Nine years ago this month I recall looking at myself in the mirror and assessing the situation: I was bald. My memory was spotty. I sat down a lot more than I stood up. And I had these crazy, stop-men-in-their-tracks “Fembot” boobs (called spacers) implanted in my chest to help stretch my healing skin and tissue in preparation for breast reconstruction later that fall.

I was done with chemo. I was cancer free. But I knew I still had a lot more fight ahead of me in terms of reconstruction, rehabilitation, re-establishing my career and rebuilding a relationship with my son.

I also knew I would be forever vigilant against recurrence: I would have to see surgeons and oncologists annually for the rest of my life. From there on out, I would be on the defensive against this insidious disease.

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