Dancing with the Devil (version 2.0)

INDIANAPOLIS - So last week, he says to me with a furrowed brow "We are a little concerned about this one, Heidi" – a little concerned. And well you should be, Dr. George, my wonderful genius oncologist. You thought perhaps you found my old nemesis, my arch-enemy, rival, villain, dark passenger. You suspected that my cancer had returned. Thank heavens, the test just came back ok.

I had it all planned in my head: This time around it will be different. This time, I can take just about any kind of preventative/helpful/make-you-better-sooner medicine because this time when I go through cancer treatment, I am not pregnant. This time, I want as much surgery as I can possibly get. I want to walk out this time looking like Jessica Simpson, if you know what I mean. If I’m going to go all the way, I want to do it looking fab-u-lous. While I’m under for the rest of the mastectomy, what say we toss in a tummy tuck and whatever else you think needs a tune-up? That was my game plan – I had it all worked out just.in.case.

So I am doing the dance with NED. I would really like, God, if at all possible, to see my children (all of them) graduate from college. I know the original request I had was just to meet Noah after chemo, just to see his little face and kiss him. But now I’m getting more selfish. The more I am around my children, the more I like them. And want to see more of them. Call me greedy, but I would like to see how they turn out. And get many more kisses. And hear them call me 'mama' all the time, and ask for cookies and climb on my lap for no reason at all. I have so many sweet little reasons to stick around. So thank you for NED. And for those children.

I have my dancing shoes on, NED. You can spin me around the dance floor. I won’t even mind if you step on my toes, you handsome devil.