Bonnie

In the quiet dark of a prenatal ultrasound, to the beat, beat, beat of my unborn child's heart, my life changed irreversibly. My husband and I watched the monitor in horror as the technician moved the probe back and forth, over and over again, measuring the tumor that had enveloped my ovary. It was the size of a cantaloupe.

I was seven months pregnant and, after that ultrasound, doctors gave me ten days to prepare for the emergency c-section delivery of my son. Following his birth, they would immediately put me under for exploratory surgery. They told me I wouldn't even be able to hold my newborn before I embarked on the frightening journey that would determine the course of his life. Ten days to wait. Ten days to wonder. Ten days to fear. Ten days in which I went from expectant mother to terrified oncology patient.

In the beat of a heart, everything had changed.

No one forgets the day they are diagnosed. I lay in a Swedish Hospital operating room in Seattle, Washington, holding onto my husband's hand and looking into the sweet eyes of my newly born baby. Nurses then whisked little Nate away, and I slipped into unconsciousness. When I came to, I saw hovering above me the somber face of my oncologist. I could instantly read the verdict of the surgery in the worry lines on his face. I knew then what he later confirmed. I had ovarian cancer.

Leaving the hospital I'd never been more afraid. Not only was I facing a battle for my life, including chemotherapy and a second surgery, but I was also a new mom recovering from a c-section delivery and a complete hysterectomy. In other words, I was depressed, post-partum and menopausal.

I didn't think it could get much worse until I received my first free wig from a cancer-patient support organization. It looked like Don King had designed it. Staring balefully into the bathroom mirror I was trying to decide if I should laugh or cry when I ran head-on into the thought that would get me through my hardest days. What if I did only have a couple of years to live? Did I want to spend them crying and depressed? Or, laughing and loving?

Looking down at my three-year-old son, Kyler, (who was looking at me like I'd just turned purple -- The Amazing Mommy! Now she's bald -- now she's not!), the choice was simple. I had to find a way to laugh, to make the whole experience less scary. I wanted to create normal in the midst of pandemonium.

Certainly I had days full of sadness and fear; no one walks this journey without them. But I also had laughter and the blessings of friendship, family and God -- blessings in unbelievable numbers.

One day during chemotherapy a dear friend turned to me, as I thanked her once again for her help, and said, "You don't have to keep thanking me, Bonnie. When you're better, just give to someone else in need." So I created The Great Thing about Chemo Calendar, created to infuse the lives of cancer patients with humor, while raising thousands of dollars for the American Cancer Society.