1.     Well, I’m done with my active treatments. No more chemo infusions sitting in a pleasantly vibrating chair while trained volunteers offer to massage my feet and hands (yeah, I could write an entire post on that alone) to help take my mind off the fact that they’re actually poisoning me. No more radiation, where I schlep into the doctor’s office every. single. freakin’. day. for six. freakin’. weeks. and watch my skin burn off day by painful day. But I am not “done” done. I’m still taking Tamoxifen for the next 5-10 years. My 8 year olds will be headed to college and my 6 year old begging to borrow the car by the time I’m “done” done. I’ll still be getting mammograms and ultrasounds and MRI’s, oh my, every several months. And let’s not forget the praying, begging and deal-making with God to ensure the cancer doesn’t come back. Of course, calling myself done is a great excuse to celebrate with GNO’s and dinners out, so yeah, I’m done.

2.     I have, as I’ve stated previously, always been a bit obsessed with my hair. After a few weeks of wig-wearing in the heat and humidity of a New England summer once my hair fell out, I decided I would be much more comfortable and significantly less bitchy if I simply went with baseball hats and scarves. I figured that once the weather cooled, I’d go back to wearing wigs. I figured I’d be wearing something on my head for at least a year after treatment was over. Then my hair started to grow back and, with a self-confidence that I have rarely felt, I let my head go au naturel. And people wigged out. (Yeah, yeah, cheap joke). Not because they didn’t like it. But because all they wanted to do was touch my head. Grown-ups and kids alike. Kids usually just start petting me like a dog, but adults hold back, clearly wanting to rub my head like some kind of talisman but afraid of insulting me, until I ask them, “Do you want to touch it?” Folks light up like it’s Christmas morning. People are weird.

3.     What the hell am I going to complain about now? I like complaining. Not because everything in life pisses me off, but rather because complaining is my way of being funny. Snarky, sarcastic, caustic – these are a few of my favorite things. But how the hell am I going to complain now – about school pickup lines and stupid drivers and cheerleader fundraisers – when I never really complained about the cancer? Did my stiff-upper-lippedness during treatment now preclude me from bitching about the mundane? Do I come off as ridiculous if I vent about Boo bags when I didn’t gripe about surgical drains? Screw it. I’ll bitch if I want to.

4.     I’m going to miss napping. A lot. Farewell, my friend.

5.     My first blog post after my diagnosis was entitled Me v. Pink. Because, as I’m sure you all remember, I hate the color pink. I’ve always hated it. I avoid using Pepto-Bismol for tummy troubles because I just can’t stand the color. I’ve made limited exceptions in my life for the color pink, like for my daughter’s favorite pink baby blanket or the bridesmaid’s dress for my best friend. The month of October causes me emotional pain. Everywhere I turn – PINK. Yes, I want to support breast cancer awareness. Yes, the more people know to get screened the fewer people will have to go through what I’ve gone through this year. Yes, raising money through pink-colored consumer goods is a wonderful thing. I just hate the color. And I hate even more that pink no longer reminds me of a wedding where I danced until my dyed shoes turned my feet pink or swaddling my daughter her first night home from the NICU. It just reminds me of the cancer. And that really pisses me off.