— BREANNE MIKOLAJCZYK —
“The difference has not beenin the breaking from these life-alteringevents but in the mending.”If life’s sweetness has taught me anything, it is that becoming whole is a delicate, beautiful, and
messy process. Wholeness is not something you achieve all at once; it is not something you
accomplish alone or discover in someone else. Wholeness is not measurable, nor does it feel the
same for all of us. And surely, becoming whole is not something you attain without first being
broken beyond measure.
My mom passed away unexpectedly when I was 24 years old. I can still replay the phone call
from my dad in my mind like an old, dusty tape. Just four small months before, I had packed my
life and my dog in my car and moved to Boise to pursue my dream of being an oncology nurse.
Unrooted in a city where I did not know a soul, the thousand miles between my family and me
felt colossal. When I got that call with the news, my life tragically transformed from an ocean of
opportunity into an all-consuming tidal wave.
I felt like the better part of me went with my mom when she died. Healing was a terrifying
concept because I could not imagine moving on in a life that she would no longer be a part of. I was
crippled by the fear of losing the colors of her smile and the song of her laugh. So I stayed stagnant,
built up walls. I shut people out and lost myself in my new job and fresh life I was building.
I withered and wallowed and planted weedlike roots in my grief. In retrospect, my naivety to the
depth of my brokenness was equal parts survival and ignorance. Four years later, I was knocked
out of autopilot by yet another phone call.
“Brea, we received the pathology from your biopsy. You have breast cancer,” the voice on the
other end of the phone delivered delicately. The words tousled my mind as if someone had put
them in a garbage disposal. As a healthy, 28-year-old cancer nurse, the chances seemed unlikely
and wildly ironic. But as anyone in the oncology field would tell you, cancer is an unbiased beast.
My diagnosis rattled my guts, fracturing me again at the fault line that had never healed correctly
in the first place. Through six months of chemotherapy, surgery, and the months following, I have
been humbled and rebuilt a hundred times over.
The difference has not been in the breaking from these life-altering events but in the mending.
The difference is appreciating the admirable and courageous men that my younger brothers are
growing up to be. It is the way our dad’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he looks at our stepmom,
the joy she and her kids have brought to our family by simply becoming part of it. It is my sweet
roommate and best friends from home, who have been supporting me and supplying me the breath
I needed to breathe all along the way. The difference is getting to know my patients on a soul level,
learning their trials and triumphs. It is the deep-seated roots I have replanted in this city and the
beautiful humans that have made it become home. The difference is swallowing my pride and
seeking professional help from a counselor that I trust and admire. It is losing my hair but gaining
perspective. It is learning to await the beauty that grows from tragedy. The difference is being
admittedly and unapologetically broken and seeing it not as an adversity, but as an opportunity to
be made new; to be made better.