All the Days Before Tomorrow

Chapter 1

chapter

one

If breast cancer has taught me one thing, it’s that bright sides are important.

Generally speaking, my life sucks. I know what you’re thinking: don’t be dramatic!

It can’t be that bad! Life is a miracle, blah blah blah!

If you haven’t been through cancer treatment, I’ll kindly ask you to sit down.

Yes, I’m alive, but my nipples are actually tattoos, my (once long) hair is caught in a permanently awkward growing-out phase, and I’m in temporary menopause (don’t ask).

It’s the silicone tits that are the worst. Completely numb, unnaturally firm, and scarred over like a human Ticket to Ride board.

The bright side, you ask? Bras are now optional.

Another example: the bright side of a legacy wedding invite from a friend who you lost touch with during cancer treatment.

Izumi’s sumptuous invitation arrived in the mail a mere two months ago, despite the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, but it’s still an invite.

I focus on this bright side as I sit in a white folding chair, watching the branches of a massive oak tree sway over the ceremony’s seating area.

I can already tell that it’s going to be a gorgeous event.

A classic white wedding, with bundles of baby’s breath and calla lilies lining the aisle.

We’re in the middle of Lincoln Park, the Chicago skyline splayed out behind the altar, gleaming in the late spring sun.

I used to see Izumi almost every weekend, back when I was the life of the party.

A picture of vitality. The dazzling center of our group’s bottle-service table.

Sure, I sometimes struggled to get my steps in or overdid it with tequila shots.

But I was happy. Healthy. Effervescent, even.

If you ever feel like life has finally settled, just give it time.

The Universe has a way of humbling us all.

At my twenty-eighth birthday party, I was surrounded by friends and had a great boyfriend (Grant) who had an even greater job (investment banking).

I was positively convinced I would be parting ways with my corporate overlords to become a full-time writer by the time I was thirty.

I blew out the candles and sparklers on my birthday cake, took a celebratory shot, and kissed my boyfriend to the roaring cheers of a table full of friends at our favorite club.

A girl could have her birthday cake and eat it too.

Two weeks later, I got a call that changed my life.

For the worse, in case you were expecting this to be a heartwarming tale about a cancer ‘warrior.’ Within two weeks of that call, I was removing my breasts—cancer magnets that they turned out to be—freezing my eggs, undergoing chemo, and having surgery (again) to put two golf-driver-sized implants in my chest. All within eight months.

The calls and the visits from friends started off strong, but it’s tough to keep up with someone who has to move in with their parents in the suburbs and spend a part time job’s worth of hours at the hospital.

Not to mention trying to go on a date with a chemo patient.

Needless to say, things broke down with Grant pretty quickly.

I can’t even fault them. In an alternate timeline, if this had happened to one of my friends, who’s to say I wouldn’t be the one blissfully continuing on with my life in the city?

I like to think I’d visit. Offer to go to treatment with them.

But I only say that in the glow of hindsight.

The Universe took a good look around that birthday party and decided I looked like the schmuck who needed to be knocked on her ass.

“Ruby!” I turn to see Penelope, soft honey-blonde waves floating in the breeze, with her fiancé Josh on her arm.

Pen has over 100K followers, a perfect figure, and a New York Times bestselling poetry collection.

As if that’s not enough, she’s also gorgeous.

She has the WASP trifecta of features: heart-shaped face, ski-slope nose, and blue eyes.

Pair it with the perfect tan, no matter the season, and the final combination is something you can’t stop looking at. Like a diamond or a supernova.

“It’s so good to see you,” Pen gushes. A year ago, I would have confidently told you that she was my best friend.

We met in a young writers group when she was sitting on a paltry 5K followers, both fresh out of college and reeking of that desperation unique to twenty-two-year-olds.

But now, seven years later, Pen’s releasing her second book, and I’m treading water, barely able to stomach looking at my manuscript.

Josh stands there, smiling but silent, probably trying to remember who I am.

His bright red hair is gelled carefully into place, and his nose—a certified schnoz—is splattered with freckles.

We met once, early on in their relationship, pre-cancer.

He’s kind—maybe too kind for Penelope. But the Save the Date I just received in the mail and immediately hung on my fridge says that they’re in it for the long haul.

I imagine them in a sleek River North condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, laughing over martinis, talking about that girl they knew once.

The one who disappeared into medical treatments. What was her name?

This specter of a possible future rattles me into enthusiasm. “So good to see you!” I parrot back, standing up. “You look amazing.” Penelope always looks amazing, but today she’s wearing a slinky Cult Gaia dress that must cost at least a grand. She probably got it for free.

“You too,” she says as she scans my outfit, doing her own inventory of my discount Free People dress. She tugs on a lock of hair I left out of my bobby pins to frame my face. “I love your hair, babe.”

I smooth it down. “Thanks, I’m actually growing it out.”

She nods and sympathy clouds her face for a moment.

Her hair is long, her body toned and nipples just barely outlined in the metallic silver of her dress.

She’s a Greek goddess, momentarily contemplating the fleeting, suffering-filled life of us mortals.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.

“Thank you, I’m really glad I’m here too.” I hype myself up to do what I came to this wedding to do. “I was actually hoping we could—”

“Izumi asked me to speak with the officiant about something before the ceremony.” She steps past me. “But let’s catch up more after!”

“Right—yes! I’ll see you…” Penelope’s already gone.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, my hands caught between a tremor and a shake.

How am I supposed to be in public when a social interaction feels like facing a lion?

My stomach is in knots, and I didn’t even get out the words I practiced in the mirror this morning.

Do you want to grab dinner soon? I repeated it over and over until my desperation balanced into a socially acceptable level of excitement.

After the ceremony, I remind myself, hiding inside the wedding program.

The problem with getting a cancer diagnosis at twenty-eight is that you immediately assume you’re going to die, because that’s what the movies tell you will happen.

There will be a montage of you being reduced to a hairless, pale, sickly shell of yourself.

Friends and family will tend to your bedside, listening to your heartbreaking nuggets of wisdom about life, grief, and love that you share in your final days.

Bonus points if you write letters for people to read after you’re gone!

I’m sure my friends would have jumped on the chance to visit me in the hospital for a dramatic goodbye.

There would have been a gut-wrenching funeral with my family, followed by a chic kickback on Penelope’s roof where everyone would have gathered around a bonfire and told stories about me, cast in the undying gold light of the No longer with us.

But I’m not dying, so everyone was…fine. They sent gift baskets when I was diagnosed and commented on my bell-ringing photos to congratulate me on the end of treatment, but no one seemed to notice—or realize—that surviving treatment was only the beginning.

When the dust settled and my blood cells returned, I was single, practically friendless, living in my parent’s basement.

I was a survivor, as in, I was breathing.

Beyond that medical miracle, I was in a black hole.

I was slipping, at an infinitesimal pace, into nothingness, watching the Universe continue to rotate around me as if nothing was wrong.

As if the gravitational pull of everything I had gone through wasn’t turning me into spaghetti.

My oncologist sent me to a psychiatrist, who promptly diagnosed me with situational depression, and after a thirty minute consult, sent me on my way with a Lexapro prescription.

Once the antidepressant cleared some of the haze, I was able to do what any woman who’s hit rock bottom feels compelled toward: I made a list. The Be Yourself (Again) List. Everything feels conquerable when it’s written down next to a checkbox.

Find a boyfriend again? Sure. Get close with friends again?

Not exactly straightforward, but let’s do it.

Get an agent and sell my first book? Of course—it’s on a list! It must be achievable!