This happens regularly.

I introduce myself to a newly diagnosed breast cancer patient. I take her to her room to receive chemotherapy. I explain that I am going to access her port (an implanted intravenous device). I start cleaning her skin attempting to distract her with questions about her life. I prepare her for what the poke is going to feel like, “a pinch and then some pressure”. I count to three and poke with the quickness of throwing a dart. “Are you okay?”, I ask her. She nods her head. I tell her, “That is the worst part of today and it is all over,” smiling at her distraught face. I start to draw blood samples and then I look into her eyes and I see the underground river emerging, gushing forth.

This happens more often than not and I see it occur in my life experiences as well. You stub your toe, something foul comes out of your mouth like the word f*ck (at least my mouth has that problem) and then the tears come. You are crying and you don’t know exactly why. But you all of a sudden are overcome with emotion—-sadness, old grief, anxiety and fear, despair.

And this is what happens to my breast cancer patients. They walk around in disbelief and partial denial that this is even happening to them. Young, beautiful women, some with small children and adoring husbands. And then I go and poke ‘em and it all comes rushing out. I get down on my haunches and look them more deeply in the eyes and just cry with them.

And then I reassure them they are normal, hoping to break through their embarrasment and shame of losing it in front of a complete stranger. For they really are normal. And for that matter, I am normal too. My underground river rages these days; little things release the mounting waters deep within me. And in a lot of ways, I welcome it. I guess physical pain is a form of God’s mercy. It allows us to tap into something we normally push way down and out of sight.