Today I met with my oncologist who gave me the best possible news for someone who only ever has bad news to share. Because my tumor was tiny, estrogen responsive, and most likely nowhere else in my body, I’m getting chemo-lite. Instead of 8 cycles, I only have 4. Instead of 16 weeks of treatment, only 12. I’ll be bald, but probably not as pukey. I’ll be tired and weak, but only for four cycles, with plenty of normal, mommy-is-doing-laundry-and-yelling-at-us time in between. I was examined, poked, weighed, measured, and cleared for treatment… starting Friday. (Yikes.)

There’s really no point delaying the poison infusion, or what funny man Steve Safran calls induction into the World’s Worst Sorority. I want to start the clock and get to the other side where survivors wear pink ribbons with pride and perhaps a bit of nostalgia for a hard won battle. Without any pesky immunosuppressive snafus, I could be switching to my favorite poison (champagne) by April.

It will be an especially long Lent, and no one will shout Hallelujah louder than I do at its close. In the meantime, this forum is my dinner out, Starbucks after drop-off, and cocktails before the show. I won’t be going anywhere (other than the hospital) or allowing many visitors during the next 12 weeks. I don’t want to risk infection or do anything that might prolong the course of treatment. To be super careful, we’re (sadly) tossing all of the cut flowers. I’m going to miss the boys’ Public Speaking events, sports visits, Spring Break, the birth of dear Emily’s little boy, my math students, and so much more. But because taking the poison means improving my disease free survival from 83% to 94%, there will be NO guilt in missing these things. I will be far too busy doing the work of staying alive. I think I’ve transitioned into warrior mode. Bald, bruised, and bedridden? Bring it on.

At Bible study last week, Dorsey kindly revealed a beautiful truth about prayer. When faced with dire circumstances, or when feeling spiritually overwhelmed, “go for it… ask for the World.” I love this. There is no judgment in those quiet moments with Him. There’s no rule against for asking for miracles: few and manageable side effects, happy little boys, a positive attitude and strength that convinces everyone I’m fine, and survival. So I’m asking. And so far, all I’m getting is good news.