I used to love mirrors. OK, don’t get me wrong. I was never that ego-driven or vain. It wasn’t as if I ever resorted to checking out my reflection in a store window or anything. It’s just that a glance in the mirror kind of reassured me that everything was going the way it was supposed to be; a reniforcement of the fact I didn’t go easy on the red meat or run five miles a day for nothing. I would pass by a mirror and do a quick once over of myself, just to make sure there were no unsightly wrinkles popping up or a paunch catching me off guard. God, how times have changed.

These days, I don’t like to gaze into a mirror unless I absolutely have to. It’s too depressing. Instead of toned muscle and a strong jaw line, I see how thin my face has become, how my collarbone juts out painfully. The old me could kick the new me’s ass, for sure. And my hair. I curse myself for the endless time I’ve said I hated my hair because even imperfect hair is better than none at all. Looking into one of those horrible pieces of glass has become less of a check-in and more of an excuse to throw a giant pity party.

So the days become about how to avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection. As I get out of the shower, I ignore the mirror in the bathroom. When I brush my teeth, I barely give myself a second glance. And seeing that I haven’t been leaving the house for more than an hour at a time, make-up isn’t an issue. If Alice weren’t staying with me, I would have taken every last one of them down, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with how cancer has made me ugly.

Tonight, though, I have no choice but to face my flaws head-on. Bette is giving me a party, one she cautiously asked my permission to throw and her brown eyes were so hopeful I had to agree. What choice do I have but to actually put on a dress, instead of my usual sweats and make myself look half way decen?. As decent as one can possibly look with one breast and a three strands of hair, anyway.