Many a time over the past few months, I've marveled at what a difference a year makes. Looking back, I can hardly believe how much has happened, good and bad, grueling and easier than I expected. One year ago today, on July 30, 2015, I took my first big step toward ridding my body of cancer. The night before my mastectomy, Sean looked at me with loving eyes and said in a kindly concerned but puzzled voice, "It doesn't seem like you're nervous about this." I wasn't. I was so relieved to be starting the process of getting cancer out of me. I was ready. Back then, I figured I'd slog through treatment, heal and get my ex-breast reconstructed as soon as possible. As costly as cancer treatment is, the practical penny-pincher in me wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible. If I got reconstruction in 2016, it wouldn't cost us anything, essentially. Writing this now, I feel foolish to have let health insurance weigh so heavily in such an important decision. I changed my mind during (or after?) the more-painful-than-expected final days of radiation. I decided I'd wait at least a year, maybe even longer. I wanted to regain a grasp on life again. It felt so liberating to look forward to a real summer, some vacation time, holidays that weren't scheduled around doctor's appointments. Then one recent morning, after an invigorating three-mile run, I had an epiphany as I was taking off a fantastically comfortable new sports bra I'd just discovered. Why bother getting reconstructive surgery at all? Ever? I'd been dreading the thought of having to choose which part of my body I'd have to spare to get a great big skin graft: the back of my shoulder (which one?), a butt cheek, or my belly. I'd been dreading the thought of multiple surgeries — the toll it would take on me and my family as I had to brace for each one, then recover. Why bother? Really? So, guess what? I'm not going to. Years from now, the skin-and-bone left side of my chest might bother me more than it does today. If it does, well, I'll reconsider it then. For the time being, I'm just fine with my ridiculously comfortable Hot Shot bras, which have room in little cup sleeves for pads that approximate the shape of my ex-breast. Some folks have wondered if I'd somehow gotten reconstruction already. Fancy that, right? I'm feeling great these days. Happy and full of vigor. I'm swimming and running again. Biking some, too. Sean and I went kayaking, rollerblading, jogging and on a beautiful hike through Seattle's Arboretum during a mid-July staycation, when Sylvia and Tyler spent two weeks with Sean's folks in Pennsylvania and Disney World (yes, they took the kids to Disney World, bless them!). During our luxurious Date Week, we discovered new restaurants, went out with friends, had an impromptu movie-then-dinner date. We worked very little and read more than usual. I got some garden projects going. It was the most stress-relieving time we've had together in more than a decade. Then ... I had five days on my own. Just me, myself and I. I left piles of laundry where they were, barely dirtied or cleaned any dishes, made more progress in the back yard, built my first raised garden bed, saw Ghostbusters, went out to happy hour a time or two, did a little shopping. This! This is my kind of summer. My, what a difference a year makes.