One night my husband and I were dining at a swanky, hip restaurant with my friend Stacey and her husband. At the time, Stacey was undergoing chemotherapy and radiation for breast cancer. It was an off chemo week for her which meant she was ready to whoop it up with a glass of wine and a heavy Italian dinner.

The restaurant of choice was a place where the drinks were colorful and people watching was the entertainment. After a few edible delights, Stacey excused herself to go to the restroom. As she entered, she noticed three women, stereotypical of the type who patronize these restaurants, lined up in front of a grandiose mirror to primp, adjust and gossip. Normally, one would ignore the banter of others, but this particular conversation between the women struck a nerve with Stacey.

While in the stall, she overheard the women complaining about their hair, “My hair is for crap today” one would say. Meanwhile, Stacey thought, “Earlier this month I had my husband shave off the last of my hair because chemo made it all fall out”. Then they complained about their boobs, “Mine look small,” another said. Stacey placed her hand on her chest and felt the two concave pockets left by her double mastectomy. And of course they griped about how fat they thought they were, “My butt looks big in these pants.” Stacey reflected during these overheard complaints, “You’ve got to be kidding me, if they only knew how lucky they were. Please, God, I will never complain like that again.”

From the time of diagnosis, through surgeries and treatment, Stacey developed a new perspective on life. She often said to me, “I don’t have hair or boobs and I’m fighting to be alive for my son and husband, but complaining doesn’t help or change my reality, so why do it?” She exited the stall and walked to the sink as the women continued to analyze and criticize their perceived flaws. Stacey began to feel frustrated with their comments and wondered if they would be so concerned about miniscule imperfections if they were battling cancer. Stacey had had enough of the negativity and the lack of appreciation of one’s self. The icing on the cake came when one of the women said “Gosh, I hate my hair!” Stacey, with exaggerated movements, whipped off her wig to expose her scalp and little patches of fuzz which announced her reality to the women. She shook her wig vigorously to fluff up the hair, then with volume said, “Whooh! This wig is hot! Whooh! Ya! I know what you mean about bad hair days!” The women froze. Their eyes were as big as silver dollars, faces illustrated shock and awe and mouths were gaped open from the slap of someone’s reality. Without making eye contact, Stacey flipped her hair back on, squeezed in between the women and fussed with her wig. “Feeling good!” she said to the mirror as she adjusted her wig a little to the right, then to the left. Satisfied at having made her point, she nodded to the image reflected in the mirror, smiled and said, “Perfect.” She whipped her body around 180 degrees and made her dramatic exit.

As Stacey strode to the door, a woman of similar age who witnessed the exchange briskly opened the door to allow Stacey to depart with assertion. As she passed through, the woman giggled and said, “That was the best thing I have ever seen. Thank you.” Stacey smiled back and said, “Hey! You only get breast cancer once. You might as well have fun with it!”

That’s my girl! Love ya Stac-