Yesterday marked fourteen years since I sat in that doctor’s office to hear the words “advanced stage III breast cancer.” I figured I would be dead by Christmas of that year.
Fourteen years. I can hardly believe it.
In years past, I’ve celebrated by going out with friends or Ken to some restaurant or other to celebrate in some small way. Since my gallbladder just came out last Tuesday, I’m swearing off restaurants until my paranoia about them goes away.
Yesterday, I put on my Carhartts and sat in the dirt barking out orders to my son Jonathan : he did a bunch of heavy yardwork for me.
It might not seem like much of a party, but sitting outside in the sunshine? I’ll take it. And some more living, too, please.
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