Sometimes, you just need to talk

"Get too close to the grill?" The woman working at the grocery store was standing on a small ladder, stocking the shelves. She nodded toward my bandaged hand.
I shook my head. "I have a shunt in there."
"Chemo?" she asked. "I'm an eight-year survivor."
"IV antibiotics." I replied. I pointed to the infected area near my ankle. It looked pretty much like a bruise and not the angry, red patch that it had been on Saturday.
"Oh."
"I did have a chunk of melanoma removed three years ago," I added.
Her face brightened. "And you're ok now?"
"Yep. They got it all with surgery." I explained how my primary care physician had noticed the cancer during a routine physical.
"I went in for an ear infection," she said. "I hadn't had a mammogram in a long time. I was too busy, busy getting divorces, caring for my grandchild while there was a custody fight going on, too busy. Luckily, they got it early."
"I owe my life to my doctor. Congratulations," I said.
"Thanks. How long has it been for you?"
"Three years."
"That's great. Rock on."