Tomorrow marks a full year since my world got mangled. Diagnosis day? Biopsy-versary? Whatever you want to call it, it’s a dubious distinction.

My latest follow-up scan shows no sign of cancer, although the swelling in my throat has not backed down and my voice continues to sound like a raspy, drowning, toad.

It’s in my nature to look back on the past 364 days and account for what has transpired. The last few months have been quite introspective for me, even more than usual, and while I don’t know where to start, it’s been pointed out to me that it would be a good idea to write it down.

I am lost. Utterly rudderless. I sailed out of the storm and into calmer waters, without a map. Cancer, for all its failings, at least gave me a direction. I have a second chance, but doing more of the same seems like such a wasted opportunity.

Work is important. Work generates income, which allows for life’s necessities and luxuries. Now more than ever, work seems like just a means to an end, to me. For years, my work and my career were my identity, or at least a major part of it. If it’s not who I am any longer, what do I want to do to provide for my family’s needs and desires? The options are endless, and some are more reasonable than others, but it seems like the easiest, default route is to just go back to my B.C. career. At least I’m good at it, right? Right?

So here I am, at this strange moment to commemorate, and while I’m grateful that I get to have a life again, whereas so many others in a similar situation may not, I’m at a loss for where to go from here. The answer is out there, I’m sure of it.