My mom taped a calendar to the fridge with all twelve chemo days circled in purple marker, and every time I finished one I got to draw a big teal X through it. This is that calendar, sort of, with extra info.

The cancer center had a TV and a VCR on a rolling cart, and the treatment took a few hours, so I brought a movie every time. Snacks were whatever I could stand that day, which was a very short list. And every single time, somebody drove me there and sat with me and drove me home, because you're not supposed to drive yourself after. Here's every one of them. Thank you. I mean it.

Final score: 12 movies (2 I partly slept through), 12 snacks, 8 different drivers, 31 baseball caps, 1 Porter, 0 regrets about the wig decision.

Then radiation, every weekday for about a month. I didn't keep a calendar for that. It was the same thing every day, and I drove myself, and I listened to the same tape the whole time (my brother's, and I'm not telling you which, because he'd kill me).

And then August, and the scans, and the word CLEAR. Mom took the chemo calendar off the fridge and put it in my baby book. I'm not kidding. It's in there between my first tooth and my kindergarten report card.