On the morning of my cancer diagnosis in October 2009, my husband called from his appointment in another part of our county. He asked whether I wanted him to forego his afternoon meeting and come home to be with me. “No,” I said. “Stay with your normal routine. I don’t want our lives to be defined by breast cancer. This is not who I am.”

How naïve I was. Every conversation these days begins with, “How are you feeling?” Much of the time the news is grim. The two weeks following chemotherapy treatment are marked by bone pain, running migraine, and extreme fatigue. I just begin to feel better when the next treatment begins.

Life these past few months has been about missing things: a friend’s surprise sixtieth birthday party, hearing Condoleezza Rice speak at our local speakers’ series, gatherings over the holidays with family and friends.

I am midway through the chemo treatments (two down and two to go) and have already “lost it.” My husband asked one evening how I was doing. “I’m lonely, bored, and unproductive,” I said, “and too sick, tired, and ugly to do anything about it.” Then I burst into tears.

A booklet from the National Cancer Institute, Chemotherapy and You, notes that, “At some point during chemotherapy you may feel: anxious, depressed, afraid, angry, frustrated, helpless, lonely. It is normal to have (these feelings). After all, living with cancer and getting treatment can be stressful. You may also feel fatigue, which can make it harder to cope with your feelings.”

I have to laugh at the booklet’s suggested remedies. “Relax,” it says. Well, when a patient is knocked flat with pain there’s not much else to do. The next suggestion, “exercise,” is also laughable. When there is not enough energy to cross the street, there is not enough strength to exercise. “Talk with others,” is on the list. That one I’ve done to death. “Join a support group,” the booklet advocates. Heck, if I were well enough to drive myself to a support group I’d drive myself to lunch with a friend instead.

I keep reminding myself that I am only temporarily missing out on things. I am fighting for a rich long life, which will be filled with scores of memorable moments. I pray the fight ends successfully and soon so the whining can end and the living can resume.