No, not my wedding anniversary.

On this day, eighteen years ago, I went to M.D. Anderson Cancer Center to meet with an oncologist for what I thought was going to be a discussion of my treatment plan.  The day ended with me checking into the hospital because the doctors were afraid that I was going to drown in my own effluvia before the night was over.  I had been diagnosed with diffuse large B-cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma, which was apparently contained entirely in a single, large tumor on my right lung.  By the time I had gotten the biopsy to confirm all that, the tumor was so large that I couldn't breathe well and couldn't lie flat.  Though to be fair, it may have been due to the fluid that had built up in my chest as my body tried to protect itself from the tumor, which I named "Cletus".  
Obviously, I did survive that night, and the year of intense chemotherapy that followed.  I lost hair, weight, muscle, and color.  I was a pale, emaciated version of myself that I despised looking at in the mirror.  But, before the end of that first visit, I had already determined that I was going to do whatever the doctors told me I needed to do not to die.  I followed their instructions for the most part, and they held up their end of the bargain; I didn't die.  

It's shocking to think that it's been eighteen years since that happened.  Eighteen years of life I've stolen back from the Grim Reaper.  Do yourselves a favor, dear readers, go enjoy life while you still have it.