An anniversary I'll celebrate

I remember when the call came in. Jen had gone to the doctor to see about the sleep apnea/snoring thing that had given her a mild addiction to Afrin, and after getting her adenoids removed they'd said there's a slight chance it could be cancer.

I remember telling her no way it was cancer. No way. She was only 26 years old. She just needed her tonsils taken out. It was just allergies.

Except it was cancer. A freak of nature kind that normally afflicts people in their 60s. Jen was the youngest person ever diagnosed.

The next few months I watched the lymph nodes in her neck swell so much that they hijacked her heart-shaped face. I watched her rearrange her life in such a way that she could keep her job, be close to family, and be ready when they doctors said it was time for chemo. I entered a pact with her to shave my head if her hair fell out. Then I watched her kick cancer's ass.

You never knew Jen was getting chemo. The only evidence was the port implanted in her chest and the stories she'd tell you about it. Things like how Us Weekly is just no good when you're in the throes of chemo brain and InTouch is way better because it's mostly pictures. Things like how Netflix was a saving grace while sitting through long infusions of drugs and in the days after being poisoned when even taking a shower took every ounce of energy she could muster. Things like how the only foods that sound good are white – potatoes, bread, crackers – but none of them taste good.

Because she is amazing, this rendezvous with cancer summoned in Jen a courage to live life that was already more compelling than most healthy people had. She came to Halloween parties and baby showers between treatments, she went to work and happy hours, she started dating the man she'd ultimately marry. She told me once that they told her to start thinking about egg donation if she ever wanted to have children. Jen is a planner, she is organized and calculated, but in the face of cancer, she shocked me with how at peace she was with letting go of control, with being singularly focused on getting healthy and leaving everything else to chance.

Eight years later, with five years of marriage and two gorgeous baby girls driving the narrative that is her post-cancer life, Jen is still in remission. And every day I am grateful.

A couple of months ago while I was visiting Kentucky, we met up at her mom's so I could finally meet Charlotte, her second daughter who has Jen's sparkly blue eyes and baby fine hair. We sat on the floor and took turns wrangling a baby girl who wanted to play with everything forbidden... stairs, cat toys, electrical outlets. We have been friends for 19 years now. We have gone white water rafting in Virginia and snorkeling in Jamaica. We have gone to Broadway shows and cuddled up on the couch with a glass (okay, maybe a box) of wine to watch Friends. But sitting on the floor with her and her daughter that night in February, watching Jen as she savored the moments in life she always wanted, I was overcome with gratitude – for the person she is, for the life she shares with me, for the joy she brings to this world. There is no one else like Jen, and no one else who so truly deserves all the good life has to give.

Happy 8th anniversary, Jen. I love you.