Why one woman will not let the disease define who she is.
PUBLISHED: JULY 21, 2017
You would think that I’d know the exact date of the last time I received a chemotherapy treatment, but honestly, I don’t remember.
I’m sure the day was marked on my 2010 calendar, but that calendar, like so many other reminders of that year, is long gone. The things I did keep — the hats my sister sent me, the wigs my parents helped me pick out — are shoved into the dustiest corner of my closet where I am sure to not accidentally run into them in my early morning scramble to get dressed.
It’s not that I forget that in 2009 I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, which was removed (along with anything else that wasn’t nailed down inside me) in early 2010, with 18 weekly chemotherapy treatments following. It’s more like I just don’t think about it. Cancer is a place I visited once, and just never care to go to again. Like the panhandle of Texas. But I still have my journal from that time, with entries like this:
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