Tuesday was my birthday. And of the forty-one years I’ve been tooling around this planet, I’d say at least 39-and-a-half have been pretty fabulous. From oft told stories of my colicky youth, I was a pill of a baby… and you all know how crappy 40 turned out to be. Apparently, my hardest days have been the ones I spent unintentionally bald. Maybe it wasn’t reflux and teething after all; I was just a ridiculously vain infant whose wailing could have been waylaid with a wiglet.

But even with supershort man hair, I had a banner birthday. Lovely Susie (former ballerina, inch long eyelashes, unplaceable European accent, Prada beach bag… I feel prettier just being near her) treated me to an afternoon at her pool where we tanned our legs and gossiped around happily splashing children. Later, we accompanied them to seaside bingo and toasted 41 years (and Teddy’s big win!) with bubbles. Bernie arrived and we ate birthday cake with sleepy boys, and then went out for tapas and Prosecco without them. Little dresses, blossoms, and sweet somethings continue to arrive by post. And from Grandma Sharon, lovely and generous Grandma Sharon… a toaster.

I’m sure nothing says 41-and-Cancer-Free quite like the capacity to crisp two bagels at once. I know she’ll forgive a bit of teasing for sending every bride’s least favorite gift, because it’s my mom I’m going to throw under the bus here. I’m sure that it was Grandma Karen who insisted our kitchens were woefully deficient in bread-browning ability. And a Happy Birthday Toaster is just really, really funny. It’s funny because I already own two perfectly usable toasters. It’s funny because my mother hasn’t eaten carbs since that Atkins guy convinced everyone to eat slabs of bacon and bun-less burgers. It’s funny because the Teeny Twin Grandmas talk to each other a minimum of two times a day, often a full score of calls a week, and from these discussions between the two most elegant women I know, somehow the Toaster Notion landed and stuck.

I have a few theories about how the Birthday Toaster idea was launched. The first is the question of what-do-you-get-Britt-who-has-everything-because-Bernie-has-Amazon-Prime? It’s quite flattering to think that after six months of Living with Lees, the only thing my mother finds wanting in our life is a (better) toaster. Apparently our shower curtain rings, eggbeaters, snow scrapers, and napkin holders are up to snuff. The second theory is that the toaster was featured on QVC. My mother is a home shopping network devotee and has the costume jewelry and featured caller bragging rights to prove it. But as the return receipt is from Macy’s, this theory is debunked. The final possibility is that mom noticed that our Cape House toaster appears to work by heating itself to sun-surface temperatures, necessitating another Grandma Karen gadget obsession, toast tongs, to rescue an inexplicably still-limp breakfast. So I suppose I should admit to the likely inspiration for this particular birthday appliance. My toaster sucks. And so does this thank you note. Um… thanks, Aunt Sharon! Sending sweet cinnamon toasty thanks from all of us.

Next week the entire Stockton clan will convene on the Cape for post-Cancer fun. Little Brother Patrick, Grandma Karen and Pop Pop, and Zealot Sister’s Family including her two lovely children (but not her less lovely dogs) will join us for a reunion that has never been this complete. I can’t wait to hear the giggles of pajammied, bunk-bedded cousins, for Uncle Bob to teach everyone The Coffee Song, for Uncle Patrick to take the boys golfing (and endure the umpteenth query about his smoking habit), for Scary Aunt Paige to whip my boys into table-clearing, yes-ma’am-ing shape, and to fill the recycling containers with an embarrassment of bottles. With this many people in the house, Paige is already concerned that I’ll be working too hard chopping, peeling, pouring, and grilling for everyone, but she doesn’t realize how wonderful it is to feel finally up to the task. She also doesn’t realize that I won’t be doing any of that. We’re having toast.

Photoshoppy Birthday card from little boys

A few people have asked if I’m going to stop writing now that it’s “all over.” Sure. Will somebody please let me know when it’s “all over?” Unfortunately (for me, and for those who find incessant blogging tiresome), this crap sorority demands lifetime membership. Heaven help you if you don’t like pink, or blabby, sweaty women with fake boobs. Even our quieter, more elegant members can still get dragged into the secret handshake: a hug from a bald stranger. Just last month, a “sister” stopped me at the florist. I was otherwise minding my own, hatted business when she sidled up to me and shared:

“I was diagnosed two years ago. Look at my hair! When I was bald, a woman came up to me and showed me her long hair two years after treatment. I wanted to do the same for you.”

