When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I started to jaywalk. Now, I don't mean at-the-corner, within-the-crosswalk, when-the-way-is-clear jaywalking. I'm talking about shooting out between parked cars and darting diagonally across major avenues with no eye on the moving vehicles. If I was going to die of cancer then, clearly, I wasn't going to die of anything else.

This approach seemed strengthened when my two children and I and attended a friend's Passover Seder and went around the table saying why we were thankful. I, for instance, was grateful for the ability to show up and stay awake for the Seder; the holiday fell several weeks into chemotherapy treatment and I was usually the first in the apartment to start snoring. A nine-year-old boy, who appeared cute at first glance, said, "I am thankful I don't have cancer and my mom and dad don't have cancer."

I felt as though I'd been struck by the eleventh plague: the slaying of the first-born mom.

So, I continued rocketing randomly across New York's streets.

Eventually, my then-10-year-old daughter Maya pointed out that I could, in fact, be hit by a car despite the fact that I was planning on dying of cancer. Erratic drivers, after all, have not perused my medical records and were unaware of my condition. Based on their driving patterns, most never considered their own mortality.

Though I regret my daughter's role as advice-giver, I have learned to listen. (Unless it is just before bedtime.) So I began, while not eschewing jaywalking altogether, to pay a little more attention to oncoming cars, buses, trucks, and bicycles. At least when Maya was around.

At about the same time that it registered I could die in a traffic accident, I learned that, statistically speaking, I probably would not die of my cancer. I had Hodgkin's Disease, a type of lymphoma or blood cancer. Even at Stage II, with three tumor sites, I had an 85% chance of surviving for five years. My oncologist explained that his goal for me was not palliative care, avoiding metastasis, or even achieving an extended remission. The goal was cure. I had "the good cancer," a medical oxymoron if I've ever heard one.

Hodgkin's Disease, at least my own personal brand of nodular schlerosis, is not particularly interesting, medically speaking. Effective treatment has existed for about 25 years, which is prehistoric in the history of oncology therapy. And I, or rather my diseased cells, fit the bill precisely. My Reed-Sternberg cells were textbook mutants, or so I have been told. Frankly, I wouldn't recognize a Reed-Sternberg if it walked up and handed me a lollipop.

Banking on my good prognosis, I began to imagine attending my daughter's Bat Mitzvah (what would I wear?) and helping her pick a college (whatever she will do with the English major that seems inevitable for my voracious reader). I started to wonder what my son – who, at age six describes himself not as a little boy but as a "middle guy" – will choose as a career (an architect, perhaps, given his mathematical and artistic talents? Or perhaps a computer game creator, so mom will never again limit his screen time?). I was -- let me whisper this phrase for fear of jinxing myself -- planning ahead.

I joined a cancer support group. I met a woman who calmly explained that she would probably receive chemotherapy "for the rest of her life." I became good friends with another woman whose cancer had metastasized to several organs, many of which were then removed. And I met a few children who had recently lost their mothers to cancer.

I started to feel guilty. How dare I have a good prognosis when so many others were facing such challenges? What right did I have to complain about nausea, fatigue, bone pain, constipation, diarrhea, and weird rashes when I could clearly envision a time that the symptoms would abate? And how could I fret about juggling work, single parenting, and cancer treatment when I intend to continue that circus act for years to come?

Then I finished treatment and tested cancer-free. Along with remission came a decrease in chemotherapy- and radiation-related symptoms (for me, treatment was more painful than cancer). I started to think of myself as a cancer survivor rather than a cancer patient. But what about Lucy, who died leaving a 10-year-old daughter? What about Jane, my closest "partner in cancerhood" who ended my last visit with the words, "I'll try to stay alive long enough for you to come back."

Again, Maya came to the rescue. She pointed out that millions of people do not have cancer – "bad" cancer, mediocre cancer, or even good cancer – and they experience no guilt at all. They feel justified in complaining about the sniffles, a sprained ankle, or a long line at the bank.

I can have the good cancer, Maya explained, and still want the subways to run on time. I can look forward to fine health even as I curse a stubbed toe. And I can enjoy an excellent prognosis and lament that I left my umbrella at home on a rainy day. Because, after all, I can also plan to enjoy many more rainy days. And, at least when the asphalt is slick, I can try to cross at the light. And maybe, just maybe, look both ways.

Beth Leibson is a New York City writer and editor and author of the book I’m Too Young to Have Breast Cancer (LifeLine Press, 2004).