I mean, she was nice about it. But, yeah, don't come back.

In 2014, I was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer. In 2017, I had a recurrence. 

I don't have enough space or tissues to tell you about the years of surgeries, scary visits, lost sleep, lost eyebrows, clinical fatigue, PTSD, unbelievable expenses, and grief.

It's also been a time of profound growth. There's nothing quite like your looming (potential) death to make what you want in life super clear. 

What I wanted was to be a better person. To be more gentle with myself and expand my capacity to sit with pain. Mine and others. 

“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

Growth looked a lot like fumbling. I wrote, walked, visited with other cancer patients, took up photography, and lay about binge-watching TV. 

I took an unsparing eye to my life and tried to fix what no longer suited me. 

All the while, I held to the practices that had produced my healthy weight. I ate whole and minimally processed foods made at home. I moved my body every day, mostly walking. I slept as best I could. I limited sugar and alcohol.

I heard it called an anti-inflammatory diet. OK. I can't argue that it's true, but for me, it takes the joy out of feeling really good to give it such a clinical name. I eat food my body understands. Modern processing is metabolic havoc. 

We give short shrift to feeling better from the basics, but as best I can tell, nothing works as well. No cold-pressed juices, superfoods, supplements, or fasting schemes can hold a candle to a daily salad.

I think of these practices as the engine that powers my life.

My good, imperfect, beautiful life that I treasure so profoundly. Now, free from visits to the oncologist–but still plenty of walking and cooking.