Maybe you can relate to that first moment of awareness. When you open one eye and search your dark bedroom for clues. You wonder why it’s so quiet. Did you forget to set your alarm? A rush of panic whistles into your gut. Then you remember that it’s Saturday.

You grin and burrow under your duvet as you leaf through the memory of your dream. You pick up the cell phone on your nightstand to call your lover, just so you can hear his scratchy morning voice. But as you continue your ascent into alertness, you remember. You can’t call. It’s over. Your stomach pulses with pain. You lie there, immobilized by sadness, as you try to process the reality of another day without him.

A year ago, as I counted down to my first day of chemotherapy, that same feeling of dread greeted me every morning. To get through the day, I sent upbeat emails to people announcing my medical leave or met up with girlfriends to drink wine and trade holiday stories. I shopped for new bedding, did my taxes, and organized the clothes in my closet by colour. But as much as I tried to escape, the murmurings of fear took up more and more space in my mind. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. At least that is my excuse…

It’s January 5, 2010 and Sophie and I have just turned onto Ash Street en route to the Cancer Agency. She asks how I feel. I tell her I’m fine. This is just an informational session. I won’t have my first treatment for a couple of days. I tell her that I am living in the moment (yeah right).

We park and as I yank my purse over my shoulder, I hear the pill bottles slam up against each other. When we squeeze into the crowded elevator, I try to keep my bag from swaying (I don’t need a constant auditory reminder about why we are here). On the second floor, I flip through a dog eared magazine from 2007 until I hear my name and we are ushered into a tiny office that smells like re-heated meatloaf. I breathe through my mouth as I open my notebook, pick up my pen, and act interested in my drug lesson.

The nurse asks if I brought my stash and in reply, I line up full containers with words like Apo Prochlorazine, Dexamathasone and Ondansetron on her desk. She hands me stapled sheets with detailed information on six different kinds of drugs (the ones in front of me and the other ones that will slide up my veins in a couple of days). Side effects ranging from diarrhea to mouth sores try to get my attention, but all I see is one word under the heading of the drug Docetacel: Alopecia. I hate that I now know this means baldness. I put down my pen and my vision blurs.

I float through the rest of the appointment and don’t come out of my panic coma until half an hour later when I see the receipt at a nearby pharmacy for my immune boosting drugs. $2149.00 to get me through the first half of chemo. Are you kidding me? The pharmacist shrugs and slides a paper bag full of syringes, alcohol swabs, and little vials (that I must hurry home and refrigerate) across the counter to me. I silently thank the Manulife Insurance Angels for covering this bill. But my gratitude slips as I visualize injecting the contents of these vials into my stomach.

I stumble to the street and watch for Sophie’s black Volvo SUV. She said she would circle the block while I ran into the pharmacy.

A vehicle pulls up; I get in, close the door and keep my eyes down so that Sophie won’t see the tears. The Toyota logo on the grey mat catches my eye. In slow motion, I shift my gaze to the left. A woman wearing a full face visor waves her hands and yells at me. Where did Sophie get the visor and why is she wearing it on a cloudy day? I know something is not right but it takes forever for my brain to catch up. The woman beside me is not speaking English and looks nothing like Sophie. My face explodes with heat. I am in the wrong SUV. I stammer my apologies and try to slip out unnoticed, but ten people waiting for the bus stare me down.

My audience watches in interest as another SUV pulls up and I triple check Sophie’s face before I get in. I tell her to hurry so I can get away from the stares. She asks me what happened and before I reply, I am laughing, a belly-jiggling, mind-freeing laugh. I am laughing so hard that I can barely tell her about how I accidentally car jacked a woman with a box of syringes as my weapon. She probably thinks that cancer has finally made me crazy, but I don’t care. If only for a moment, I have escaped the dread and want to stay in this beautiful moment of laughter forever.