You come to me although I already
know my words are inaudible vibrations
senselessly echoing in your dazed mind.
I give you recited information and quote stats;
I try to ease by personalizing hope,
sharing that my aged mother had
survived this monster not once, but twice.
You come to me, back to someone now familiar,
a case manager, your guide on this fearful journey.
You come to me, straight from the one
who spoke the unspeakable,
this cold diagnostic term.
I realize your thoughts are maddening and
your emotions, panicked turbulence.
You come to me questioning,
wanting the why; scared for yourself,
but always, unfailingly, your family first.
You come to me for something,
anything, maybe nothing …
maybe nothing more than to say,
“Cancer. I have breast cancer,”
to someone first who won’t cry –
but I do, inside.
I do every time each of you
come to me.

Sylvia R. Sampson-Haney 2015
Stockbridge, GA