I’m an 18.5-year breast cancer survivor. And I’m grateful for every year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second that I’ve been given beyond that terrifying diagnosis.
When I went for my yearly mammogram last week, I found a journal or log in the waiting room. It wasn’t in the initial waiting room where you fill out papers with a #2 pencil. It was in the inner sanctum where you sit, vulnerably half-dressed, trying to hold the flimsy robe on your body,