I was 38 years old and minding my own business in 2005. In that year we moved twice, built a new home, changed all the kids’ schools, and had long to-do lists, minor worries, and such. We were in high gear and much too distracted to notice any lumps or any other such nonsense.

    We moved into the dream home, had our open-house party, and settled into the our-life-is-perfect-now phase. But I soon got a feeling that something horrible was going to happen. I told my husband, “I feel like something is going to crash.” We bought a safer car.

    A week later, I found the lump after a long bath. Within seven days, we knew it was cancer. In another week, I had surgery and we found out I would need chemo and other treatments. The list was scary and long. The emotional storm was overwhelming. My kids were young. It was so unfair to them, to my husband, and, of course, to me and all the other women hit by breast cancer.

    Was this fair? Was I some kind of victim here? The threat was so great that I needed Valium to sleep at night. I cried whenever I looked at my children. As I followed my husband’s car home after one of my medical appointments, I thought, There is the greatest guy in the world. He has three young kids and his wife is his soul mate. She has breast cancer. My heart broke for him.

    We told the kids about the “bad cells” and my medicine. We managed the agonizing phone calls to family and friends. We entered into the tired and bald days, the colds, the nosebleeds, the fears, the side effects, the surgeries, and the seemingly thousands of medical appointments.

     Loving jokes were made about my bald head. My new kitten hunted my wigs and bandanas. I learned about fake-breast management. I enjoyed not shaving. I learned how to paint on eyebrows and disguise my lack of eyelashes. I decided I would like to thank whoever invented stool softener. I was the “cancer mom” at the school. I had lots of time to ponder the what-ifs.

    One day near the end of chemo, I was walking the dog, playing the cancer tape in my head. What if I die? What if I suffer? How will that affect my three beautiful children and my adoring husband? How will they make it? Will they remember me? Will they be strong?

    I rationalized the answers. My husband is an exceptional father. There are single parents everywhere. My kids can recover. My family will help. Everything will be okay. Whatever will be, will be.

    Just as I was wrapping up my inner debate, I saw three hawks flying overhead. They were traveling together to some common destination. Silent, perfect flight. I had never seen hawks fly together before. I decided it was a sign. My kids have each other. The three of them are young now, but they are strong and bonded in this experience. As the birds flew off, my load lightened. I was ready to let go of the worry that was strangling me.

    The fear for my family and for myself—well, I had been wanting to throw that overboard since I heard “You have breast cancer.” I’m not saying I am never fearful. Managing fear is like nurturing a marriage—it takes work. I just make it one day at a time, one beautiful smile at a time, one “first” for one of my kids at a time, one good laugh or cry at a time. I have no time for fear.

    I now have a reconstructed life. I am free to do the best I can. I am free to lose the lists and the gripes and the ability to take my health for granted. I am free to be confident.

    I wear a bathing suit in public now. I look great in short hair. I got new breasts—great breasts. I still enjoy being active. I wouldn’t have believed it a year ago, but I now feel better and look better than I have in a very long time. My husband and I enjoy a renewed intimacy. I have also found my real friends and made some new fabulous survivor friends. My kids are stronger and more loving than I ever could have imagined. I am still me, but a survivor me.

    Every piece of my day is a gift. I hope other women on this hard road find more than they lose. I hope they have the courage to live and be at peace. And I hope that soon there will be a cure.