A little over two months before, I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. The doctor told me at that time that I likely had less than five years. My husband and I — parents of a then six-month-old baby — lived in the shadow of that diagnosis until further test results showed that my cancer wasn’t as advanced as initially thought. Six weeks earlier, on Good Friday, I’d undergone a double mastectomy. I’d just finished going through in-vitro, so that I could freeze embryos for a future pregnancy. And the following week, I would start chemotherapy.
All this, and I was happier than anyone else around me, as far as I could see. In fact, I was beaming — I could hardly contain myself.
Why? The reason was really quite simple and yet profound, all at the same time. Because for the first time in nearly three months, I was doing something normal. I was on my way to work, to a client’s office, to finish a newsletter. I was caught in rush hour traffic, drinking my favorite coffee — Tim Horton’s — fixed my favorite way — double-double. All of it was so very ordinary. And that’s what made it so extraordinary.
Oprah says 50 is the new 30. I say ordinary is the new extraordinary.