It was a crisp autumn morning as our family traveled to the doctor's office.  I was complaining of hemorrhoid problems, my husband had an appointment to have a mole removed, my five-year-old son was being tested for strep throat and my three-year-old daughter was along for the ride.  We were spending the day at the clinic -- some families go to the zoo!

After the doctor did my initial exam he asked one of his colleagues, a surgeon, to examine me as well.  I thought, here it comes; I'm going to get the hemorrhoidectomy talk.  The surgeon sent me to the proctology room.  At age 39, I wasn't sure what happened in there but instinctively I wasn't looking forward to it.  He did a rectal and vaginal exam and reported he could see a hemorrhoid along with a tumor.  He decided to perform a biopsy immediately.  In denial, I thought to myself, that must be a nasty looking hemorrhoid.

When the exam was completed my family joined me in his office.  The doctor was almost certain, even with the results of the biopsy, that I had cancer of the rectum.  I was dumbfounded and asked what that meant.  The surgeon pointed to a poster of the intestinal tract and showed us where the tumor was located in the colon.  Directly and unemotionally he explained because of the location of the tumor, I would need to have my rectum removed, part of my vaginal wall removed and reconstructed, a complete hysterectomy and a permanent colostomy.  Then oncologist would determine the kind of chemotherapy and radiation required and I would start a batter of tests immediately after the biopsy was confirmed.  We left the clinic stunned and teary-eyed.

Usually an optimist, I found myself planning my funeral as I drove the three miles to my parents' home to share the details of the doctor's visit.  I poured out all my fears and on the verge of hysteria I questioned my father, a financial planner,, "Will we have enough to live on one income?  How much insurance do we have in case I die?"  After I rambled on awhile he said in his wise calm way, "You know, Brenda, you might live!"  I laughed for the first time that day.  The possibility never entered my mind.  Immediately, I embraced his message and began to change my attitude.

The biopsy results confirmed cancer.  The doctor explained if the cancer had spread into major organs, surgery would not be an option and they would make me comfortable as long as possible with medication.  I went from being repulsed by the idea of a colostomy to being determined to embrace life with joy as an ostomate.  I declared that he and God would make me well because I intended to dance at my children's weddings!  I saw the doctor smile for the first time.

Waking up in the intensive care after my seven-hour surgery with tubes and wires hanging all over, my husband leaned close to me.  I knew he was going to say just the right thing when he said, "Brenda honey, right now you look like the back of my sterio system."  I laughed even though it hurt and that became the way I wanted to face cancer -- openly, honestly, but mostly through laughter.

During recovery, I started planning the things I always wanted to do in my life.  Cancer helped me realize I needed to live in the moment and quit putting things off.  Becoming a comedian was at the top of my list.  I took a class, started writing jokes and a few months later I was performing in clubs around town.  In the process I found I enjoyed sharing stories that enlightened as well as entertained.  All my life I knew I would be speaking about something important; I never thought it would be about my rectum, or shall I say, lack thereof.

The message about cancer is big.  When tragedy strikes, it's hard to think of it as a potential gift, but in my case it has turned out that way.  In October I celebrated five years free from cancer.  I have come to realize in a significant way that when we face mortality, all that matters is the love we give and the love we receive.