One year ago today I came home from the hospital after my big surgery.

For me, breast cancer is divided into two phases: little surgery and big surgery.

The little surgery wasn’t even supposed to be a cancer surgery, but it turned into one when the pathology results came in. After getting the call from my surgeon, who delivered the news as kindly and as succinctly as possible, I put on my shoes and took the dog for a walk, because life goes on. But in my mind, I could hear that famous meme of the auburn-haired lady in the burgundy suit, arms extended revealing batwing sleeves, as she sings, “Surprise, surprise . . . surprise, surprise!”

Three and a half months passed between that first surgery and the second, because there was no rush. A three-millimeter DCIS with clear margins of healthy tissue that had already been removed was no cause for immediate concern any longer. The smallest breast cancer in the world, the surgeon had said. But it was still abnormal: it was still cancer. ER/PR+, intermediate grade. 

I had to choose a treatment option in the event that any rogue cells were left behind.

Radiation? No, thank you. For those who endure radiation, you have my utmost respect, for I heard it makes you extremely tired. I heard it does things to your skin. I heard it can damage your heart and your lungs and various other organs and body parts near the treated area.

I also heard it is administered over the course of several appointments, and I already hate going to doctor visits. Keep me far away from hospitals. I wanted life to go on with as few interruptions as possible.

So what was behind door number two?

A mastectomy, which turned into a bilateral (my choice), because of a mother with a breast cancer history and a paternal grandmother who died from breast cancer and a maternal grandmother who died from ovarian cancer and who also happened to have a brain tumor and both were supposedly unrelated.

All I know is my genetic profile was clear, as is my mother’s, so unless researchers find some new and improved genetic mutation, I’ll just blame it on all the Ogilvie home perms and other various environmental toxins that we were exposed to, the price we pay for living in a delightfully industrialized and warped world.

Plus, big surgery meant fewer appointments in the long run, which meant my life could go on with fewer interruptions.

Big surgery meant I’d think about recurrence far less.

Big surgery meant I could live a freer life.

It was an easy decision.

That overnight hospital stay wasn’t bad at all. I had care from excellent nurses who all deserve to receive a DAISY Award. They made sure I had my food and my pain meds, and they cheered me on as I walked laps around the unit with the best nurse of all by my side.

When I came home, I had that same wonderful nurse, none other than Sweet Husband, who has proven his kindness, patience, and understanding over and over again: first, during those early days of recovery with stripping four drains, tucking me in on the recliner, refilling my water; and later, as I fully healed, my body and mind settling into new patterns of being.

I was fortunate. I didn’t have any setbacks. No infections, allergic reactions, seromas, or other physical complications. The mind, however, is a more tedious organism than even the body, prone to complexities and convolutions that aren’t as easily treated as other physical maladies. My overthinking, perfectionist tendencies are so deeply rooted in my psyche that I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of them, but my cancer diagnosis and subsequent big surgery certainly amputated some gnarly carcinomas of the mind.

The important things of life got boiled down really quickly:

• Make good use of your time. Each day that passes is one less that you have to do what God’s put you here to do. Don’t waste time on drama.
• Be thankful for the basics. It’s okay to pray like a child. In fact, it’s what God prefers. So, thank You, God, for the trees, the sunshine, the flowers, and the water.
• For sloppy dogs and for snobby cats, for fried okra and new potatoes, for comfortable shoes and warm hats and pain-free, restful nights.
• And for Sweet Husband, who never fails to kiss me good night.
• And for family, who don’t take themselves that seriously, who find humor in burned cornbread and loud farts and leaky sinks and good stories.
• And for friends who listen and empathize, who show up with takeout pizza, and who will give a thumbs-up to this rambling but personally-healing post of mine.

And for this great, big warped and highly industrialized cancer-causing world that You still see fit to keep me in. It’s rough sometimes, but it’s not all bad, not by a long shot.

People, we have God, and we have each other, and that’s more than enough blessing than we all deserve.

And life goes on.