I badly needed a haircut, but I hadn't felt up to getting one for a while. But today I went to my long-time stylist, Suzie, who I hadn't seen since before my surgery. She asked how I was, and since she didn't seem to remember my previously telling her about the series of events, over a number of months, that eventually led to my cancer diagnosis, I repeated the story.
I told her about the doctors who used their expertise and skill to give me good advice, and my decision at each step to follow the doctors' recommended course of action, even when they all told me that, based on the information they had at the time, the odds that I had cancer were small. So, I told Suzie, the cancer diagnosis was a surprise, even to my doctors, and that the fact that it was found at all was somewhat serendipitous--my surgeon, who thought he was operating on me to remove a benign growth and some precancerous cells, also happened to excise the cancer cells that the previous needle biopsy had missed.
At the conclusion of my story, Suzie chirped cheerfully, "Someone was looking out for you!"
"If 'Someone' was really 'looking out' for me, I wouldn't have cancer in the first place," I countered.
I could see from Suzie's face that she tried to make sense of my comment, but I never found out if she really grasped my meaning.