Breast Cancer And Depending On The Kindness Of Strangers

Sometimes having cancer causes us to reach out to anyone who will listen.

The first time I had breast cancer; I was a little lonely. I was working only two days a week as a writing teacher. My son was in school, and my husband was at work. I remember it was the dead of summer, and I just couldn’t stay in the house.

It was a hot Ohio day, and I was restless, nervous about the cancer, about everything.

I ventured out to our deserted cul-de-sac. At that time, in 2012, we didn’t have any little kids living on our street. It was mostly a geriatric crowd, but there was one gentleman who lived two doors down who still had some life in him. We called him “the millionaire” because it was rumored that he had won the lottery years ago. I had asked him to help me move a piece of furniture into my house one day the year before, but other than that, our communication consisted of waving at each other as one or the other of us drove by.

I decided to walk up to his door and ring his doorbell.

He promptly answered and said, “Hello?”

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me. Your neighbor.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“We’ve lived two doors down from each other for a decade, and we’ve never really talked.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better. I have cancer.”

“I’d heard that through the grapevine. Mary told me.”

I remembered I’d told Mary about my cancer issue at her husband’s funeral. She must have told the millionaire.

“What kind is it?” he asked.

“Breast cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to come in?”

I felt funny entering his house, so I stayed outside. I said, “I just came over because it gets lonely in my house.”

I didn’t want any rumors to get started. It might have gotten back to my husband that I was hanging out with the millionaire, while he toiled away at work.

“Yes, I know sometimes the days are very long. Are you doing chemo?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Radiation?”

I shook my head yes. “I also had a mastectomy.”

I looked up above his door. There was a small video camera. I realized that this conversation was being taped. That made me a tad nervous.

“Are you a college professor?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s the word on the street.” He seemed impressed.

“Are you a millionaire who won the lottery?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From John.”

“If I were a millionaire, would I be driving that old car?” He pointed at his car in the driveway. It was an old pickup truck.

“No, I guess not,” I said. But I wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t won the big prize in the state lottery. Many rich folks lived sparingly. That was a well-known truism. He did have a beautiful house with an outdoor pool.

My visitations to the millionaire in the afternoon began to be a regular pattern. Precisely around 2 p.m., I’d make my way over to his house for a visit. I so needed the company, and he seemed to need it too. He was a bachelor in his 50s. I was a married woman in my early 40s. Things continued like this until it got cold, and I couldn’t stand out in the elements.

It’s 13 years later, and I seem to be cancer free. I’ve never thanked the millionaire for being there for me when I needed someone to lean on just for company.

Ironically, all of our little chats may be on videotape somewhere. My cancer drama could be documented on film, a byproduct of the 21st Century.

I think I’ll go over this weekend and see how he’s doing. I owe him one. He is truly a mensch.

I can’t go empty-handed. What could I take him?

Flowers? Food? Baked goods? My eternal gratitude?

Maybe just showing up will be enough.

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