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My tired body seemed to lift itself onto the table. I placed my head on the pillow, sank into the cushions, and released a long-needed sigh. As an act of self-care, I’d found myself in the studio of an esthetician, preparing to be pampered. As I drew a deep, slow breath, my mind wandered to the many tables I’d lain on since being diagnosed with breast cancer a few months before.

At the end of 2019, my cancer had just been detected and surgery was scheduled. My treatment lasted through 2020 with some checkups peppered throughout the year. From the mammogram machine to the mastectomy, there were plenty of diagnostic tables in between. Each one with different technicians, nurses, and doctors, all concentrating on one small area of my body that would have an effect on everything else. Everyone around those tables belonged there. Their presence was to work toward one goal: rid my body of cancer before it got too far.

Something occurred to me as I made my way through each appointment. Everyone I spoke to dealt with hurting people all day long. In many instances, all their patients were fighting cancer at one stage or another. I’m sure the stages and types of disease they were up against ran the spectrum. Regardless, I knew this was my platform for “such a time as this.”
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