Today I finished chemo. One surgery remains. The toxins will leave my body, my hair will grow back, and I’ll get to call myself a survivor.

But aren’t we all survivors if we make it to another day? I don’t know, but I find survivor a strange thing to call myself.

Many people are kind and encouraging and give me lots of credit for being strong and kicking cancer to the curb. But I think it’s just a lot of luck. I didn’t do anything magical to avoid serious side-effects. I’ve been incredibly lucky. I hope I remain so.

And soon my novel will be available (in an e-format) on Amazon.

I’m going from cancer patient to cancer survivor and from unpublished writer to published author.

I ried so long to be published, I’m not sure how to act once it actually happens.

When I was in third grade, a boy I had a crush on would chase me around the class room every Friday after art class when the art teacher wasn’t paying us any attention and our classroom teacher hadn’t returned to the room. For a long time, he never caught me. Then one day another boy grabbed my arm as I dashed by and held me against the classroom cubbyholes. So, the boy chasing me was finally able to catch me.

I’d liked him ever since he’d brought a sheep to class for show-and-tell.

He looked perplexed. He held my arm. It became clear he had no idea what to do. He hadn’t seriously thought he’d catch me, I suppose.

I kicked him and he let go.

Anyway, this publishing thing sort of feels like that. I’ve caught what I wanted and am too surprised to know what to do.

This month I turn 45. That’s a big birthday because my mother died when she was 45. This number has loomed in my life since her death. I was 21 then. This feels like a huge transition to me. Bigger than turning 40.

Turning 40 was amazing. On my birthday I had a party that was also the opening of my very first art show. How wonderful is that?

Thanks for going along with me.

What changes are coming up for you?