I’ve always had a knack for remembering numbers. First it was my phone number, then my address, then my student ID. Dates have always stuck with me too—my birthday, my mom’s birthday (Friday the 13th…of October!), the day she passed. These are the days that altered my life in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. What follows is a collection of dates that stand out in my memory, a timeline of sorts. Much like a word-a-day desk calendar, I rip each day off and start the next, never fully aware of what the page ahead will hold.
November 25, 2017
I was spending Thanksgiving break with my in-laws when I discovered I had started my period. My husband and I had just begun trying for a baby, and I’d naively assumed it would be easy. So easy, in fact, that I didn’t bring any “time-of-the-month” essentials, confident in my fertility or the presence of a nearby drugstore. Neither assumption mattered—what was truly being tested was my packing skills and my complete lack of awareness of life’s inevitable surprises.
Luckily, I’ve never been shy about nature’s calling, so I called my mother-in-law for assistance. As she unwrapped what could only be described as a cotton brick from the 1980s, I waddled toward the toilet, blissfully unaware that this would be my last period. Ever.
December 23, 2017
During yoga class, while folded in Uttanasana staring at my toes, I noticed unusually dark hair on my big toe. Excited, I rushed home after class to take a pregnancy test.
“Well, NOW what are we going to do?!” I exclaimed to my husband, locking eyes with the two unmistakable lines. My mind raced—changing waistlines, shifting schedules, diapers, sleepless nights. I was in peak shape, poised for a promotion at work, and not remotely ready for a break from life. Still, part of me relished the idea of remaining “in the game.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked, cautious about how I’d react.
“Yes, I mean, of course I did,” I said, “I just didn’t expect it to happen this fast. I’m not fully ready-ready, you know?”
May 30, 2018
A dimple is not just a dimple—not on the face, not on the butt, and certainly not on a breast. As I sat, legs splayed, in all my pregnant glory, I asked my OBGYN to examine a small, fingerprint-sized dimple at 10 o’clock on my left breast.
In surgical circles, breasts are often referred to by clock positions—“What time is it?”—but my doctor was alarmed. Despite another patient being in labor at the same time, he insisted I be rushed to the imaging center. There, I shuffled past twenty-eight women—“aunt Susans,” I thought—waiting for my turn, my sumo-robe-clad belly unmistakably standing out. After an hour-long exploration and a tissue biopsy, I was released to wait and worry on my own.
May 31, 2018
“You have breast cancer. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting to deliver this news,” my doctor said, attempting to explain the unexplainable to someone barely listening.
“Can you please talk to my husband?!” I wailed, handing Glenn the phone, burying my face in my hands. I cried—truly cried—a release I had never experienced before. I usually cried quietly, tucked away, and moved on. But this was different. I was offended, shocked, shaken. Pregnant. In the airport. On vacation. And suddenly, my life felt unrecognizably fragile.
We boarded the plane, soared above the clouds, and I watched the world unfold below. From above, it looked peaceful—murky grey-blue, still, and smooth, masking the chaos underneath.
June 27, 2018
First worry: won’t I be hungry? Surgery rules prohibit eating, but I was pregnant—surely that counted for something. The nurse initially mistook me for a C-section patient, and I hurled my water bottle at her. Not my proudest moment.
With a makeshift Styrofoam cone atop the protruding metal guide wire, I was wheeled to the OR waiting area. My mother-in-law and father barely made it to see me disappear into the unknown. I cried again. Unlike most, I didn’t have anti-anxiety medication to cushion me; I had to face reality in full, sober clarity until it was time.
August 10, 2018
We returned to the hospital to induce labor.
August 12, 2018
A baby was born—healthy, happy, whole. My baby.
September 27, 2018
Chemo loomed ahead. I felt as if I were entering a new camp, a competition I hadn’t volunteered for. I took a selfie, face set in determined scrunch, hair full and straight, ready to confront the challenge.
November 28, 2018
Chemo days were long; the in-between days were shorter, fuzzy, foggy from medication and lingering anxiety. I had stubbornly used a cold cap to save my hair, enduring pain for hours, only to see it fail partially. My worst PTSD episodes trace back to that experience.
I barely remember the chemo sessions themselves—my husband and father were there, I watched videos, ate cookies, napped, shopped, and made fleeting friendships. One session remained, but I couldn’t return. The doctor agreed. I didn’t have to. I only wish we had known earlier. That bell at the end of the hallway, meant for celebration, remained un-rung.
June 4, 2019
Four months post-chemo, I awaited scan results—technically a mammogram and blood test. Yet I already knew the answer; I’d glimpsed the dark shadow on the screen, that silent invader. Cancer had been a ruthless intruder, and we’d removed it surgically, chemically, and with radiation. Could I ever truly be certain it was gone?
As my oncologist explained the tests, I could feel my husband’s worry.
“What’s wrong sweetie? She’s saying good things!” he pleaded.
“I just want someone to tell me I’m okay,” I admitted, realizing that was all I wanted.
“You’re okay. Yes, you are okay,” my oncologist said, relieved.
I melted into a puddle of relief. The journey isn’t over—hormone therapy, lingering PTSD, and chemo’s long-term effects remain—but I had emerged from the thickest woods.
Anniversaries
Every six months, scans remind me to check in. Each time, I’m told I’m okay, and I can pass go. I no longer have to memorize every difficult date. Instead, I celebrate anniversaries—the day I became cancer-free, my son’s birthday, and all the others that are now easy to hold in my heart.
