At the age of 41, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It came completely out of the blue—there were no warning signs, no nagging aches or unusual symptoms—just a mass my doctor had noticed. The diagnosis shook me, of course, but what truly transformed my life wasn’t just the illness itself—it was the journey that followed, especially the period immediately after surgery. Those first moments post-operation changed my perspective on life entirely, in a way I never could have anticipated, and, surprisingly, for the better.
When I first regained some coherence after surgery, I found myself in a hospital room with Brian quietly by my side. Everyone else had kissed me goodbye and gone home. I was in a lot of pain, parched and famished. It must have been the medication, because suddenly my attention was fixed on a white gift bag sitting on the counter.
“What’s that?” I asked, groggy.
“Your dad bought you a few things while you were in surgery,” Brian said.
I motioned for him to bring it closer. I raised my bed, focused, and watched as he revealed the contents: three gifts—a square, a stone, and a scarf.
The square was a small, flat magnet, white and aqua, with the words, “Cancer Sucks. That is All.” Nothing could have summed it up better. Cancer, no matter where it resides or what form it takes, is a shake-up. It unsettles your foundation, rattles your soul, and imposes logistical and financial burdens. It’s scary. And yet, while I cannot control cancer itself, I can control how I respond to it. Some days I repeat this to myself, fully believing it. Other days, I just shrug and mutter, “What-the-heck-ever, sister; this shit sucks.” Either way, it’s okay.
The stone was an oval, polished white with delicate gold lettering that read, “Celebrate Life.” And celebrate, I did. Sometimes that celebration meant belting out Toto’s “Africa” in my car until tears ran down my face—not just from joy, but gratitude that my voice, my gift of expression, had survived surgery. Other times, it meant quietly reveling in the simple pleasure of being alone, breathing, reflecting. Cancer reminded me that life is worth saying “yes” to. Yes to late nights, yes to new shoes, yes to cookies for breakfast, yes to TV marathons with the kids. All of it counts. Life is messy and beautiful, and every little thing is worth celebrating.
Then there were the scarves—two of them, hot pink and aqua. Our summer beach vacation had been planned months before my diagnosis and surgery, and miraculously, my surgeon gave me the green light to go, as long as I kept my incision protected from sun and water. The scarves became my summer armor, my accessories for both protection and joy. I was nervous, of course, but there is something undeniably healing about sinking your feet into sand and walking along the surf. Playing Spoons with my children, watching my daughter triumph in the impromptu championship—it was the kind of happiness that seeps deep into the soul. And yes, I indulged in key lime pie twice a day for a week; if that helped the healing process, I fully endorse it.
I wore those scarves proudly, in bold, mismatched glory. A black-and-white retro one-piece, a large-brimmed black hat, and a hot pink scarf—some may have thought I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. If ever there was a time to let your freak flag fly, it was then. Be bold. Be strange. Be unapologetically yourself.
Over time, I realized that days, much like the waves at the beach, can be unpredictable—some beautiful, some challenging, some just okay. The key is not to judge them too harshly but to let the tide flow, to allow yourself to feel whatever you feel, without guilt or shame. The good, the bad, and the ordinary all have value, and all are okay.
Those three small gifts—a square, a stone, and scarves—became profound lessons about life. We will face times that truly suck. There may be days, weeks, even months of struggle, and it may feel unbearable. But within it all, there is always something to celebrate. Sing in the car, laugh with your children, buy those shoes, eat that cookie, wear that scarf. Celebrate the small victories, embrace your quirks, and honor your life in the best way you can. Because, in the end, life is yours to live—and every bit of it, even the hard parts, is completely, beautifully, and totally okay.