Very quickly I went from sniffing peonies to sniffly gratitude. So as the patina of chemo remains on my visage, it’s not “over.” Unless I can stifle the need to reassure some future, hairless lady with my own chin-length proof of survival, it’s not “over.” And until some miraculous drug is invented that reduces breast cancer recurrence to zero, it’s not “over.” For the one-in-eight of us, it’s never “over.”

Truthfully, I’m a bit surprised that I still have so much to say. I’m all at once anxious, irritated, and grateful about all sorts of things that don’t include my still-too-short hair. In order to make sense of this post-treatment period, I read Hester Hill Schnipper’s “After Cancer” cover-to-cover and have been roosting in self-satisfied, snarky, you-just-don’t-get-it peace ever since. Beware Women Beyond Treatment. With our post-traumatic stress, and Joan-of-Arc hair, we’re a b*tchy bunch of tamoxifen-toting veterans who can find fault with almost anything you say (and nearly everything uttered by A-Ma). Yes I’m happy to have hair. No, I would never choose this haircut voluntarily. No, I’m not going to keep it gray (I’m 40, not 80), or THIS short. And no, I don’t care if alcohol/non-organic food/the microwave/white pasta/sugar/negative energy causes Cancer. I’m exempt. Just today I found a whole slew of blogging women who one, five, ten years after The Diagnosis are still writing travelogues about Life in Cancerland. And although right now I can relate to their frustrations and fears, I hope that a decade from now I’m less annoyed by people who don’t follow the fragile rules of etiquette in this godforsaken town.

But with my taxes-paid-up citizenship here in Pink Ribbonville, I feel qualified to share a few guidelines to prevent riling up the natives. Obviously, attempting to convince any woman without hair and breasts that “it’s over” doesn’t fly. And I’m not using “chemo-brain” as an excuse. I used to be smarter and more remember-y. Now I’m forgetful and distracted (and sad about it). Although exposure to life threatening illness has made me even less tolerant of pettiness, I’m not less willing to commiserate with you over the difficulty of finding a good plumber. Don’t spare me opportunities to be a friend (even if chemo brain will occasionally make me forget to return your call). And I want to hear any Cancer story that ends well. But maybe don’t compare me to your Auntie Mable who found her lump at age 75. Although it’s sucky bad luck for all of us, Auntie Mable got to live an extra 35 years without this hanging over her. I reserve the right to my own amount of incomparable unfairness.

All of this “is it over?” stuff recently bit me in the face like a Barry Family Dog (too soon?). April and her brood came over for our neighborhood’s Fourth of July fireworks. We let our kids run amok, stuffing themselves with all sorts of otherwise forbidden junk, while we accompanied our people watching with gossip and white wine. All of the sudden I spied Steve Tordone, arguably one of the cutest boys in high school, and someone I haven’t seen in 25 years. Wouldn’t it be fun to go say “hi?” April pushed pause on my friendly zeal, reminding me that any sort of catch up would probably necessitate an explanation for my half-inch of hair. Not that April thinks I don’t look fabulous (I do!), but because I actually, temporarily forgot about my life story, she wanted to make certain I really wanted, in that very moment, to share it. I didn’t. It was because I was having so much carefree, wigless fun that all thoughts of hairless survival had slipped my mind. I’m so glad I didn’t ignorantly walk into an unplanned re-hashing that couldn’t possibly have improved the evening for any of us. April, ever the well-prepared traveler and friend, already read all of the brochures for Cancerland, at times navigating it even better than someone who lives there year-round.

Although those of us in this alternate world of “survival” are forever changed, I don’t actually plan to blog about it for the next decade. And once I have a more reasonable amount of hair, I can go say hello any Steve Tordone in my path without conversation-stopping tales of woe. For me, this will be a bit of an “it’s over” moment for me—when strangers (or cute boys from high school) don’t wonder, and I don’t tell. In the meantime, I could take a cue from little Teddy, who wondered: “Why are you reading about breast cancer? You don’t have breast cancer anymore!”

It was probably just an error of habit, a meaningless gaffe, when the CVS pharmacist asked, “How can I help you, sir?” But you won’t find me without my dangly floral earrings for the remainder of the summer. It’s just so wonderful to go out into the world without a matching hat, and I’ve grown so accustomed to it already, that until I get a double-take (or “sir”), I forget how shockingly modish I look. A lovely woman at the pool, ignorant of my life story, commended me for braving a little boy hairstyle. Bravery, indeed. Courage is my best accessory to a bathing suit and a half-inch of (colorless) hair.

