You may not have the rose without the thorns. If you want to admire my strength, if you want to hold up the dish of my story at your Tupperware party, at your garden club, and during your nosy neighbors cluck and coo cocktail hour, then I want to require you to take the chemo with the cure, the insecurities with the inspiration, the gag-worthy tonic with the gossip feast.
If you wish to share tales of my health, then why pussy-foot around them? Why give cliff notes? Why say ‘oh he’s being so strong’ or ‘oh he’s not doing well?’ Don’t give them the tail of the horse, give them the whole damn stallion. Put in your newsletter, you know you have one, that today he puked three times, cried twice before he got out of bed, and fought with his spouse about a superficial subject standing in for their mutual fear. Tell your gossip chain that his love-hate relationship with chemo drugs is like that of an abused but grateful lover. Tell them how when he told you his diagnosis, you gave not comfort but guilt and put your fear and emotions center stage.
If you’re going to talk about me. That was a joke. When you talk about me, talk about ME. Tell them the truth. Enough of this child’s play chatter. If the ears around you want inspiration and drama and Hollywood, and we know your mouth wants to provide it to them, then give them what they came for. Because if they want to know my story, I don’t want it hidden behind your fear and your insecurities and colored by your shames and secrets. If you tell them anything, then you sure as hell better tell them who I am.