A Gentle Case for All Caps

Good News and All Your Details Mattering

Hello ♡,

One of my editors told me to never write anything in all caps, “Then everyone will know you’re not a real writer.” A bit extreme I thought, but, ok I’ll take the feedback (written in all lowercase of course).

But in the spirit of breaking my general rules lately, I do feel a case for all caps this week.

We order our groceries through one of the many grocery delivery services that became so popular during the pandemic. It is a life saver with three kids and work. It is worth every penny to me. We have regular friendly faces that pick up our entry in the app. This week, as Jeffrey asked if there was anything else I needed at the store, I wanted to text back, “I DON’T HAVE CANCER, JEFFREY!” But that would have been odd, so I just told him No, and thank you so much.

I was in the middle of texting my family and friends the good news I had just gotten when Jeffrey texted about the groceries. My pathology report after surgery showed no cancer, and no additional atypia (the presence of which is why I had surgery). The kind woman from the doctor’s office described to me what my monitoring 4 times a year with different tests will look like with my higher risk. “I DON’T HAVE CANCER, KIND WOMAN!” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I agreed with her instead that this is great news. I’m sure it was an easier phone call than many she makes. I thought about all those women who got a different phone call that day when I hung up. I breathed in the relief I felt, and I held space for their fight.

When I finished showering with my pre-surgical soap last week at 4:30 in the morning before heading to the hospital, I stopped and thought how lucky I am. I felt so lucky to be loved and supported in the vulnerable uncertainty by so many (including you, kind readers). And I recognized my normal tendency to wall up and “be strong” had been replaced not just by a chosen vulnerability, but by the love that met me when I lowered my walls down.

I talked out loud to myself walking through the hospital halls at 5:15 am. I felt my body resisting the coming experiences, and going into a fight or flight state. I told her, You are ok, this is chosen, this is to help you, you are safe, you will make it through this. My husband, used to my therapist ways, didn’t even bat an eye as we walked down the quiet hall while I announced these truths.

I completely ignored a familiar face at the surgery check in around 5:45 am, there with someone they were bringing to surgery. I wasn’t close to this person in our previous circles, and my vulnerability choices have not made me any fonder of superficial chit chat. Especially not before surgery. I hoped they didn’t recognize us. Our last name announced, DiCristina, gave us away. I honored my boundary as I refused eye contact when their head turned over to me. I followed our nurse through the giant double doors. Vulnerability does not equal unmonitored access.

I did, in fact, try to break the rules of the hospital, but just once, around 7:30 am. I thought it was asking too much of me to leave my undergarments behind. Wear just this gown? No thank you, I thought. But, I got caught. And the funny nurse said they would cut it off me if I didn’t comply. I complied. She also told me she was going to cry her false lashes off if I made her cry as my tears fell, hot and slow, saying goodbye to my husband. She wheeled me over to the breast center for a procedure before my surgery. We bonded over our love for dogs and our eclectic taste in music. We mattered to each other in our brief contact.

I sat alone in my wheelchair in the hall when she left me to continue her day. My IV attached to the bag above my head, my hospital gown, torn at the pocket, covered by white blankets. I waited. I thought how often people must be sitting alone today, and everyday, in these places. It didn’t sit well with me. I worried for them as I waited in my gown and yellow hospital socks. I knew I would be returning to a house full of parents, kids, and love from friends, and I also knew many are not. All their details matter, witnessed or not. May we honor each life’s details we encounter. So many sit alone in halls.

Back in the surgery center, I was pretty sure my surgery nurse and the anesthesiologist didn’t like each other as they prepped me for surgery around 8:45 am. I sensed a coldness and tension between them. I figured it’s not my business and they’re professionals. Surely they deal with each other in this arena all the time. I let them handle that and focused on getting to the bathroom by myself with my IV bag.

They wheeled me into surgery, alone. After being alone all morning. Surrounded by strangers who were busy in thought and deed. They were tensely quiet with each other, and there was no chatter or pep talk. I marveled at how the medical system at times expects emotional steel out of their patients. I thought about all the people alone facing hard things. How gentle, and tender, and in need we all are. How fragile and strong all at once. I resolved to be more tender to everyone.

We got into the surgery room, my provided metallic-colored shower cap announcing the big moment had arrived. It seemed like a strange thing to do alone. And yet here I was. I prayed as they strapped my body down to the table, an unwelcome surprise. And that’s the last thing I remember.

I woke up in the recovery room. Well, room is too strong of a word. It was more like a stall. With shower curtains in between. I welcomed Zofran for the nausea as I heard someone vomiting a few stalls over. I liked my recovery nurse very much. She wanted advice on three kids, that was her dream. She laughed at how I asked more detailed questions coming out of anesthesia than my husband did on the phone with her. She told me about an article she’d just read about mothers, so interesting to her and now to me. She was so warm. She felt so human, and so did I again, as I came out of recovery.

Life is so fragile, and tender, and wonderful, and impossible. We ask so much of our fellow humans. We are all carrying our own stories, triumphs, hopes, and fears. Your stories are blending with my story creating your own experience of reading this now. I honor your stories, your tenderness, as I honor mine. I celebrate this good news with you in all caps that my pathology report was ALL GOOD as I think about what you are facing.

And I wonder what you celebrating and what you are carrying today. I’d like to break the no caps rule in my rule-breaking season one more time: IT ALL MATTERS. May we honor it all. In ourselves and in each other. I share these details of my story because it is how I process my life. But my details are no more important than your details. Your details all matter. They deserve the warmth that can come with vulnerability, witness, and care.

And lowering your wall to let someone in to see them can be scary. Rightfully so. Some common internal rebukes to lowering your wall may sound like - It’s not that important, so many people have it worse, I am being dramatic, no one really cares, I don’t want pity.

But it all matters, and so do you.

You certainly don’t need to write a newsletter to practice vulnerability. But maybe you answer honestly when your nice neighbor, you know the one that smiles genuinely, asks how you are? Maybe you answer honestly when someone asks if you need anything? Maybe you don’t change the subject when it is your turn to share in a conversation? Maybe you let it matter enough to let one other kind person see it, even for a moment.

WITH YOU,

Monica

PS - Thank you for every thought, prayer, note, and tender openness in this uncertain month. It ALL MATTERED to me.

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Optional Reflection:

What is one good news moment you’ve wanted to share in all caps in your life?