In late 1997, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My doctors were confident they could take care of it, and I never assume the worst until given irrefutable proof of same, and so I believed them. I spent about eight months doing the chemo/surgery/chemo/radiation thang, which I documented in a series of articles for the LA Times.

Remission and hair regrowth followed. Yes, it does come in curly. No, it doesn't stay that way.

In 2001, my killjoy doctors told me the cancer had returned, only this time Stage 4 mets to the liver, because I am an overachiever. Despite my pleas that I had a lot of books to write and other pressing deadlines and not enough time for this kind of medical melodrama, they put me back on chemo, a then fairly experimental combo at that point experienced only by about four people, plus a hamster and a guinea pig.

Another eight months, and all kinds of biologically disgusting things that I usually discuss in explicit detail at inappropriate moments later, I was back in remission and potentially in the medical journals.

Four encouraging years later, my Truly Magnificent Doctor and I were punished for our hubris (that is, if one believes that the rules of Greek Tragedy actually govern this cosmos) in doing a happy dance over how very very clever we were, with tests confirming the cancer had again returned to my liver. I knew I shouldn't have cut my hair the week before. I should have worn it in braids while I still had the chance.

Round Three has been dubbed Cancer: The Extended Dance Remix, because it's going on and on and on. Inititally, there were two new chemo combos--two because the first one, after a promising start, stopped working--and I went into remission for a blissful and much too short four months. Enough time for my hair to grow back, though! Oral chemo was next on the agenda along with word that I must now consider my disease chronic, along the lines of diabetes and AIDS. This isn't so much bad news, because it remains better than at least one of the alternatives. In the spirit of adventure and tenacity, I am currently working my way through pretty much every-new-fangled treatment option my doctors can cook up. I intend to collect the whole set. So far, I still have hair.

In between doctor visits, I read and write for a living and I'm getting a Ph.D. in philosophy of religion and theology. Yes, once again I do not have time for all this (medical hoohahs are annoyingly time-consuming), but my doctors are stubborn.

I live with my beloved, my husband Rock Critic Guy. I write about my adventures in a way that is either heroic, freakishly cheerful or not somber enough for such grave circumstances, and usually includes typos because I'm frequently writing while looped. I also write about food.

CancerChick.com is the home for my updates, essays, articles, and more so please come back to visit often.