But now I see my tattoos say the very same thing my old friend’s does–Life Is Not Neat. Stuff happens. Cancer happened–to me.  And when the going got tough I had to grab my broom and start sweeping. I’m still sweeping today.

And so far I’ve found that if I sweep it up the right way, hold on tightly to my broom and keep up with people who make me smile, laugh, and hope–especially old friends with 49 tattoos, then life for this young breast cancer survivor, whether neat or not, is well worth it.

It was my choice to not reconstruct my breasts after my double mastectomy for breast cancer. My husband, when faced with the your-wife-or-her-breasts choice said simply, “Let them go, I want you healthy.”  So I let them go, and all they represented went with them–femininity, sexiness, beauty, not to mention cute clothing choices. I mean, navel-plunging necklines aren’t meant to expose actual navels.  So in between searching for shirts that don’t make me look like a twelve year old boy and tossing the unopened Victoria’s Secret catalog in the recycle bin, I’ve been searching for the true meaning of beauty.  And against all I’d ever believed growing up, I’ve found that real beauty has nothing to do with my chest.  It has to do with everything but–like my laugh (ask my kids), or my smile, (ask my mother) and my kindness (ask my BFFs), and in those cute pants that show off my backside (just ask my husband.) And it has to do with fighting cancer–and so far beating it–and being grateful that I still get to be here to teach my first grader how to tie her shoes.  I thought my femininity, sexiness and beauty rested in the two curves about my navel and the size 34B bras I once owned.  But according to the film festival crowd I spoke in front of last month, and my kids and my friends and all that life is showing me now, beauty really belongs in choices–to be who you are as you are–and to not be afraid to show it.

The chief of breast surgery stresses the importance of mammograms and early detection: “Approximately 200,000 American women are diagnosed with the disease each year. The majority of these cases are treatable and curable, and much of that treatability and curability depends on early detection.”

She emphatically endorses mammograms for women age 40 and older: “It’s still alarming how many women don’t get mammograms or skip for years at a time. Mammograms are essential.”

Six years ago today I stood in a backyard on a sunny day hugging my son so tightly he might have lost his breath. I released him in enough time for him to run down the hill and chase a ball that his 5 year old self desperately wanted to play with–carefree and happy in the knowledge that I was still with him, having just been diagnosed with breast cancer.  What followed was a painful year of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation but we did it–we all did it–my family and I made it to the next Mother’s Day, and the next, and the next and well…here we are.

This morning I hugged that same little boy, now on the threshold of the tween years, before he ran to grab a super-sized styrofoam airplane he desperately wanted to throw in the field.  My cancer is still something my kids, husband and I all think about,  but for the most part we are carefree and happy in the knowledge that while it did take me down breast cancer did not take me out.  I am still here.  I am still a mother to my children.  I still get to open my eyes and see the faces of these little people so desperate to please me on a day like today.  That’s why when they ask me what I want for this big holiday I tell them I already got it.

I got to be here today. That is what I wanted.  And it’s what I hope I’ll always get for Mother’s Day.