I did not find a lump. There was nothing to feel – just a slight puckering in my skin that appeared on the side of my breast. Something new that led me to follow up on an overdue annual mammogram.

The mammogram led to a diagnosis of stage II breast cancer.

My surgery took place on December 23rd. I was told that I didn't need chemotherapy and considered myself lucky. However, several weeks later, when the pathology report came in, everything changed. My doctors recommended adjunct therapy – I would need chemo.

My New Year had begun.

At the time, I was employed as a social worker on a busy cancer ward, and I knew the language. I had seen the effects of cancer on individuals and their families. I had even coped with cancer in my own family. Now it was my turn to experience cancer, firsthand.

When I started chemo, my symptoms were classic. For several days after a treatment, first thing every morning, I would take a reading of my nausea level. Then, I would scan the fridge for something to eat – anything that might appeal to me and would stay down. I obsessed about food, but the pleasure of eating had vanished along with my taste buds. Nothing was palatable, except white rice.

I knew it was not uncommon to see different reactions amongst family members, friends, and children. Some children withdraw into themselves; others become angry, fearful, and want to avoid the whole situation. So when my teenaged daughter shouted, "yeah, well I'm not going to take care of you when you're sick," I understood. My youngest was upset: " Mom never gets out of bed any more." Another was concerned about appearances, "Mom, why do you have to wear that hat, can't you wear a wig?" I understood my children's struggles. At the ages of seven, 15, and 16, they each had their individual needs and worries about my illness. And as a single parent, my diagnosis of cancer added to my children's issues of loss and security and each responded in their own way.

One day, when I was vomiting in the local grocery store parking lot, my daughter asked, "Mom, when I had cancer, did I throw up?" "Yes," I said calmly. "Good," she said. "If I stopped throwing up, then you will, too!" Yes, we had gone through this many years before when my second daughter was diagnosed with leukemia at age three. She recovered – so could I.

Sometimes my family or friends could not support me, mostly because they had their own fears or didn't understand the complexity of the diagnosis, treatment, and medical system. They felt helpless and would often say the wrong things. I felt I had to spend too much energy taking care of their feelings or explaining the treatment.

It seemed as though my whole life, in those cold winter months, revolved around