend is mine, I guess.