Deja vu. Again.

Some deja vu experiences are more pleasant than others. Well, actually, a deja vu is more of a mildly surprising attention-grabber. A vague, indistinguishable memory. Really, more perplexing than anything else. Today, my deja vu was neither pleasant nor vague. Instead, it felt more like the opening of a barely-closed, deeply painful wound.

My friend and neighbor met me at the door, her face still tear-stained, and abruptly announced that she had breast cancer. She pulled her shirt aside, revealing a surprisingly bright-colored bandage. "They did the biopsy yesterday. I've got cancer." That bandage had no business being so bright, not in the presence of what I was hearing.

I always seem to respond in the same way to this news. Before I go on, and please forgive me for so obviously and unimaginatively directing your attention, but I want you to take notice of that last sentence; that I "always respond in the same way." I want you to take issue with the fact that I have heard this news not once, not twice, but more times than I care to even count here. And I want you to take issue with not only this dreadful news, but also the frequency with which so many of us have had to hear this news. Cancer is an unacceptable, oft-times preventable, epidemic. The plague of the 21st century.

All digressions aside, I do respond in the same way. And, in the midst of my response, I always become acutely aware of what I am saying and I begin to worry that my response is inadequate, unwelcome, unexpected. I worry that, in that moment when perhaps a hug is what is needed, my response is, somehow, cold and uncaring. My response has, however, remained unchanged.

After an initial stunned silence and a long embrace, I automatically switch into "doctor mode." I want to know the details. What, exactly, did they say? What tests were done? What tests will be done? Is it estrogen-receptor positive? What is being recommended and why? And then I start talking about what must be done nutritionally. That nutrition is, ultimately, going to be what gets you back on the road to health. That, in fact, adequate nutrition is critical for the successful treatment of cancer.

All details aside, I do care. I do care about this business of living, this business of loving my friend and neighbor, this business of loss. And, as I drive away, the gravity of the news begins to settle. And all of the diagnostic and treatment details coalesce into the reality of the mental pain, the emotional pain, and the physical pain that comes with a cancer diagnosis. And my tears come. Always, in my car, where calm and strength are no longer required, I weep. Deja vu. Again.