It was Sept. 7, and my world was coming apart. I was in the midst of planning my spring wedding and had appointments at two bridal shops that week to make my final gown selection. I had been looking forward to picking out my dress. Now the happy bubble of my engagement had burst: I was facing the prospect of breast cancer. And though I didn’t yet know it, within days I would be coping with a national tragedy as well.
The room started to spin as the surgeon went through the specifics of the upcoming surgery. “How could this be?” echoed in my head. I was young, I was healthy, I had no family history of breast cancer. When I asked the surgeon how serious my situation was, she hedged, telling me there was probably nothing wrong, but these days “it’s cancer until proven otherwise.” I didn’t mention that I was about to buy a wedding dress. I didn’t tell her that things like this didn’t happen to people like me.
I blinked hard and scheduled the surgery. Over the next few days, I reminded myself countless times that the surgeon had said not to worry. It was useless. The weekend crept along. And then came Tuesday, Sept. 11.
My personal trauma was now surpassed by the global horror of death and war. My fiance and I watched the news coverage of the destruction, called our loved ones, donated money, lit candles and hung flags. It never felt like enough. In the days that followed, I listened on the phone as my uncle told me how his small company in lower Manhattan was falling apart. His clients were taking their business elsewhere in the wake of the attacks.
As the shock wore off and we began to return to our normal activities, I remembered that I still needed to order a wedding dress. Mayor Giuliani insisted that we move on with our lives, and I was willing to do my part, however small. My appointments fell at the end of that fateful week, and I decided to keep them. At the first bridal shop I simply went through the motions. My mind was on everything but picking a dress. Would my surgery be successful? Would our far-flung relatives and friends feel safe enough to fly in for the wedding? What did my future look like? What did America’s future look like?
The dresses at the second shop were beautiful, and I started to feel like a bride-to-be again. Admiring the satin, silk, organza and tulle gave me some reprieve from my heavy thoughts. But when I finally found the gown I wanted and tried it on, I started to cry. I wasn’t sure whether my tears were from grief, worry or excitement, but I told the saleswoman to go ahead and place my order. For just a moment, “Ivory or white?” was an important question and “To veil or not to veil?” mattered.
The dress had become a symbol of hope, and by purchasing it I felt I was embracing the future, uncertain as it was. I prayed for myself and for everyone else in the country and dreamed of the day when the skies would feel safe and national mourning wouldn’t be necessary.
I had the lumpectomy the following week, joining the thousands of women who have one every year. The pathology report came back benign, and I thanked my lucky stars. I flew to Denver to see a friend shortly thereafter. Though I was scared during most of the flight, I was happy to be one of the many Americans for whom stepping onto a plane had become an act of patriotism. And when I think about the beautiful dress I bought on a sad day, I know that I followed in the footsteps of countless women before me who chose to be optimistic in an uncertain world.
Confronting breast cancer and national tragedy all in one week has changed me forever. What have I learned? Only the same things we all learn in different ways, at different times: that we should love what we have today. The events of early September left me with two scars. One is a physical mark; the other is the emotional scar we’re all carrying. I don’t believe that either will ever completely disappear, but I hope their presence will remind me to count my blessings not once, but twice.
