Happy Cancerversary!

Thirteen years. I love the number 13. I was born on the 13th, turned 13-years-old on the 13th — a Friday. And now, here I am, staring at the 13th anniversary of my breast cancer diagnoses. I thought it was the 11th. Nope, it’s today. March 8th.

I had a very type-A plan for a web site (this web site) launch and book announcement planned for the 11th. Not the 8th. AND NOW IT’S THE 8TH! To-fucking-day!

Hello life. Just as, 13 years ago, SURPRISE, I had breast cancer.

And so, I will wing it. As I do. I will have some deep thoughts about this day — mostly that I don’t love anniversaries of bad things and that I really like to think of my cancerversary as the day my scans were all clear and I was done with treatment (don’t know what day exactly but some time in December of 2006). Because THAT was an awesome day. But this is the official day — the day the doctors give you.

Obviously, I am thankful. Today, I will be extra thankful. I, unlike most years except for the 10th because that was a big deal, will take a moment. I also will jam out my book and web site announcement four days before I planned to! HUZZAH! I will have a shot of tequila in honor of A, who had a shot every Sunday night before her chemo. I will toast Michael and Gary and Susan and Tamas and Gina and all of the people not as lucky as me. I will toast the survivors I know: Zsoka, Hilary, Jerry, Carolyn, to name just a few. And I will toast my husband and daughter, family, and dog who snuggled me through treatment. I will toast my healers, my oncologist, my lymphatic drainage massage therapists, my surgeons, and the techs who did not nuke me to death on a scanning bed. I will toast my friends who brought me food, drove me to chemo, took care of me, and loved me.

I will raise a glass to myself. My seat of my pants, always winging it, never fully understanding or preparing for what is in store in the biggest of moments, but going for it anyways, with a bulleted plan, self.

And, I will recognize that after all of this time, I still really just miss my nipples. I read recently, in a crazy, sex-nerdy, sciencey book called “The Chemistry Between Us: Love, Sex, and the Science of Attraction” (only read it if you’re into laboratory studies — two words: rat clitoris) that a woman’s breasts are a “sexual organ.” Put that in your noggin and marinate over it for a bit. Oddly, I’ve never heard breasts described with those particular words. During a cancer diagnoses, my breasts — my diseased parts — were the LAST thing from a sexual organ. They were bad, scary, could kill me, for fuck’s sake! And now, wow, if I only had them back. I don’t mourn the time spent healing. I don’t mourn the treatment time (oh, the friends we make the friendships we solidify in chemo-spa!). I don’t mourn the time I missed working. I mourn my breasts.

Lastly, I will toast to the beauty, the power, the health (until they weren’t), the fullness, the pleasure giving, the baby-feeding, sexual organs that were my breasts. Here’s to you, girls. Happy Anniversary.

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