Reflections

Day before Thanksgiving, 2010. It's cancer. You never forget what it's like to hear those words; where you were, what you were doing, and who you were with.

December 23, 2010. One week after my mastectomy. Sitting in my breast surgeon's office around 3pm. It's stage III-C. And the only thing my brain computed was how close the number 3 is to 4. I went home and cried as hard as the day I heard the word "cancer."

December 23, 2010, 6:30pm. Sobbing at home. The phone rings and it's my breast surgeon. My scans came back clear. No signs of cancer. It's suddenly become the best Christmas ever. And if you knew my surgeon, she's as stoic as they come. On the phone, I could hear her beaming. She just had to call me before she left for the holidays.

What follows is a year -- 2011 -- that takes a toll on my body and tests my spirit. Hair falling out; shaving my head. Physical therapy; no more lymph nodes in my right arm; no more lifting more than ten pounds with my right arm... for the rest of my life. Chemo. IV in my arm every week. Changes in how I taste food. Black, blue, brittle nails. Loss of energy. No hair -- everywhere. The feeling that people, complete strangers, are looking at me and that they know. Thinking that I'm being pitied. The horror of death before my daughter is old enough to remember me. The terror of her growing up without me. Numbness in my fingers and toes. I'm unable to hold a pencil for very long, an ice cream cone, or my phone. Aches and pains everywhere, especially the Mondays after chemo. Endless doctor appointments -- I'm up to three doctors now. Massive amounts of green tea can indeed make you feel better when you're in chemo. It helps too to have a supportive and upbeat oncologist. Radiation. Skin burnt. Energy gone. Daily. Monday to Friday. Thirty-three sessions. My skin looks horrible. It starts to peel, itch, sting. But thankfully my hair is growing back. Sometimes I don't recognize the face looking back at me in the mirror. I'm exhausted. I remember this. Thankfully my radiation oncologist warned me I needed to rest. I remember being exhausted. Yet, I push on. I have a two year old. An amazing husband. A career. A life. I'm alive. My biggest fear: not waking up.

2012: The biggest thing this year -- it's official, Alyssa is an only child. My ovaries are gone. No more pregnancies. No more babies. Alyssa is the one. The perfect one. She's all we need.

January 2013: After all you've been through, you're finally mine. Those were my plastic surgeon's words when we met in his office. It's time for reconstruction surgery. Rebuilding my right breast, removing the left and rebuilding that too, and a tummy tuck because the tissue to reconstruct needs to come from somewhere. It's a big surgery. Bigger than the mastectomy. It's 8-10 hours long. Take that in for a second: 8-10 hours long. That's how long Dennis and the three godmothers to Alyssa waited at the hospital. Three teams of doctors, four days in ICU. My biggest fear: that I wouldn't wake up.

Summer 2013: I woke up. I'm healing. The One-Boobed Diva is alive in spirit -- I will always be a diva but now, physically, I'm starting to feel whole again. I'm still alive. Still no signs of cancer. No more mammograms for the rest of my life. I've dramatically lessened the chances of cancer in my left breast. I'm doing what I can so the cancer I had -- the one they cut out of me almost three years ago -- never returns. I am a survivor. I woke up.

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