Anniversary

Nine years ago today I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I’m still here. A lot of my friends aren’t.

Covid has been hard. I’ve been isolated from my cancer community. I’ve experienced medical trauma due to pandemic anxiety. Almost one year ago my husband had a stroke, and that was deeply triggering. He’s healthy now. A lot of my friends are not.

It’s been nine years. More than nine surgeries. More than nine rounds of radiation, more than nine doses of chemo. I could list all of the body parts I’m missing, all of the pain I deal with daily, I could speak, again, at length, about my menopause and atrophied vagina. But maybe I’ll count what I do have.

I have my life. I have my kids. I have my husband. I have a couple of jobs I don’t totally hate. I have two dogs and four cats and a comfortable, yet furry home. I have both of my parents in my life, and some very good friends. I have a car that runs and I even run sometimes too. Because of the young cancer community, I’ve been to Montana, Oregon, Maui, New Zealand, and Patagonia Chile. Because of the generosity of my mom and my best friend Renee, I’ve been to Germany, Austria, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Japan, England, and Wales. I’ve mourned more people than I can count, but I’ve also gained the same number of friendships.

Nine years ago today I found out I had cancer. It was a Monday. I had an answer. I was going to have a plan. I called my husband and cried a little. He told me we should probably order my favorite pizza, which is one of the most romantic things he’s ever done.

I’m still here. A lot of my friends aren’t.