Fear and Courage are Sometimes Hard to Differentiate.

March 2006 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the next six months I underwent surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments. I lost my hair and my appetite.

At the end of the six months I fought back with butterfly flutters to regain the woman I had lost.

The first time I went back into the ocean to go body boarding, I felt like an old woman. I was afraid of medium size waves. I wheezed and my quads burned just from paddling out. I stayed on the inside, afraid.

I missed my fearlessness.

The first time after treatment that I walked the bike path near my home, my husband came with me. The path is beautiful, yet isolated. The four miles that I used to walk in 45 minutes took me an hour and a half. I had to stop and catch my breath along the way. Beads of cold perspiration lined my upper lip. My hands trembled.

I missed my strength.

As I was recovering, I had a huge reaction to the Tamoxophin. I did not realize this, as I thought that the fact that I felt like crap had everything to do with the cancer treatments. I suffered from constipation, depression, insomnia, and lethargy. One morning I woke up with a vertigo that listed me to the side and had one side of my face numb.

I missed being regular and felt like a relic for being preoccupied with my bowel movements.

March 2009 I went to have my three year diagnostic mammogram. I had long since recovered my strength and my regularity. I was probably never going to be completely fearless again, but I was OK.

The mamo became an ultrasound. The ultrasound became an ultrasound guided needle biopsy.....


The biopsy came back fine.

But, for a minute there, I remembered every bit of what it felt like to be diagnosed with cancer. The crossroads had been exposed.

And I was given a reprieve.

My Spring Break last week found me back for my yearly diagnostic mammogram.

I was holding my breath while I sat there in that robe, pretending to read that magazine. I trembled and started inside every time a staff member came around the corner and there was a part of me that dreaded the words, "the radiologist sees something suspicious and would like to do an ultrasound."

But I was told I could go.

And the phone call Monday said everything looked fine and I was good for another year.

I make four years of being a survivor this week.

It's been a bit of a year. I am earning my stripes.

One day at a time.

Yea. Me.

For more spins on "me," head on over to Sprite's Keeper.