This week is Birthday Week for Bernie and me. Because our 40th birthdays were last year, with their attendant big-time gifts, old friend reunions, (mammogram, biopsies, mastectomies, chemo), and whatnot, this year will be a bit more subdued. Here to celebrate our Yankee Doodle Bernie, A-Ma and A-Gong arrived at their typical late-night hour, toting the entire produce inventory from Flushing, NY and all of the chatty energy derived from six hours of green-tea infused travel. Hungry for dinner and news, I provided both as Bernie donned his professional pajamas and headed back into Boston for a patient with a small emergency. Awake at the wee hours with Asians rifling through my ‘fridge bursting with hairy fruits and bean curd… it’s like old times over here. But poor Bernie had to ring in the start of his 42nd year with a resident who probably hasn’t finished unpacking her UHaul, much less know where the operating room is located… or what to do there.

For anyone in the medical field, Independence Day is met with a bit of trepidation. Every Fourth, A-Ma recounts in startling detail her experience with this fateful holiday, as she delivered her first child into the hands of the most inexperienced staff of the year. An attending pediatrician borrowed Baby Bernie to demonstrate the proper examination of a newborn to green residents… without the permission of the new parents. A-Gong’s panicked, accented insistence that their child was missing from the nursery landed on unsympathetic ears, and they remember their scary search through the ward like it was yesterday. I cringe at the thought of their treatment in 1971 Texas, regardless of the holiday, and then because all ended well, kind of giggle at the idea of A-Ma in a backless gown screaming “Bernie!!!!” (r’s still a pronunciation challenge) through the halls of the hospital.

So you can imagine my horror at the news that Kensley (daughter of Zealot Sister) landed in the emergency room THIS of all mornings. Inexplicably, her dog repaid an indulgent belly rubbing session by biting her in the face. Sweet Kensley called me from her ER stretcher, stifling tears to ask me first of all things if I’m better. I assured her that I am, that stitches don’t hurt (but that lidocaine does), and that there will be an obscene amount of Aunt Britt-sponsored shopping after this ordeal. She will be fine, and remain my beautiful 11 year old niece, only now with a teeny, storied scar and her own tale of bravery in the hospital on the Fourth of July. Today my selfish prayers for faster hair growth to foil further gender misapprehensions are swapped for those that the resident on call knows what he’s doing. For unless it all goes swimmingly, there will be recrimination from both (Scary Aunt) Paige, as well as this Dude (Looks Like A Lady).

My adorable niece

I’m going for it. Black tie function: no Tatum, no hat. Just me, my crew cut, and a certain amount of bravado. None of my elegant evening outfits is improved with a straw fedora or sweltering helmet hair. So I’m hoping these fierce stems will draw attention away from my teeny head and toward my fabulous feet. In a flattering light, maybe this super short ‘do has evolved from chemotherapeutic to… French? Je ne sais pas. It’s entirely possible that this surgically altered body balancing atop platform heels looks like the-drag-queen-lost-his-wig. Trusted girlfriends are vital to these doubting moments in front of the mirror.

Happily, darling Linda has arranged for A Day of Beauty. She will be here soon to deliver me and my sad, drugstore makeup collection into the expert hands of women who paid better attention to their pretty mothers at their toilette. For 25 years I’ve been going out into the world in little more than waterproof mascara and an embarrassment of pink eye shadows. If the event is sufficiently fancy, I’ll still draw blue half moons under my eyes as if everybody plans to Wang Chung tonight. Even if I don’t pick up any new skills today, the helpful staff at Serra will probably insist that I un-learn a few.

I haven’t submitted to expert makeup application since my Chinese Wedding Banquet. Eleven years ago, A-Ma ushered me to the Shiseido store in Flushing, NY, where the only-Mandarin-speaking staff offered me a tray of neon eye shadows and asked me to “pick color!” Eventually they sort of gave up trying to work against my unfamiliar complexion: “Waaah, SO pink!” I think today may go a little differently. Even as a veritable cosmetic rube, I’m actually pretty excited to surrender myself to whatever plucking and powdering they deem necessary. Also this forced mirror-gazing time will be a sort of immersion therapy to get accustomed to baring my un-hatted head in public, and summon my inner Twiggy.

