I can't remember how I used to do it. How did I get all the kids off to school before I had cancer? How did I think up dinner menus? How did I get everyone to do their chores before I had cancer? How did I ever get all this laundry done? I have a yawning space in my chronological memory, and I'm standing on this side with my toes at the edge, squinting over to the other side trying to see what that Me is doing, but I can't quite make it out.

I'm not even good at buying groceries anymore. Reuben and I went to the store this morning (or was it yesterday?). The list was minimal and basic -- milk, yogurt, bread, shredded cheese, tortillas, etc. Reuben rode in a car cart, and when we got to the check-out stand, the checker gave him a balloon because he was helping put the items on the conveyor belt. He chose green. As I was attaching it to his wrist, the gray-haired lady bagger said, "What happened to your long hair?"

I must have stared blankly at her, because she said, "Didn't you used to have long black hair, really long?" So I explained that I had had cancer treatments and my hair had all fallen out, and this was how it had grown back. "Oh," she said, "it wasn't curly before, so I wondered. What kind of cancer?" So I told her, and she said that her mother had died from pancreatic cancer, and could she help me take my groceries out to the car? "No," I said, "I'm fine, thanks."

On the way to the car, it seemed amazing that the bagger had recognized the current Me as the same body as the previous Me with long hair. She knew who I was. And she hadn't apologized, the way some people do when I tell them, as though they were suddenly ashamed of having asked a question that prompted such an answer. Or as though they wished I hadn't answered it at all, but used some euphemism instead.

I'm not a euphemistic person. I have cancer, and so I will tell people when a small-talk question unexpectedly reveals deeper issues. I am not embarrassed about it; it isn't some secret that I have to hide, but I'm not going to run ads in prominent newspapers either. I've discovered that cancer is ubiquitous; it pops up everywhere I go, everywhere I look, in whatever I read or whomever I talk to. Did I just never notice before?

When I got home and was throwing the grocery list away, I noticed that I had forgotten to buy laundry soap and bread, even though they were right there on the page. And later when I was on my marathon 7-hour taxi driver back-and-forth-with-different-kids-each-time stint, I caught myself thinking, "How on earth did I used to schedule things so I could be home to make dinner?"