My feet are standing firmly on NYC soil. I promised to celebrate this 100th Day milestone no matter what the situation, but never did I imagine I would be celebrating it at home. Two days after I wrote to you about my nagging sense of doom, I went in for another round of labs to check my counts and enzymes. My liver numbers had decreased by half, indicating a downward trend towards the normal range. All other counts were within a range my doctor was happy with. She signed the paperwork and left the room to make copies, pausing to mention, rather nonchalantly that she would be removing my port line in a few minutes. This line was the constant nuisance that jutted out from my chest with three giant color coded lumens. It had prevented me from taking a proper shower, or moving my left arm and shoulder, or sleeping comfortably for seven months. Tears streaming down flushed faces, my mother and I clung to each other, like two penguins in a huddle braving a white windstorm. Only our storm had passed, and we were looking at a clear blue sky ahead.