Generous Gretje, a talented photographer, recently extended a lovely invitation to memorialize my shorn self in digital splendor for posterity. Although some women are empowered embracing their hairlessness, and bald-is-beautiful, and beauty is on the inside, and blah blah blah, these women (with their better-shaped heads) are less vain than I. I’m not camera ready. I still startle at the sight of that fuzzy girl in the mirror and am loathe to dredge up the feelings I associate with having no hair: fear, cold, loss. Thankfully, and possibly with the help of too much wine, these memories have already begun to fade.

Tonight is the last graduation dinner of the season, so off we will go to the country club for the final steak-or-fish dinner. There are certainly more unfortunate fashion disasters than really really short hair, but I’m feeling very “…into the fray!” regarding my Tatum-less debut. Somehow Linda knew I’d need the confidence-bolstering effects of looking pretty: a feeling that essentially vanished with my hair. But even without pricy cosmetics, Linda’s unwavering support, her passionate embrace of life, her effortless navigation of the universe toward lovely things, and her spiritual handholding as my Zen role model for trust in God (Beauty, Love, Light) prove that some things cannot be lost. Today Beauty is found not in the mirror, but in a trusted girlfriend… who also happens to be a knock out. Thank you, gorgeous Linda.

Tatum-less Debut

I have forgotten how to drink responsibly. Perhaps I still have a lower tolerance for alcohol, or possibly I’m too eager for celebrations, but on Friday morning dear old friend Ran and I were moving slowly. One bottle didn’t seem like enough of an accompaniment for our kids-are-finally-asleep gossipy reunion, but we failed to cork bottle number two at a reasonable time to all sorts of dizzying, stomach-churning morning effects. At this age hangovers are infrequent, but last much longer than those earned from any similarly boozy, late-night chitchats Ran and I might have shared back in college. And instead of sleeping late and recovering with remedial hash browns at the dining hall, we were met with five children who expected to be fed and sun screened and delivered to the seaside for loud, sunshiny fun. Ugh.

In the very best way, I blame Dad. Ever since I left home, returning (always cause for merriment) would inspire at least one late night of conversation catch up with an immoderate amount of wine. After one particularly indulgent reunion, Dad and I enacted a new rule to prevent especially painful mornings after: no uncorking after 3am. Anyone who has spent an evening at my parent’s house knows we Stocktons enjoy our festive gatherings. So it was in this vein that I approached my celebratory reunion with Ran, who I have known and adored for two decades, but haven’t seen in the past six months. It was bliss. How lovely to toast the end of an icky, bald era with a friend who has been so supportive from afar. At one point Ran offered insight so kind, so poignant, so dear that he brought me to cathartic, this-hell-is-over tears. Wish I could remember what he said. (Kidding aside, it was actually about how bees knees awesome Bernie is… and that my swoony sentiments about him were more comforting than puke-worthy.)

Because I felt responsible for Ran’s greenish hue, I sent him back to bed and corralled all of the children so they could make noise elsewhere. Luckily for me, what most kids want for lunch is perfect hangover food. So as I pilfered poolside French fries and fried chicken fingers, I made a Cancer Graduation Resolution. I’m not going to get drunk with ALL of you. There will be a welcome stream of friends and family here at the Cape this summer: lovely people who need to lay eyes on me to see that these silly words I type are true, that I’m OK, that I’m still me. For the sake of my liver, and to curb my more frequent tendency to dissolve into a puddle of grateful tears, these celebratory reunions should occasionally include alternate beverages. Otherwise, I’m going to miss out on more kind, poignant, dear sentiments because I sauvignon blanc’ed.

The obvious remedy (as it would be fun to get good and schnockered with the lot of you) is to have a gigantic party. There are so many reasons why that would be fabulous, but the one I couldn’t have predicted is that it would, in one fell swoop, bring an end to all of the first-time-I’ve-seen-you-since-chemo reunions that I am unable to divorce from excessive champagne flute-clinking. It would appear that all self-control regarding my approach to festive drinking went the way of my hair. But truth be told, these celebrations inevitably include some re-hashing of the Big Cancer Story and possibly it’s a bit easier to do that emboldened (and numbed) by a glass (or five) of fizzy wine.

All of this reminds me of Big Bryan’s Towel Theory. If my biggest problem is having too many opportunities to be the over-celebrating tipsy girl, then perhaps I really have none (other than the Stockton Family aversion to anything in moderation). But in order to avoid queasy mornings, I should really stop approaching every post-Cancer get-together channeling Liz Imbrie (The Philadelphia Story): “Champagne? I’ve never had enough.”

