This year, I've been asked to write a note to my older self — and to state the age I am writing to.
Piece o' cake, I thought. (That counts as Thought #1)
Thought #2: I'll write a note to my 100-year-old self!
Thought #3: That would mean I didn't die from breast cancer.
Thought #4: I hope that's true, but I don't want to give myself a kenehora.
Thought #5: I know too many people with metastatic cancer who won't live to see 100, let alone 65. Or 50. Or... And what about the ones who don't have mets yet but will? What about them?
Thought #6: I can't do it. I can't pretend to be alive when I don't know if I will be (though I don't know that I won't be).
Thought #7: I still can't do it. I can't in good conscience place myself in old age when so many won't be here with me if I live to be 100.
Thought #8: %$@# cancer.
Thought #9: So don't make yourself so damn old!
Thought #10: Dear 54-year-old me: Go to bed. You need sleep to slay the $#@% cancer dragons.
PS Here's a challenge of a different sort: If you haven't yet read Lisa Bonchek Adams' spot-on post entitled "Some Thoughts About How to Be a Friend to Someone With a Serious Illness," I recommend it highly.