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Aside from the day I was diagnosed, and I realized my life was about to change forever, there were two darkest days. The first was flying to Chattanooga, TN, in early September a few weeks before my double mastectomy, to tell my father “good-bye.” He was in hospice and neither of us were certain we’d ever see each other again.

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The darkest moment in my cancer journey was the day I received the news of my diagnosis. The news came from my doctor in a phone call as I was leaving my uncle’s funeral and on the way to his celebration of life.

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I remember crawling into bed on the evening of my diagnosis to cuddle with my then 3 year old daughter. I stroked her hair and sang softly to her as I had done so many nights before, and all that kept running through my head was, “She’s not going to remember me.”

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“You are not famous enough to write a book about cancer.”

Although not phrased with those exact words, the inference was there. Loud and clear. From other bloggers. From publishing agents. From authors. From experts in the industry. They didn’t mean to be cruel, they wanted me to be realistic.

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