Me and Ran, giggling without cocktails, 1992

I’ve been waiting for this exact day since December. I’m on the Cape with the boys and no plans other than to acquire tan lines. I’ve relaxed all of the rules so that parenting has morphed into detached bemusement. When Teddy tattles on Brodie for thwacking him with a golf club, I’m too blissed out on my screened porch in a summery breeze to offer anything other than, “Who wants cupcakes?” It actually has the same effect as sequestering them to opposite sides of the house: no more thwacking… but with the added bonus of cupcakes.

The regularly scheduled parenting program will return shortly. Teddy needs to be cured of a bad “yeah” habit, and the ethnic accents he learned on YouTube (thanks, Alice) are going to get all of us into trouble. Abusing sporting equipment as weaponry will be a punishable offence, and the cartoon network, verboten. Soon I’ll be tricking them into solving all sorts of math problems. But today… a short nap, a little more wine.

Earlier this week, my father took mom home. My mother has been at my side for two out of every three weeks since The Diagnosis, but the time has come for me to return her to her husband and life. Grandma Karen has officially completed her laundry-folding, dishwasher-filling, grocery store-running, little boy-chauffeuring call of duty. I haven’t written about my mom, having no idea how to describe how vital she has been to all of us without sounding precious. But even Bernie thinks we should start inventing excuses why she needs to come back. I don’t know more than a handful of men who would happily endorse mother-in-law visits in the absence of tragedy, but Bernie’s whips up a mean hot toddy to cure all that ails and tells him every single morning how handsome and wonderful he is. A man can get used to that.

My mother is essentially All Things Pretty. With her professionally styled hair and never-chipped nails, Mom is perennially ready for the prom. She wears heels to the Star Market and would never leave the house without an umbrella, lest an unplanned drizzle undo her pricy blow-out. (I have a sneaking suspicion that her weather obsession is entirely hair-related.) Mom taught me to dress well for travel, to invest in beautiful evening shoes, to plant flowers everywhere, and to be generous in my definition of cocktail hour. Multiple piercings, exposed bra straps, open car windows, and clogs are anathema to Mom, and she can be harsh in her criticism of things that she considers unlovely. And yet, she faithfully, fearlessly served the House of Ugly without a judgmental peep.

I could devote an entire chapter to Cancer Silver Linings, but one of the brightest would be that my boys were so often under the loving, beautiful care of my mother. Among the best of the (many, many) things Mom did well was to continue being Grandma. In my energy-zapped absence, she checked homework for errors and toothbrushes for evidence of use and many of the other daily drills of Mommy… all without acquiring the less fun trappings of the job. In six months, during which her own little girl felt ill and unattractive, Grandma Karen never once seemed frustrated with the always something demands of small boys. Instead, she remained quintessentially Grandma: offering after-school ice cream, another game of cards, or permission to eat crumbly things in front of the TV. Her bed became the primary destination for wandering boys with bad dreams. There have been moments when the boys were as eager for a lull in the parade of helpful relatives as I have been for longer hair. However when we began talking about Grandma going back to Pennsylvania, my boys didn’t ask “when” she’d be leaving, but “how come?”

Grandma Karen turns 70 tomorrow. She and her twin sister, Sharon (The Teeny Twin Grandmas) will be overdressing for fancy, wine-fueled lunches followed by shopping for pretty, pretty things in Beaufort, SC. It’s too adorable imagining them teetering on their insensible shoes and finishing each other’s sentences on the hunt for ramekins and bobeches and other girly things with ridiculous names. I’m thrilled she’ll be able to celebrate 140 collective years of twin sisterhood without the distraction of thwacking grandsons, and the liberation of being loved and missed, but no longer vitally needed. Knowing these gals will certainly avoid the unwanted calories of birthday sweets in favor of more celebratory spirits, we’ll eat cupcakes in their honor up here. I’ll be toasting mom with my own bubbly beverage, too, ever grateful for her devoted Grandma duty and daily reminders of All Things Pretty in the world… as she personifies them.

Teeny Twin Grandmas
(Karen and Sharon)

I can’t keep up with Linda. No sooner do I drop a thank you note in the mail for an especially thoughtful this or that, than another gift arrives, all timely and needed and perfect in that moment. I don’t know how Linda guessed that my eyelashes are shedding while my eyebrows look like something glued on a sock puppet, but she showed up recently with plans for a day of beauty. It’s definitely time for beauty.

