Spaz's Knobs
And I will restore to
you the years that the locust hath eaten,
the cankerworm, and
the caterpiller, and the palmerworm,
my great army which I
sent among you.
— Joel 2:25
Madame Obnoxious was in the basement joking with the
remodelers. They were advising me about cabinet hardware.
"A woman can't be too careful about her knobs," I said,
shamelessly aware of the double entendre. "I want the biggest, best-looking
knobs in town. Really big, flashy ones."
The men burst out in shocked laughter and blushed brighter
than a new brass lamp. I smirked at my own little joke all the way out to the
mailbox. What's this? A letter from a dear friend who lives half a continent
away.
Back in the day, when regretfully we said a lot of things that
we now know to be Politically Incorrect, she got the nickname "Spaz." I hope
you're not offended; she's about the least offensive person you'd ever want to
meet. She had vacationed with us for a week when we were about 13, and she was
so giddy and silly that my Dad nicknamed her "Spaz." Even though she's now a
dignified physician, wife of a doctor and mother of two, eminently
non-Spaz-like, the moniker stuck, all these years.
Spaz! With joy, I tore open the envelope.
My smile vanished. "Well, I had bilateral
mastectomies," she wrote, "so I have zippo breast tissue anywhere on
my person."
Ooof! A moment ago, I had joked so profanely and flippantly about
my "knobs." Now it was my cheeks that were flaming red.
I read on. "My mom had breast cancer at age 49 and my sister
was diagnosed with breast cancer this summer, age 51. She has had lumpectomy,
chemo, now radiation and is doing well. Nevertheless, it's been a big deal in
the family."
Oh, no! Why didn't you tell me?
"So my risk went to 1:2 for breast cancer and with lumpy,
dense, fibrocystic tissue, two specialists told me I had zero possibility of
early detection. No brainer. Off with the breasts and no reconstruction,
thanks. I look teenage except for the wrinkles and grey hair. . . ."
No! Not her! This . . . is . . . not . . . fair.
"I'm fine with all this and it's been a real blessing in
reality. God comes in mysterious ways. So how 'bout that?"
How 'bout that? I was crushed. This can't be happening!
She's the best person I know. She wrote her own guitar songs in seventh grade.
She's a wife, a mother and a doctor, for heaven's sake.
I helped her through her first crush. She helped me through algebra.
I treasure a photo of her going to the bathroom in an old tub in our cabin in
the middle of the night because we had scared her with wild stories about bears
in the outhouse.
We once had a contest to see who could grow out the hair on
her legs the longest. It culminated in the "Miss Hairmerica Pageant."
She was the prettiest one on the drill team. She was one of
the smartest ones in our class. She went to Girls State. She got into an elite
college. She handled the chauvs in med school. Everybody loves her.
Nothing bad should ever happen to a person like this. Nobody
deserves this, but especially not her. Not Spaz!
I was really angry. God! Why, God?
Later, I thought it over. She said she's "fine"
with it. Why can't I be? What courage. Just like always: what a role model.
My next thought was to try to cheer her up, and mail her a
set of cabinet knobs from the hardware store. Here are some nice-looking
replacement knobs. Ha, ha. It would be so obnoxious . . . so "me."
Forget it.
Instead, I sent her a scripture on how God promises to
restore everything to His children that life takes away. That's the center of
our faith. Whether we have breasts or not, we still can face life, chin up,
chest out: a spiritual 40DD.
We have to believe that He'll make things like this right,
someday.
Someday up in heaven, I bet Spaz will get to pick out the
biggest set of celestial knobs they've got.
So big, she'll barely be able to stretch her arms around to
play her harp.
So big, I'll have to stand a whole cloud away from her just
to give her a hug.
So big, they'll be a perfect match . . . for her great, big,
beautiful heart.
†
