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BIG C, little c

By Lynne Goldklang, MA, MFT

Lynn is a breast cancer survivor, a licensed therapist, public speaker, contributor to the book Chocolate for a Woman's Soul* and co-author of Count It as a Vegetable and Move On.*. We like this because it represents the way in which it's easy to forget how we intend to live with greater awareness and joy after a serious physical challenge has passed. In fact, we might call this BIG AWARENESS, little awareness.

[* NOTE: By clicking on the title and buying this book from Amazon.com, you help support LPO.]

In my B.C. (before cancer) years, I had this saintly image of people who survive serious illness. So when I faced down the BIG C, including a mastectomy, with some degree of sanity, I knew I had entered a state of permanent grace—a freedom from the tyranny of the little c's of life. No mini-crisis would ever again steal the inner tranquillity that had descended upon me as I left the hospital. Let the washing machine overflow and I would splash in the soapy pool. Let the hoodlums keyscrape my semi-new car so I could treasure the defacement as a work of metal art. Let the bills pile up as my income goes down. The rain on my parade was holy water. I was queen of chaos and princess of perspective.

Then time marched on. Old habits came creeping back. I found myself cursing the traffic as I shut off my self-empowerment tape and switched to a country singer crooning of despair. When my husband left the toilet seat up, I fantasized divorce. The ant colony that made a home in my organic oatmeal drove me to thoughts of cereal murder. But it was the car incident that brought me back to my senses.

I had no time to spare as I headed for the parking lot behind my office, only to find the entrance blocked by a killer construction truck. Where would I ever find an all-day space in a neighborhood surrounded by two-hour meters? Miraculously, I spotted an empty expanse of street parking just one block away. It was meterless—a freebie. I checked carefully for restriction signs and colored curbs, but there were none. It was perfect.

I was in a jovial mood at the end of the day when I came to retrieve my car. I looked at the spot where I had parked and knew something was very wrong. My metallic blue baby was missing and in its place was a car almost like mine—same make and license plate, only the color was white—a murky streaky ugly white. I heard a loud clatter and glanced up. It looked like a scene from Hitchcock's THE BIRDS—endless rows of pigeons, crows and other winged creatures on the telephone wires about that "perfect" stretch of street where my pathetic car stood alone.

My thoughts were swift and unmerciful. "How could you be so stupid? Why did you park here? How could you have missed the wires? Why didn't you see the white stains all over the street? Why did you. . . Why. . . Why. . . Why . . ."

I was about to undo five years of psychotherapy with a complete character assassination when it hit me. This is a "little c," totally unimportant, not worthy of endorphin meltdown. I laughed all the way to the car wash and read a steamy tabloid as the bird shit hit the power shower.

Pencils have erasers. White-out sells better than white wine. Computers have delete buttons. I reaffirmed the lessons of my BIG C experience and vowed to never again be victim to the little c's of life. However, I'll have to start my reborn perspective tomorrow.

Today I'm too upset. I can't find my lottery ticket and the jackpot is twenty million. I'm a stress mess. What if I'm a winner and don't even know it? . . . What if . . .

© Copyright 1998, Lynne Goldklang, MA, MFT