Graduation season has arrived and during the month of June, Bernie and I always have a handful of dinners to attend in honor of residents and fellows (who have been training to treat patients exactly like me). I’m a sucker for these milestone moments, and also any excuse to drink more than I should and gab the night away in expensive shoes. The new body fits well into most of my old formalwear, but it would be nice to have a swish of hair to top it off. I’m getting very impatient (and remaining quite vain) about that. I’ve got a solid crew cut happening, but when I revealed it to my mom to assess its public readiness she was baffled: “…what color is that, exactly?”

So, April will be my guide as to when my colorless hair has grown from chemo-cut to chic-short. Among other things I love about that gal is the fact that she cannot lie; she’ll tell me when I can stop being The Cancer Girl in the Jaunty Hat. Unfortunately I’m still halting otherwise lovely conversations to explain my natty get-up. But unbelievably, there are actually moments when I forget the past six months until someone asks me what’s going on under my fedora. In the meantime, Teddy fully endorses my hedgehog hairstyle: “Hey, you finally look like ME!”

Adorably fuzzy Teddy

As I wait for hair to grow, life has returned to some sort of normal. Last night we had a real party over here with grilled foods, too much wine, and unsupervised children. April’s funny husband was sitting next to me, medicating himself with red wine and beer chasers after a long afternoon of little league torture. At some point there was a dearth of dry towels as small, wet children quit the water fun for dinner, and I lamented the fact that all of the beach towels ended up at the Cape. As April bundled her children into my stained and mismatched wash-the-car rags, Big Bryan admonished me with his usual dry wit: “This. THIS has become your biggest problem. The towels are at the Cape.” True. No more complaints here.

Friday was my final surgery and the event hardly lived up to my dread of it. I thought that being wheeled back into the OR would push play on a montage of scary moments from the past few months. Nope. With Bernie at my side, Maria cherry-picking the staff, and Adam bringing his usual fun approach to an absolute command of the day, I relaxed into their capable hands and drugs. Still a bit loopy from anesthesia, I have a vague sense that I talked to many of you yesterday… but since that’s impossible, I can honestly say I felt your prayers.

With my half inch of fuzzy hair, and new body that seems more can-play-tennis than dance-on-poles, I think I’ve entered the hopeful healing phase. It will be a few more weeks before I can hug you hello, but in the aftermath of my final implant swapping, I feel pretty fantastic. Once again, I’m perched on pillows, napping off narcotics, and enduring the careful cuddles of my boys who are happy to know that this is the last time they’ll need to tip toe around a battered and bandaged mommy.

Last weekend, as Bernie’s sister’s family visited, I did my usual mostest hostess thing, not only because I had the energy to do it (and because their family’s approach to mealtime is gypsy at best), but also because I was desperately trying to distract myself from patchy baldness, shedding eyelashes, and looming surgery. As all of these treatments and side effects wind down to a happy end, I’m worried that a big, emotional meltdown is on the frontier. And as a blotchy, ugly weeping sort, I’d rather be in some control of when the sobbing, grateful relief of finality hits me. In a rare moment of hiding-with-Prosecco-on-the-patio, my four-year-old niece ambushed me with an assortment of talking points:

“Why do you always wear hats?”
“Why didn’t Uncle Bernie get Cancer?”
“Do you have any rainbow hats?”

In addition to at least fifteen more arbitrary questions and observations, this was my favorite declaration, as she coquettishly fingered her pink, sparkly barrette:

“When I grow up, there’s NO WAY I’m taking chemo!”

Good plan, sweet girl. I hope I can be that one-in-eight for all of us. Her innocent take on this made me want to buck up immediately. Should this brand of bad fortune cross her path in the future, maybe she’ll remember Auntie Britt did it grilling food for 18 people in a (not rainbow, but still snazzy) hat.

Here on the other side of silicone, I’m ready for my cancer mortarboard. And like all graduates, I’m brimming with thankful nostalgia and swallowing lumps in my throat with love for all of you. It just so happened (do these things just “happen”?) that our faithful Rector, Dorsey, gave his final sermon this morning before he leaves us to be even more Important as the Bishop of Pittsburgh. It was poor planning to attend this service without Ativan, or at least better answers for Teddy’s rather constant queries in loud stage whispers, “What’s wrong with your eyes? Why is your nose red?” After weeks (months?) of keeping my mixed emotions at bay for the sake of my kids, my friends, the CVS pharmacist, or the eyebrow pencil wielding staff at Sephora, our kind-hearted Rector bade us goodbye with an eleventh hour endorsement for exactly this brand of splotchy, unattractive, and public blubbering.

