The Eggnog Chronicles by Carly Alexander

reporter,’ one woman explained to the waitress. My daughter turned around and asked me what that meant, and honestly, it launched a period of self-examination. Is that who I am? A disease spokesperson? I don’t want to be defined by a disease. I mean, breast cancer? I want to kick cancer’s ugly butt.”
    Listen to this woman, Jane! I told myself. She’s fighting her disease, fighting instead of hiding! I hadn’t cracked open the thyroid book that Emma gave me, hadn’t done any online research, and I’d been fantasizing ways to avoid the consult with Dr. Parson. I was a big, fat, lily-livered chicken. See Jane run. Run, Jane, run!
    â€œI’m glad we had this opportunity to talk,” I told Antoinette. “You’ve changed since our last interview.”
    â€œSo have you.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes full of light. “What’s different about you, Jane?”
    Tears stung my eyes as the answer struck like a blow to the chest. Cancer.
    Oh, no! This was not the place! But I was already succumbing to Antoinette’s famous silence. I was already crying, lower lip quivering, face scrunched up in that froggy look I despised.
    I swiped at my eyes with the back of one hand and Antoinette was holding tissues out to me, whispering: “It’s okay.”
    Pressing the tissues to my hot tears, I didn’t see any way out of this beyond confession. “I was just diagnosed with cancer. Thyroid cancer.”
    She nodded. “I’m not well-versed on that.”
    â€œNeither am I,” I sobbed.
    â€œBut you’re scared. I understand that. It’s frightening to realize there’s an end to this voyage.”
    I nodded, trying to breathe more evenly.
    Antoinette leaned back in her chair. “That was one of my biggest revelations. None of us gets out alive.”
    I sobbed again, then laughed as her words hit me. She was right. We were all here on a limited warranty. “I never thought of it that way. We’re all going to die. I just never thought it would happen to me.”
    â€œMortality can really suck,” she said. “But when you know that life is limited, you realize how much more valuable it is. It really helped me live for the moment. Awareness of death is the ultimate wake-up call.”
    â€œA wake-up call . . .” With a deep breath, I began to see it, and my recent mantra of “Why me?” morphed to “Why now?” and “Why this way?” I pressed the tissues against my eyes. “God knows, I needed a major kick in the butt.”
    â€œConsider yourself kicked.” Antoinette leaned back in her chair, still keeping eye contact, still maintaining the connection. “And let me know how it goes, Jane. Maybe now you’ll start to enjoy the ride.”

10
    I was no longer kicking and screaming when Emma dragged me to the consultation with Dr. Parson that week. Actually, I’d begun to develop a sort of morbid fascination with thyroid cancer, as if I’d been invited to a train wreck and, though I knew it was risky, I couldn’t help but climb onboard.
    As a result of Emma’s prodding I now knew the four types of thyroid cancer: anaplastic, follicular, medullary, and papillary. In the lottery of carcinomas, apparently I had gotten lucky: papillary cancer is eminently treatable, and patients usually have a normal life expectancy if diagnosis is made early. Emma’s cousin, Keith, had told us that undiagnosed papillary cancer is often found during autopsies of patients who have died of unrelated ailments such as heart disease or stroke. Since this type of thyroid cancer has no symptoms, people can live their entire lives without being affected by it. Keith’s med school stories were of some consolation, though I was still reserving enthusiasm.
    Dr. Parson welcomed Emma and me to his office, then launched into a lecture about the basics of a thyroid. As I watched his pretty