I was undeniably, unretractably, unbelievably middle-aged. I consoled myself with the bleak comfort that at least my thirty-ninth year was over and done with. Nine months before my fortieth birthday I had left my doctor s office with his cancer diagnosis of malignant melanoma, a potentially fatal skin cancer, ringing in one ear and his odd final words ringing in the other, Valerie, the most important advice I can give you about your health today is to be sure you wear your seat belt. Buckle up, I heard. Today is all any of us is guaranteed.
All bets are off on tomorrow.
That year, that last year of my youth, was unlike any I had ever experienced. An operation cut out the cancer, my prognosis was excellent, but to my great distress, I found no cure for the fear that had entered my life with the C word. Despite assurances that I would survive this disease, I slipped into a world where the Androcles sword of cancer and potential death hung over me. My waking thoughts were of cancer. It robbed me of my sleep and my usual sense of well-being.