Dorsey’s message today was that it’s a good and great thing to let our hearts soften in these milestone moments. These are actually Holy Spirit shout-outs, weepy recognition of all the things we’ve been doing right… all that “walking in His ways” stuff that leads to good places. Hardening my heart to its messy effects might have left me with a bit more mascara and dignity, but I couldn’t help but sniffle along with the rest of the congregation and revel in the beauty of a large group of very well dressed people not too proud to honk into hankies. Maybe a bit more than other parishioners lately, I’ve been relying on Dorsey’s Big Guns prayers and the generosity of his flock, neither of which are abandoning me now. Almost at odds with the very fact that our Church is divinely lovely, Dorsey reminded us that its actual location remains earthly. Meanwhile a heavenly “Church” exists in the fellowship between us, the ones we love, and Him… and none of those beautiful things is being ripped away from us to Pittsburgh. On this final Sunday with Dorsey, and at this particular moment for me, I saw it more clearly than ever… through tears.

I’m sick. Not Cancer sick, or chemo sick, or even sick and tired of scratchy Tatum and these ridiculous hats. I just have a cold and by dose is wunny. Having spent all my chits regarding Britty-pity, I’m not expecting speedy noodle soup delivery. It’s quite enough that I have a captive audience and something completely mundane to kvetch about. But if someone could make a bit more tea…

I completed a phone interview with the nosy nurse who needed to check off all of her pre-op boxes before next week’s surgery. Thank goodness she reminded me to curb my recreational drug usage and remove all of my risqué piercings. Poor thing. I didn’t tell her until after the domestic violence screening that yup, my husband is that Dr. Lee. During the whole pleasantly awkward conversation (pre-op nurses are not so jokey), I was stifling my coughs and hoping she thought I always sound this mannish. I don’t want anything to postpone the swapping of these prow-of-a-ship expanders (call me Sea Bitch) for a more reasonably sized silicone set. I’m ready to shut the door on this nonsense, run Tatum up a flagpole, and resume embarrassing myself without the help of prosthetics.

I realize now that Maria will be reading this and won’t let Adam operate on me if I have even the smallest suggestion of sniffles. So obviously, I’m feeling better already. Nope, no fever here! I know I’ll get a text from Momma Maria later, reminding me not to swallow fistfuls of aspirin this close to surgery, inquiring if I really want that noodle soup, or just letting me know for the umpteenth time that she’s thinking of me, and that any cup size query is no one’s business but mine. Maria is The Nurse in Bernie’s office, and she brings her heart-on-a-sleeve, crying-right-along with-you, tell-me-what-you-really-need-ness to all of her patients—even the ones who aren’t the wife of the boss. There are hundreds of us who have unloaded our secret, deepest fears onto Maria. And because I know she carries them in her heart, I often find Maria in my prayers, asking for her to be unburdened of our sadness and terror. I wish we could somehow return the Peace she gifted to us when we so desperately needed it.

Gorgeous Maria, here with Adam: Team B(ritt) Cup

I’ll bet not everyone is lucky enough to have a Maria, but I hope that other women sweating under Tatums do. Next week she will sacrifice another one of her vacation days to babysit me through humiliating backless gown moments, and then make sure Bernie remembers to eat something. She’ll have someone else pick up her son from school, so that I make it home to see mine. Bernie and I will sail through another dreaded day, as Maria sucks up all of our nervous apprehension like some Italian, bustling, bossy Dyson. And should anyone attempt to foil her carefully laid plans for the day, then you’ve got a problem to solve… called Maria.

Just thinking about her and her fierce competence, I feel compelled to drink some juice and get a good night’s sleep. And as my head hits the pillow tonight I hope you’ll join me in saying a prayer for the Marias of the world (especially mine) who take us into their loving hearts and make everything infinitely better. Wuv you, Maria (sniffle).

