People who know me well know that my least favorite word in the English language is “sweetbreads.” For me, the name summons a pleasant and savory image of cinnamon rolls, pastries, and banana bread. You cannot even imagine my disappointment when I found out that “sweetbreads” really meant “organ meats.” If there is a more disagreeable culinary bait-and-switch, I do not want to know about it.

As the medical bills have started to roll in, I have begun to feel the same way about the phrase “Explanation of Benefits.” The phrase itself sounds so very happy, suggesting an induction into a secret world where all sorts of good things are coming your way — things so unbelievably good that someone has to explain them to you.

But no. Quite the opposite is true. For one thing, you end up paying money, which hardly seems a benefit. For another, that amount often defies explanation. So for 52 hours of hospitalization, I received this explanation of benefits, complete with a heart:

I am not sure that I have ever felt sicker than when I saw that I was $86,385.10 worth of sick. But I did enjoy thinking about someone at my insurance company combing through Sunday advertising circulars with scissors in hand, googling HOSPITAL COUPONS, and entering an email address to save 15% off her first order — all to uncover discounts of $65,883.13. This makes my own attempts at savings seem lackluster. Granted, the hospital told me that if I paid half my co-pay prior to admission, it would discount that copay by 20%. I did, and it did, and before it billed me for the other half, a collection agency began calling to ask where that other half was. (I drove by the hospital this morning, and I was relieved to see that the lights were still on.)

And even better, there are more explanations of benefits in my future. I am finishing a two-week spree of doctors and tests: a follow-up lung CT, another colonoscopy, a mammogram, a visit to the oncologist. This is an odd world for a patient who formerly visited a doctor simply to take a victory lap upon receiving lab results, who feigned surprise that a lifetime of healthy habits would reap benefits, who would act modest at a blood pressure reading that a 22 year-old would envy. But these are different days, and I repeatedly tell myself so far, so good. When I started feeling bad for myself the other day as I went through my third colonoscopy prep since November, I realized that the dog was having a far worse day, for he had just been neutered. I may have been hungry and running to the bathroom with surprising speed for a woman my age, but at least I was not wearing a cone of shame while doing so.

It has been a welcome surprise that none of this has really bothered me. Paying indecipherable co-pays seems like a small price to pay for being well, going to work, snuggling my puppy, hearing my children’s voices, and holding my husband’s hand. (The fact that I can even pay these co-pays fills me with gratitude.) But I have read that cancer often changes one’s personality, and I can feel that change setting in.

For one thing, I called a realtor. We have lived on the same block for 26 years, and in this particular house for 19. I love my house, and if you were to have to choose it in a police line-up, you would quickly pair it with me. It is light and bright, colorful and full of art. It sometimes borders on having a little too much going on. It sits on an exuberant garden that I have tended for almost two decades. I have painted its walls and sewn its curtains. Its possessions have been lovingly accumulated rather than purchased. The places where the floor squeaks and ts distinctive old house smell are wonderfully familiar. It has seen dogs and children, happiness and grief, many good years and a few I’d rather forget. It has been my home.

I always thought that I would die in this house. But this winter, when I worried that I was staring down the barrel of that very opportunity, it did not seem terribly promising. There were times on the couch, and times even now, that I have toyed with the thought of placing almost all of its contents in a bonfire and lighting a match — with all appropriate permits, of course, because I am still me. Chris and I have tramped through a few homes, and he is not ready to move. I am just as happy to stay here as not. So we will, at least for now.

I have also been able to focus — I mean, really focus — lately. My theory was that the cancer, during its undiagnosed stages, caused all sorts of mental fuzziness and certain lack of clarity. As I am prone to do, I paged Dr. Google, and I found something I did not expect.

There is some research that suggests that certain personality types are more prone to colorectal cancers. An abstract from the Melbourne Colorectal Cancer Study identified these types, controlled for other variables, to be statistically significant: “the elements of denial and repression of anger and of other negative emotions, a commitment to prevailing social norms resulting in the external appearance of a ‘nice’ or ‘good’ person, a suppression of reactions which may offend others[,] and the avoidance of conflict.”

There are studies that suggest otherwise, and other studies that suggest the same thing. There is life with Chris, the Scientific American, who rolls his eyes, smiles politely, and projects an almost visible thought bubble: CANCER IS A CELL MUTATION. There is my daughter — who, when I told her of my plans to paint a still life entirely in yellow, just like Van Gogh did — tells me that this would be wise, for yellow is the color of the chakra that extends from my solar plexus to my navel and that after my diagnosis I clearly need to come to terms with this chakra.

Then there is me. I speak from experience: All of those years that I tried so hard to be and appear perfect felt like something was gnawing at the pit of my stomach. As it turns out, there was, albeit a little farther down and to the left.

I am not mad at that girl. She tried the best she could. (Lord, did she try!) I still have visits from the Ghost of Amy Lee Past, most recently at a Georgia basketball game with my friend Sharon. When the dancers ran out, I noted that with enough Spanx and NSAIDs, I could be one of the dancers. Sharon may have thought I was kidding, but even if it was a joke, I was dead serious. That girl — that overzealous, hard-charging overachiever — got to me this current life, which is far more relaxed and far more calm than even she could ever plan. While the next words came from a Hollywood movie, they are just as true as if they came from a great book of philosophy: Happiness does not come from avoiding unhappiness. My lifetime of struggling to appear to be a perfect person has led to the woman I am now. I am who I am, in all of my imperfect glory.

I have had trouble over the last few months getting dressed in the morning. I have felt old. I have felt sick. I have felt diminished. My brightly colored clothes mock me. I have fought to keep up appearances. My friends have told me that I look subdued. But this morning — this bright and promising morning, a day almost exactly three months after my surgery — I opened the closet door and all of the colors cried insistently in unison, pick me! pick me! pick me! So I did, unwittingly making sure that my chakra was A-OK. This is the person I present to the world. This is the person that I am.

There are so many things in life that seem very important. There are so few things in life that actually are. Gird up your loins. Dress brightly. Take it easy on yourself. And go forward.

ALC