Let's Dance.

There is nothing in this blog post you haven’t heard before.

Considering the great expanse of time and humanity, all the stories have been written, the songs sung, the finer points made, highlighted, underlined and punctuated with an exclamation point.  Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

You were born. You fell in love. Your heart was broken. You did something you thought you couldn’t do. You failed miserably. You said something hilarious and forgot about it 10 minutes later. You felt the bittersweet pain of empathy by crying when someone else hurt. You experienced a loss so profound you didn’t know how to cry.

Somewhere out there, in 2005, a 21-year-old named Bridget was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer. She was falling in love with a man who would love her back – even through chemo, baldness, clinical treatments, temper tantrums and fear. When she was diagnosed, he told her to put on a party dress so they could go out to dinner and discuss how they were going to deal with it.

If that isn’t amazing enough, Bridget lived in a society that stamps pink ribbons on t-shirts, novelty socks, key chains, and yes, even packaged food. But a few months before her diagnosis, medical professionals told her she didn’t need a mammogram when she found a lump in her breast. They told her it was just fibroma, nothing to worry about.

Only, it was. Her family thought she looked a little yellow when they came for her college graduation. Jaundice and breast cancer that had spread to her liver.

And so, the girly-girl who was so lucky to have fallen profoundly in love was left feeling so very alone as she went to one breast cancer event after another populated by grandmas and the grey-haired. She cried and felt much older than 21.

The general line of her story has been traveled by hundreds/thousands/bajillians of women who loved and were loved but still were diagnosed with a horrible disease at a very unfair time. I like Bridget’s story, though, and I’m still reading it.

Bridget writes one of my favorite blogs, http://www.mybiggirlpants.blogspot.com/

Decades before Bridget was diagnosed, Susan G. Komen was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1977. She decided to get through treatment quickly so she didn’t upset her kids, had a mastectomy, and was told by her surgeon she was “cured.”

Only, of course, she wasn’t. 

As she was slowly dying, she read to children in cancer wards in Houston and Peoria (where she was receiving treatment herself) and created a laundry list of things she would do when she got better: paint the waiting rooms and chemo wards a cheery color, add some classical music, have a luncheon to raise awareness about some new mammogram technology. (Because that’s what everyone wants to discuss over lunch?)

She died on Aug. 4, 1980. Her sister, Nancy Brinker, didn’t just have a luncheon. She started an organization that would host a myriad of walks, races and fundraisers and distribute more than $1.5 billion for breast cancer research, services and advocacy. Brinker had made her sister Suzy a few promises – and kept them.

You’ve probably heard of dozens women who sparked movements that would become profound, cliché, mocked and revered past anything their originators likely imagined. I recently bought Promise Me, the memoir charting Susan G. Komen’s story with the path of the non-profit organization. I’m still reading it.

Susan G. Komen died a year and 20 days before I was born. She died five years, three months and 22 days before youdownwithptc.blogspot.com’s author was born. If you know youdownwithptc.blogspot.com’s author at all, you probably know that 26 years after her birth, the axis of her world shifted.

She befriended me. Wills.

This, too, is a story you’ve heard before.  Two college-educated Midwestern women bump into each other over and over again in a small town. They utilize hyperbole and sarcasm to make fun of everything they think is funny, boring or downright horrifying. Suddenly, they find themselves explaining each other’s jokes to people. 

There also have been a few instances in which I suggested something as a joke, she thought I was serious, and she charged forward with such abandon that I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a joke. (I’m sure she’s done the same to me. In fact, I know she has. I fall for it ALMOST EVERY TIME. It’s cool.)

Anyway, that’s not really what rocked youdownwithptc.blogspot.com’s author’s world. 

She was diagnosed with Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension – which essentially means her body doesn’t absorb spinal/cranial fluid as quickly as it should, so pressure builds up and causes all sorts of problems. Untreated, it causes blindness. With treatment, it still causes severe headaches.

Since then, she’s baked cookies. Started this blog. Been interviewed by local media. Brought Rare Disease Day (which, strangely enough, is NOT on Hallmark’s radar) to our attention. There’s been some vague talk about a fundraising walk or Bags for Brains or something.

She’s also spent some time talking about the lack of research focused on her disease, the lack of disease-specific medication or support groups and why she cannot possibly have children any time soon for fear they will be diagnosed with IIH when they are 26. Then, of course, they will hate her.

Sometimes she feels alone. Sometimes she gets sick of talking about her condition. Sometimes she wishes more people were talking about her condition. I think she sometimes cries in the car.

I, too, have had a few quiet moments when tears trickled down my cheeks on her behalf. Empathy is like that: You know you truly care about someone when it hurts you to see her hurt. And, well, damn, it’s different from the empathy you feel for people on TV or in news articles.

She doesn’t occupy the same state as Bridget, or the same decade as Susan G. Komen. I don’t believe she has a sister, and I’m not sure how seriously anyone should take her brother’s promises. 

What I do know is this: She won’t be the last person diagnosed with something weird, painful, and annoying, and she won’t be the last person to declare – as she did on Feb. 23 – that she was going to make sure some relatively unknown disease becomes as well known as cancer.

But she’s going to do it. Or have a hell of a good time trying. 

And, from time to time, I will be there. I’ll be painting hospital waiting room walls red (or purple). I’ll be planning luncheons to talk about brain machines (or whatever). And for goodness sake, I’ll go ahead and say it now: What would be more perfect to serve at Bags for Brains than Jell-O shots molded like brains? 

Keep reading. This story ain’t over yet. You haven’t heard the last of this girl. And you’re certainly going to hear more about IIH.

Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. But thou might as well dance in the dirt while thou art here.