I’m getting a new set of boobs tomorrow.
Uh-oh. Have you just stepped into a classic case of oversharing?
In a word, yes.
This boob journey is one I never wanted to share. Didn’t want to share it with you. Really didn’t want to share it with the woman I consider my best friend.
See, the boobs in question are not exactly mine.
They’re hers.
That phone call seven months ago where she said, “The biopsy came back positive this time. I have breast cancer.” I didn’t want to share that with her either.
But share is what you do when you have this kind of friend. That true, real, love you for who you are, not who and what they think you should be, family by choice, kind of friend.
We make so much of wanting the husband, the kid, the job, the riches. We forget one of the greatest journeys we’ll ever take is simply as a friend.
If you have at least one, it only takes one, great friend in your life, you’re blessed. If you have more than one, well, you’ve cashed in on one of life’s great lottery prizes.
It also means you know The Phone Call.
So, it might not have been the “I have cancer” Call. Maybe it was, “I found out he was cheating and my heart is shattered in a thousand pieces,” Call.
Or the “I got laid off … again,” Call.
Or the “I’m so embarrassed and mortified to say what my kid did today. … How do you do this parenting thing?” Call.
The point is, if you have that one friend, who you would die for, who you feel has saved your life, you’ve taken that call. Good chance you’ve made the call, too.
True friendship is raw, naked, real, golden and glorious.
My friend and I have laughed harder than the top button of our jeans could hold in. We’ve cried so hard over sad, challenging times that bodily fluids have come out of places we didn’t know possible.
What happens to her happens, to happens to me.
And so, when I got that phone call, it wasn’t my best friend who had breast cancer. WE got breast cancer. That awful, overly cocky, uninvited plague inserting itself into our lives.
We’ve spent seven months alternating some of those ugly, juicy cries with fighting back. Surgery, pathology, treatment plans, drugs. We’ve batted each one down like super heroes taking down villain after villain.
My friend is the real hero, here, of course. It’s her body and our fight. She’s Batman. I’m just one of her many Robins watching her back, taking the flank, letting her know she’s not alone for all the parts of this journey she never would’ve picked, which by the way, includes new boobs.
Though never, shall we say, greatly endowed, my friend is the last woman in the world who would’ve signed up to enhance what nature gave her. But, as long as you’re asking, “What kind of boobs would you pick if you could?” sure has made for some interesting conversations. Who knew that you could consider life, relationships, sex, exercise, fashion, body image, parenting, geometry, gravity and new bras simply by talking boobs?
I think we’ve got it down. If not, we’ll abide by the truth of most of life’s big decisions — it’s not a tattoo. We’ll talk about getting a new set.
We’d prefer to move onto other topics, but we’ll do what we have to.
It’s what I do for my friend, what she would do for me and I know you do for yours, too.
So, see, it’s not just a boob job happening tomorrow. It’s a friend job. Getting to fulfill that is one of the greatest honors of my life.
And that’s worth sharing any day.
