Ever since my twenties, when my best friend and I went to Australia and back again, we knew in our hearts that the moon shines differently on the other side of the world.

I wanted to go to Australia ever since I got an Australian Madame Alexander doll as a kid. I sat her proudly on my mantle, alongside my 76ers bucket lamp to remind me, in case I forgot: I was going to Australia one day.

And when I finally got to go there and explore my dreams, it was beyond my imagination. It’s like I had been colorblind and saw color for the first time. I almost gave up peanut butter for vegemite (okay, almost).

When I had kids of my own, I wanted desperately to teach them the finer things of life–what I know to be true, like how Australia impacted me. But I soon learned I could tell them stories until we’ve all gone down under, but it won’t mean a thing. They have to explore and figure out these things for themselves.

They didn’t need a trip to Australia; they had community theater.

The girls were in Evita (not precisely a kid-friendly show, but that’s the way they liked it), and one day I went to help out for move-in. It’s not like the girls were much help with that, even though it was their play, and Alex was traveling, so there I was. We bumped into Ray, the sound guy whose eyes twinkled as he always had a smile on his face. He pulled the three of us aside and said, “Here. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

We followed him up three flights of stairs until we got to a door that opened to an eve at the top of the theater: the sound and lighting booth.

He showed it off proudly. We looked down over the empty seats of the theater and saw the stage look so small from above. I could have stood there and looked forever. He said, “I can see it all from up here. It’s the best seat in the house.”

It was one of those moments you wanted to punch the girls, get them to see what Ray and I did: the moon shines differently on the other side of the world.

But the kids were antsy to go. We thanked Ray and left, though we had no idea that was the last time anyone would see Ray in that sound booth he loved so much. He died in his sleep shortly after.

That Thursday, we held rehearsal as usual, but our director had everyone gather around in a circle so we could all talk about what Ray meant to us. She invited us parents who weren’t in the play to join, too.

And when we had all spoken our final words, the cast went on with rehearsal. When they physically put Evita in a real coffin borrowed from a funeral home and closed the lid, it hit us, adults, a little too close to home, but it didn’t bother the girls; they knew it wasn’t real. And they knew what Ray had told them: he had the best seat in the house–he was watching down over us.

And this comes to mind because I was terrified with a capital T when I got my cancer prognosis in August. I didn’t know who to turn to. My friend said that I needed a quarterback, but no doctors would even see me until all my test results were in.

No doctors except for one. He was incredible. Such a dear, patient, compassionate man. The exact person I needed to explain that I had aggressive breast cancer, and I needed to fight it aggressively: chemo first.

And so, when I needed that quarterback, and I didn’t have one, he was my sub. Precisely who I needed to get me moving in the right direction.

He brought me up to that sound booth, and though it wasn’t as pretty of a view, he helped me see what I needed to see.

I ended up going with a different quarterback, but that doesn’t lessen what that great man did to help me.

And all is said and done, I had my surgery Tuesday, and I’m feeling better than ever. New and improved. If I didn’t know it before, I know for sure: the moon shines differently on the other side of the world.

But amidst all the celebration, that dear doctor who helped me when no one else was there for me, he accidentally died this week.

So sad that he would leave this earth when I’m just reclaiming it.

But I must remind myself, just like Ray, my dear doctor brought me life. I have that to thank him for. And now those two special men know better than my trip to Australia or cancer ever could have taught me; the moon shines differently on the other side of the world.