She's Weak

I’ve heard it all my life. I’ve always been quiet, shy, and unassuming. Since the first day I set foot inside a classroom in kindergarten, the other kids latched onto my shyness and made sure I never forgot how weak I was.

If someone confronted me or picked on me, I just took it. I never argued, never fought back. I just quietly went on with my day. And while these other kids were spending their time coming up with new ways to embarrass me, I read. I studied. I learned. But not one of those things led anyone to change their opinion.

So, this past July, when I got my diagnosis, not in person, or even on the phone, but from the app of the facility where all my doctors are, I cried. Again, the weakest thing I could have done. When they did finally have me come in, they let me know surgery was the only option.

I had my surgery and quietly went through my recovery. Surgery left my face somewhat different than it used to be and feeling like I couldn't go out in public. More weakness. I do go out now, but I find myself trying to cover my face whenever someone glances my way.

Talking and eating are still a challenge, and I see a speech therapist weekly. Basic human functions and I can’t do them the same. And, wow, did radiation take a toll. I was exhausted and the skin in my treatment area was a mess. And because that skin was on my face, I couldn’t hide it.

I’m sure all those people who thought me weak assumed I buckled under the pressure. But what they failed to realize was how much they helped me. Every single time I was picked on, bullied, teased, confronted, or insulted, I didn't buckle, didn’t scream and yell, didn’t disappear.

Instead, I took each of those things inside and used it to get stronger. Cancer thought it could take me down. Me, the silent warrior. Well, guess what, cancer was wrong!