I received a letter in the mail. A letter! In the mail! As quaint as a corded telephone, this correspondence was sent by the brilliant, venerated, often feared, but fiercely loved Professor John Simmons. Among other gems in this beautifully composed missive was the sweet wish that we’d known each other better back in my decapitate-rats-for-honors college days. In our rekindled friendship, long after graduation, I was delighted to learn that this elegant, eloquent, manner-minding man is not only deeply spiritual, but also charmingly quick to giggle. And even though I spent many pre-med hours in his intimidating classroom and bloody laboratory, he generously affirmed my life choices (quitting medicine to great happiness and effect). But back ‘neath the elms in the early nineties, he certainly wasn’t missing out on anything. Like a smelly cheese, I was unformed and unpalatable young, only improving with the deep blue vein of Life Amongst Asians, (and probably cracker barreling toward a moldering end of self-involved Cancer drivel). Had we shared a bottle of Sancerre twenty years ago, the great Professor would have found me quite dull in my single-minded pursuit of science, degrees, job security, and everything else the expensive education promised. These days, especially with the tongue-loosening effect of chemical menopause, I’m a lot more interesting.

While possibly life-saving, this tamoxifen is one hot little pill. I now understand why my own mother prefers her coffee iced, shirts sleeveless, and thermostat fixed at the same temperature as the produce drawer. As a fair-skinned (former) blonde, I’ve always been quick to flush, or blush, or even break out in nervous hives. Now this happens even when I’m not embarrassing myself. I’m assembling an arsenal of snarky retorts for strangers who helpfully remind me that I should have used sunblock. Bernie combed the internet for tricks to combat side effects which read like advice from an old, warty crone. And feeling quite tapped out regarding sacrifice and fortitude, I’m not forsaking my beloved coffee or taking disgusting oil supplements. I’d rather endure the oscillating temperatures in this edematous fat suit, and resist asking you for the tenth time if it’s hot in here.

My latest writing assignment is to compose a book proposal. So naturally, I’m feeling undue pressure to be extraordinary in the re-telling of this journey from the quaking fear of diagnosis to its sweltering aftermath. I have warm, fuzzy, married-the-right-guy-Holy-Spirit-is-everywhere feelings about the whole thing now, so I’m worried that it will all sound (forgive the appalling, recurrent conceit) cheesy. I need a good argument that this story hasn’t already been told, and begs to be shared. Reviewing the statistics, I’ve got the unique part clinched. Young(ish) people are much less likely to get breast cancer; and although you’d never know it cruising past bus stops in my neighborhood, inter-racial marriage is still uncommon. Whittling down the numbers to women who get this bummer news while being married to a Taiwanese, published-in-breast-cancer-journals plastic surgeon… well, I’m probably the only one with that bumper sticker. Because I’m chatty, and the Family Lee provides a rather constant stream of entertaining material, I occasionally think just recording life as it happens around here might suffice for a diverting, paperback beach read. But at the very least my story is one where the cancer-addled protagonist doesn’t die. I’ve grown quite fond of those.

As I struggle to convince some far-away editor that I’m fabulous, this unsolicited ego-boosting letter from Dr. Simmons was well timed. All writers (and especially fake, bloggy ones like me) need unsolicited ego boosting. Also, it was a reminder of how far I’ve traveled since my undergraduate rat-murdering days when I thought there would be some nirvana career endpoint to all of that assertive schooling. Yet here I sit, bald and unemployed (20 year old me would be horrified), as a much better lunch date than that clever college girl. An aborted career, cute children, helpfully hilarious in-laws, and rediscovered Faith have brought me more joy than the pursuit of academic greatness. Writing these little essays helps me make sense of this life I didn’t plan, or just temporarily deflects the nagging, ever-present question, “Why me?” And as my East Meets Breast story continues to unfold (Bernie’s sister is coming soon… stay tuned) I hope that interest in this survival story endures my recounting of it. In short, (last one) I hope my cheese is peaking.

Just today, beautiful Susan asked me if it’s too soon for cancer walks and other bald-girl bonding. Honestly, because most (normal) people find Cancer sad and terrifying, their stories are inevitably sad and terrifying; add in tedious reporting of cell counts, yellowing fingernails, and nausea remedies, and they’re also a bit boring. Of course I am profoundly indebted to those women who know what it’s like to wonder if their wig (or breasts) are sitting properly, and are not only too willing to share the funny moments, but the very fact that Cancer no longer defines them. But I’m also deeply inspired by the messages of love and support on these Pages, or the casual comments from my cute kids (“Mommy did you become Chinese when you married Daddy?”), or in a real letter from a man too proper to blog, but darling enough to encourage me to continue.

The very handsome, occasionally terrifying, but always stylish… Professor John E. Simmons