This afternoon I received a “Certificate of Achievement.” It was given to me by my HMO for “having successfully completed ‘A Course of Chemotherapy.’” High fives all around from the roomful of nurses, patients, and my father. With my fourth and final treatment I feel the lifting of an ominous cloud. The worst is over. The radiation, which begins in March and lasts several weeks, is reputed to be much more tolerable.

As I have fought this every step of the way, I found a cartoon in The New Yorker quite appropriate and shared it with my oncologist today. The cartoon shows a doctor reviewing a report with his patient. The caption reads, “You tested positive for being negative.” The oncologist thought it very funny and asked whether he could keep the clipping. I gave it to him.

Whoever first said, “Everything in life is negotiable,” had it exactly right. After my first chemotherapy infusion in early December 2009, I called my oncologist and asked about the severe bone pain I was having. He told me the neupogen shot (which raises the white blood cell count) was probably to blame. So, he cancelled the shot.

After my second infusion the end of December, the exhaustion and migraine persisted. I remembered the oncologist mentioning the possibility of reducing the intensity of the chemo treatments. He told me there was a small amount of wiggle room, but he did reduce it. What a difference that made. I had many more “good days” following the third treatment in mid January.

Still in all, I realize how lucky I am. I have the support of family and friends. One of the country’s foremost oncologists, Dr. Frank Stockdale, co-founder of Stanford University’s breast cancer program, believes I will be fully cured. There are no children at home to raise, no unreasonable employers making demands. My husband’s employer, in fact, sent me a get-well cookie bouquet when all this began in October last year.

I keep thinking of a woman I met at a seminar last fall. The woman had breast cancer. The woman’s daughter, inspired to get a mammogram because of what had happened to her mother, found she had breast cancer as well. The daughter’s sixteen-year-old son had become sullen and rebellious. His attitude was, “Why are you doing this to me, to our family?” How much more difficult going through this experience is for these women.

During one of my infusions, I sat in a room with a woman who had ovarian cancer. She’d received an experimental drug during an earlier treatment. After four months the disease had returned. I asked about her prognosis. “Not good,” she said and grimaced.

Still in all, I realize how lucky I am.