I had a few years left — or so I thought.
A doctor called me in last April and uttered the words no one wants to hear, especially not a 25-year-old girl still elated at finally landing in New York. I had a tumor the size of a Ping-Pong ball, and it was trying to kill me. My life had come down to this: Ashley against a ball.
After an unsuccessful surgery, a round of fertility treatments, and what I now refer to as the Lost Summer of chemo and radiation, my (by then nine) doctors determined that the healthy cells were again turning back over to the dark side. If I wanted to retain my optimism, it was time for a plan of the non-medical variety.
And here we are.
