Twenty-three years ago today, Alex married an outlier. I was all dressed in white, so I looked like any other bride, but I stood out from the crowd in ways we were too young to understand.

But Alex and I always lived on the outskirts; we did our own thing, or better yet, in the middle. If there were two warring factions, we’d be friends with both sides.

But somewhere, when the kids came, I stopped being such an outlier and tried to be more like the other parents. I had no idea what I was doing, so I looked to others to give me some pointers. I started to appreciate the camaraderie. And dare I say my nonconformist attitude began to gain a twist of people-pleaser. (I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings). Plus, it was fun to fit in.

But cancer pushed all that aside. Like it or not, I had to do my own thing. It was my journey–no one could take it for me.

Alex used to say, “I wish I could do it for you, but I can’t.”

But I loved him too much to want him to have to go through it, anyway. So love got me to the point of acceptance: no one could go through the hell of it but me. And with that truth, breast cancer became my great teacher.

And dear Ann, I know so many fantastic Ann’s and I love you all–it’s something in the name, but Ann S., sent me a bracelet with OTB etched into it (One Tough Bitch). She spent my entire cancer journey reminding me that I’m an OTB, even though I nearly forgot and had to call on the reserves. I used to be an outlier. Back in the day, I might have been tough, once.

And there’s something to be said about us outliers. We make the best comedians. Or at least that’s what I learned when I took a comedy writing class right before discovering I had breast cancer.

Talk about comedic timing. Boobs make great jokes. They are inappropriate. So here I could crack jokes about the one thing no one else would dare talk about in real life.

So breast cancer reminded me of who I am. It toughened me up again. And better yet, I had no filter. I could say whatever I wanted to say and even put Alex at a loss for words.

Or did it? Um–to be honest–I’ve been resorting to my old ways. I haven’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings again. Just the other day, Alex said, “Remember how you used to be your advocate? You’d act like a crazy woman if you had to, but you made sure to get your way. No one was going to mess with you.”

Yeah, what happened to that OTB?

Um, I started to feel less quirky, almost normal. Look what a little hair on top will do, and socialization, oh, to see three-dimensional people again and to hug them. Who cares about being an OTB? And then there’s that filter.

It came back–that people-pleaser with a twist (the best part of a cocktail, I might add).

It wasn’t there; even this summer, I still had diarrhea of the mouth, and I didn’t care who heard me.

I didn’t go through all of this fight to stop being OTB now, did I? Maybe, all along, OTB stood for Off Track Betting and had nothing to do with being tough.

But just this week, I had requested a different physical therapist who could do a better job with my chording. Only the therapist I wanted was too busy for me. So I got stuck with the therapist, who doesn’t know what she’s doing (but almost convinces me that she does until I come home and think about it).

So, I did what I historically would have done; I didn’t say anything. Well, I couldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. Better to be the one annoyed; I could always suck it up. As long as I’m the only one miserable, does it matter?

I had just about convinced myself that my PT doesn’t matter as much as everybody else’s when Alex, who’s been married to me for 23 years today and knows the drill by now, reminded me otherwise.

This year, my breast cancer was supposed to teach me that I matter too. I’m worth fighting for. Oh, right!

And then it happened again. I wanted to get a survivor bell for my hospital; remember they didn’t have one? I imagined it would be the perfect gift to thank the staff for all they’ve done for me this past year. But while researching where to buy one, I accidentally read how some patients don’t approve of the bell.

Some people are on chemo for the rest of their lives, and it depresses them (that other people could be finished with treatment and be so happy).

Hugh? The OTB in me would say–create milestones so those depressed people can ring that bell, too. It’s fun to ring it, no matter the occasion! But I almost didn’t write the nurse practitioner to ask her if I could buy them a bell. I didn’t want to offend those people who are unhappy with us bell ringers.

After much deliberation, maybe there’s hope for the OTB in me yet, I did write the nurse practitioner. And she responded, they already have a bell. Say, what?

How suspicious! When it was my turn to ring that bell, they said they didn’t have one. Did I write the No-Bell Prize in vain?

This year has turned out to be worthless in more ways than one. When I thought I was acting like a crazy woman and getting my way, not caring what anybody thought of me–some OTB I turned out to be!

But I have Alex reminding me that it’s important for history to repeat itself every year when we celebrate our anniversary, but not when I backtrack into old behavior patterns that don’t suit me anymore. That’s when I have Anne to remind me who I am. I can’t stray now. I’m an outlier.

I’m OTB, Ann won’t let me forget it, and neither will Alex, and about that bell…