cancerous love.

Why having cancer is the best way to spend Valentine's Day...

I'm sitting on my couch eating chocolate-covered marshmallows.

But no, there's more.

Firstly, the marshmallows are on a stick. Every food on a stick is, like, 10 times better than its stick-less counterpart. Additionally, and here's the part that makes me superior, I can do it without diet shame. I lost 10 pounds last week. My doctor is ordering me to eat high-caloric foods with absolutely no nutritional fiber. And that's a sweet, chocolate-covered deal.

Also, unlike you, I don't have to lie my way out of a lame invitation to "get all dressed up and not even care that we don't have boyfriends!!" I'll be throwing up from chemo-nausea about the time that your singles sushi arrives, and that's the truth. Sorry, can't make it.

I can cry my eyes out to Boys II Men on repeat. I can pretend to be partner-waltzing around my kitchen. I can even text old dates, and drop things like, "Just wanted to let you know how much fun I had with you!" All without shame. All in the name of living life. Because when you have cancer, every moment is precious. Are you doubting me? Have you ever been told your odds? That's right.

Oh, so by the way, (A, I loved you; M, I still think about that evening in the park; J, I think it's obvious we should get married and be really funny and ministry-like for as long as we both shall live.) Yay, cancer!

Anyway, the real deal with having cancer on Valentine's Day is this: I have to assume that no Valentine's Day will ever be quite as awful as this one. Which does two things. Firstly, every lonely Valentine's before this one suddenly seems great. Man, I've lived a bunch of awesome cancer-less Valentine's Days! Secondly, next year is an endless well of heart-y hope.

And therein lies the magic. Something about the sudden wonderfulness of years past, and the promise of years to come makes this Valentine's Day just a little bit better. Maybe a lot better. Maybe that's the chocolate talking.

Happy Valentine's Day!