Still, on a sliding scale of awfulness, if I add up all of the bad things that have happened to my family in the last 12 months, I would put the awfulness at the higher end of the scale. One of my worst years ever. No, make that plain and simple: my worst year ever.
On November 18th, almost to the hour of when we first said, “I do,” we’ll say it again. In front of Elvis, in a little chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard. I’ll be wearing the dress I wore when we got married the first time. He’ll be wearing a Ralph Lauren Ultrasuede jacket that we found at Goodwill last week for $20.00.
I don’t have the “I’m in cancer treatment” look anymore. If you didn’t know me before I went through chemo, you wouldn’t know all that my body has endured. You wouldn’t know that I used to be in better shape or had shoulder length brown hair.
My hair is long enough to pass for NYC chic.
Though I want to sprint to the cancer treatment finish line, to be done with this, and for my body to start healing, I don’t want these next few months to go by too quickly. Because I’ll never get them back. And I don’t want to let cancer steal them away from me.
When I was done I went back out to the bedroom and turned on my iPhone flashlight to check the condition of the sheets. Only a teensy weensy bit of shit had gotten onto my new West Elm sheets. I was relieved and figured I could lay a towel down over the spot and deal with it in the morning.