DO NOT CALL ME BRAVE

Do not call me brave.   

Do not call me a hero.

Lately when I have been running into friends, they have been using terms like brave and hero to describe me.  As sweet as I know they are trying to be, I prefer not to be called brave.

Brave was my father whom I watched suffer in pain for months while trying his hardest to put on a face, a smile, even let out a laugh all the while knowing his life was ending soon.  He died of cancer at age 51,  before watching his children grow up and become successful and before meeting his gorgeous grandchildren.

Brave was my father in law who died of cancer at age 57.  I saw the bravery first hand as he lay in the hospital bed with tumors crushing his bones.  He held on as long as he could, he died 1 week to the hour after my own father died.

Brave was my grandmother who suffered the most for years and years with parkinsons disease.  Her mind strong, her sense of humour never ceased and her unconditional love for her grand/great grandchildren was uncanning.  Not once, not ever did I see her without that beautiful smile on her face.  I watched her bravery as she shook with tremours day after day in the nursing home until eventually her muscles gave up and she died.

Brave are my 2 children who face the world every day with autism spectrum disorder.

Brave is my husband who goes to work day after day in a horrible, unsafe, environment where his morals and values are challenged day in and day out.

I am a previvor.  I had a double skin sparing mastectomy.   I beat cancer.  I stared cancer right in the face and said "You took everyone else, I won't let you take me." 

My pain is temporary.  

That’s not brave.

That’s doing what you can to ensure your own existence.  There really was no option. It was just common sense.