A year ago today I discovered my cancer had returned. I was now “metastatic”, Stage 4, a patient with dreaded “secondary” cancer.

This awful and terror-filled diagnosis–from two cancerous lymph nodes in my chest– would kick off more tests: a lung biopsy, a full-body PET scan and more. 2019’s breast cancer had spread. Was spreading.

And you know what? A year later I am okay.

I am okay.

Oh, not because the cancer is gone. The reality is that’s not going to happen, but after a very intense year of various treatments, my new oncologist prescribed a treatment I could tolerate. And so…right now I’m doing fine.

A trip to Dana Farber Monday proved it. The tumors are barely growing, which my doctor called “stable.” “Stable” is a very big deal in the cancer world. Last week’s PET scan showed the cancer hadn’t spread. And my doctor confirmed it.

On the way home we stopped to pick up groceries and I bought myself a little cake to celebrate.

Last November was a very, very hard month. December wasn’t much better. And January and February were spent dealing with treatment side effects and being afraid that I was now an invalid. A dying invalid too weak to walk across the living room.

But I’ve learned a few things since then.

First of all, I’m not dead yet. And until that happens, I’m going to live my life with joy and gusto and adventure. My energy returned in August. My baking mojo surfaced two weeks ago. We booked a cruise (from Istanbul to Athens) for April. I am getting ready for once again hosting Thanksgiving. My kids will all be home for Christmas this year. And I’m energetic enough to enjoy it all.

Every day is a gift. I know that sounds trite and overused and makes for pretty memes on Facebook. But…I learned last winter to wake up in the morning and say, “Today I am alive.”

It helped get me through some very bad days.

Secondly, I learned to slow down. Sit down. Look out the windows and watch the boats on the lake. Soak up the mountains. Feel the breeze. Somehow things got done without me doing them. No one starved, Banjo Man took great care of the kitchen and, for the most part, getting together with friends was done in restaurants.

In other words, the world kept on spinning as I put my feet up and read. Or sewed in my little office. Or did nothing. Doing nothing was okay. What a revelation!

And finally, kindness makes all the difference. Highly underrated, yes, but it changes challenging blood tests, scans, treatments, injections and office visits to something tolerable. A smile and a kind word makes a difference, whether you’re in a hospital or the grocery store or simply doing your best to stagger from A to B without bursting into tears.

After learning I was now Stage 4 another huge worry surfaced, one I often sobbed over: would people treat me differently? Would family and friends avoid me because they were sad or scared or didn’t know what to say? Would I be relegated to the social sidelines, declared a terminal invalid who couldn’t possibly participate in fun things?

Of course that didn’t happen. Instead my loved ones and friends treated me the same as always…but with an extra sprinkling of kindness and care and love and thoughtfulness.

It made all the difference to me.

You know who you are.

And at the risk of sounding sappy, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

So…today I am alive. And I am going to eat cake.