The whole encounter with cancer has made me painfully aware of the tenuous hold we have on life. In the grand scheme of things, we may be little more than a grain of sand in the shifting sands of eternity. To ourselves and those close to us, our lives are tremendously valuable. Maybe, at some time, each of us has to confront that mortality and come to terms with it. I talked with an oncology nurse about it a year or so ago. This is what I came away with. I could have been in the plane that was blown up over Scotland several years ago. I wasn't. I could have been in the Oklahoma City building when it was bombed. I wasn't. I was given the gift of life, and a more precious gift can never be given. Each day is a new gift, a new challenge, and a new beginning. I guess that's why sunrises are so special to me - they signify the gift of yet another day and the opportunity for me to make the most of it that I can. I value life more, value my family and friends more, and value my faith more. I have developed a deep and abiding spirituality that sort of combines Christianity and Cartesian philosophy. It makes sense to me. I am and God is...and that's all I really need to believe.

I guess I'm like a warrior. I've seen battle, and know the joy of coming home. I have the scars to prove I was in the fighting. I have a medal of honor hidden within my heart that proves I'm a survivor.

One thing I have to speak to before I end is the difference between a natural menopause and one induced by surgery. A natural menopause is usually spread over a period of five years or so, with a little bit changing at a time. A surgically induced menopause happens suddenly and dramatically. My surgeon from Sloan Kettering compared it to drinking liquor. He said, "If you bought a bottle of Scotch and took a few drops every day for five years, you wouldn't feel anything. You wouldn't be drunk. If you drank that same bottle of Scotch in a two hour period, you would most definitely be drunk, and possibly in danger of alcohol poisoning." That's exactly the way it was. The hot flashes, night sweats, palpitations, and emotional instability hit hard. I couldn't take Premarin to alleviate the symptoms, since it increases the risk of breast cancer, and that is the last thing I want to do. There's no magic cure that I know of, other than the reassurance that this too will pass. And pass it did.

My story would not be complete without telling you about my voice. The surgery was successful, and I no longer whisper and croak. I was given back approximately 80% of my normal voice. I have a pleasant, clear speaking voice, for which I am eternally grateful. However, I shall never sing, yell, laugh out loud, or even hum again. I guess that's a small price to pay to be able to speak normally. I carry a whistle with me just in case I'm ever in a situation where I really need to scream and can't. It's a neon pink child's whistle, but it's not a joke. I do not play with it. I never know when I might really need to use it. Hopefully I won't. Maybe that's one reason I love chat so much - I can LOL without making a sound!

I'm far more conscious of my body, and probably always will be. I learned a lot that I wish I had never known. But most of all, I learned to appreciate the resiliency of the human spirit. Deep within each of us is a well of strength we are unaware we have. But when we need it most, it comes to the surface and keeps us going. I'd like to end with one of my favorite scripture passages, and one which embodies all I have been trying to say on this, my final page. "Faith, hope and love abide, these three, but the greatest of these is love."

I pray this is the end of my story. I pray I will not be adding pages in the future. I pray I will never see a word ending in -plasia or -oma again. Thank you for sharing this with me, and bless you all.