The last six to eight years have been some of the best of my life — so far.
I’ve been a mom to two fabulous toddlers, preschoolers, school-agers and then awesome eight and ten year old girls.
I’ve made, maintained and enjoyed great friendships, hosted and participated in terrifically silly get-togethers, contributed generously to the world of children’s literature and literacy, thoroughly enjoyed four PABs, two PCTOs, one KidLitCon and the online and offline social media scene, and revelled in a whole slew of creative projects.
I’ve taken risks. I’ve grown. I’ve been more truly me than my crazy twenty-something years allowed.
And all the while, that cancer grew.
So, as the end of chemo inches into sight and I nervously ponder my re-integration, I remind myself that I’m not actually an alien among the healthy.
In fact, aside from the effects of the treatments themselves, I’m physically healthier now than I’ve been in six to eight years.
Ignorance was bliss.
But booting cancer and moving on is bound to be better.