Open. This past Friday I scurried to the store in order to gather groceries before the impending freezing rain. The temperature outside seemed to chill me to the bone. A breast cancer warrior, my thoughts were, “If I had real nipples, they would be piercing through my winter coat at this time.” Then I thought I need to text that to my BFF/partner in crime/cheerleader/sounding board/lifeline. Yes, immature beyond a shadow of a doubt, but this is how we roll.
Fast forward to my return home and my retrieval of the mail. As I lowered the plastic black door, I spied a rectangular piece of correspondence addressed to none other than “Tits McGee,” and I could not help but smile one of those smiles that borders on painful due to its width. This, I knew, had to be a “small package” (what I consider snail mail) from the same woman who said without hesitation, “Cansah Schmansah,” when I told her of my diagnosis.
The real joy came in the form of tears as I opened this card, for inside was the inscription, You’re the sister I always wanted. Open.