My Life in Pink

I hate myself. Loathe may be a better word. I loathe myself, but I'm not talking about my human being, my soul, my character. I'm talking about my appearance. I wish I had looked in the mirror more. I wish I had been more aware of my beauty before it all. I'd love to backtrack my life. I'd love to backtrack my body. You know, the old adage - "If I knew then what I know now..." It sounds very vain, but until you've walked this journey, please don't judge. My hair is never coming back. It's brutally thin. I wash it only once a week and never comb it because the hair just pours out in clumps. The first time, I had chemotherapy for four months and then my hair started to grow back. Now I take a chemotherapy pill everyday and will for the rest of my life, or until there's a cure. My hair is never going to rebound. I paint on my eyebrows. I search for lashes upon which my mascara might adhere. Granted I barely ever have to shave my legs.

Today is my birthday. In truth, it's my daughter's 10th birthday. Every year since she was three, I have watched my only daughter, blow out her candles and consume a cupcake for breakfast. It's the annual, birthday breakfast of champions for the O'Brien children. Seven years ago, on Elin's third birthday, our snot-nosed (literally - you should see the photo), daughter asked to eat one of her, prepared-for-preschool, cupcakes for breakfast. It was a simple request. As upstanding parents, who don't feed our children desserts for breakfast, we responded without hesitation. Uh, hell, no. The cupcakes were for daycare and it would be ludicrous to let her to eat one for breakfast. I'm not sure how it happened. It may have been outwardly expressed thoughts of my husband and me. Perhaps they were words telepathically sent across the kitchen. I may have protested. Maybe my husband protested. I have no clear recollection. But somewhere in that kitchen, in