Therapeutic relationship

I want to tell Sarah that when I was six, I would draw lines horizontally across my nipples with a sharpie to mimic my mother’s scars. Her lines were a deep red protruding from the flat, brown, grafted nipples that attempted to make her implants look natural after the double mastectomy.
Instead, I reassure Sarah that when she gets her double mastectomy she will keep her nipples and the scars will not be large because of recent advancements in cosmetic surgery.
I yearn to laugh with Sarah about the time I chased after my little sister with what I said was a sewer rat but was actually the plastic wig my mom had used after her hair fell out from chemotherapy.
Instead, I comfort Sarah with information on the beautiful real-hair wigs available through organizations that make them from donated hair.
Another story I would like to recount to Sarah is when I was thirteen and I found the letter that my mom had written for me to receive in the case that she died of breast cancer. I feel like rejoicing with Sarah because my mom is still alive to tell me how proud of me she is. I crave to disclose to Sarah that when I am confused and lonely I read the letter to remind myself of how fortunate I am to still have my mother in my life.
Instead, I suggest to Sarah that she express her feelings by keeping a journal or writing letters to her loved ones.
I long to confide in Sarah that when I was nineteen I discovered that, like my mother, I am a BRCA 1 genetic mutation carrier and that during my lifetime I have an eighty-seven percent chance of going through what Sarah is going through right now.
Instead, I let the professional veil weigh on my shoulders like an iron curtain and my throat clutches this information when my panic wants to vomit it out.
Sarah, I want to tell you that when I think about the diagnostic procedures you have undergone and the choices that you have had to make in the last four months, a knot of anxiety curls in my stomach and will not ease. There is a lot I want to express to you but every time I feel the words that would connect our realities rise to my larynx, I pause to question whether I desire to say them to comfort you or to dissipate my own fears. Without doubt, it is the latter. Florence Nightingale reminds me, “How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.”
I take a deep breath and allow the dread to slide off my shoulders. I use my strength to untie my abdominal knot, disconnect my vocal chords and open my ears. Instead of telling you my history with your illness, I am trying to listen to yours.