. dressed immaculately as always, we chilled out with a glass or two of bubbly as caterers ran to and fro preparing the place for the evening.We were giggling as she went through the plan " hey lets go to the kitchen, and see what we have there".. No signs of chaos here, and against the far wall of the immaculately tiled room stood a trolley table, beautifully dressed and awaiting its centre-piece. We both knew of course what that centrepiece was going to be. As the sun headed towards the snow capped mountain tops, dusting them with flamingo, the birthday boy arrived with his wife. They are a beautiful couple, I am greeted with warm hugs and we catch up on the news from our respective lives over another glass of Laurent Perrier. We snuggle into a friendly knot of chatter as guests begin to arrive, and I am politely introduced. "how lovely to meet you, we have heard so much about you".This may be an assignment, but I feel part of this group of friends despite having met only a handful. Quittingnow would really be like closing the barn gate after the horse was gone,so why put myself through the agony?I don't look in the mirror; I don't need to be reminded of what'shappened to me over the past nine months since my diagnosis. Radiationcost me my hair, and a cheap red wig sits atop my head. I weighed 150pounds before I became ill, probably 25 more than I should have; but Idropped all of that weight and about 15 pounds more, leaving me on theskeletal side.Some days, like today, you'll find me in sweats that are three sizes toobig; other days, I'm in clothes my daughters have outgrown, presentingan odd spectacle of a middle-aged teen. When I think about the gorgeousclothes I once owned, I could cry. But I won't cry, because I don'tdeserve an ounce of pity. You see, even though I've tried to deny it tomyself for decades, I'm a murderer. Who did I kill? The originalMichelle Guptill, though she was a 17-year-old named Michelle Marshallback then. Who was I? A 48-year-old.
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