Four is just a word. So is three. But once again today I will change one word on the welcome page of my website.
“It has been three years since hearing the words ‘You have cancer,'” the first sentence says.
And now, today, it becomes four.
I think about days like the one four years ago — days that start innocently, normally, benignly. In the hours leading up to the mammogram I wasn’t worried about anything.
I think about the sentence that changed my life.
I think of where I’ve been, where I am, where I am going.
I think of those I’ve met along the way: new friends, doctors, nurses, strangers.
I think of those who have died from cancer and other causes since I was diagnosed.
I think of the progress we’ve made and the distance we have yet to go.
I think of what today might bring, and tomorrow.
And then, in a sudden reversal, I stop myself from thinking too much.
“It’s time to go live my life,” I tell myself. Thinking is good, but only so much.
“It’s time to go live my life,” I tell myself…
Right after I change that one word.
To read about the chronology of my diagnosis, go here.