I never predicted counseling would be part of my treatment for cancer. I am well-acquainted with the practice of talk therapy -- I have a graduate degree in counselor education and spent seven years counseling college students with presenting issues such as roommate conflicts, alcohol use and abuse, sexual assault, and depression -- but I never envisioned myself on the receiving end of such a relationship, never imagined I would be the one prescribed an anti-depressant and referred for cognitive-behavioral therapy.

Yet I have spent the past two years talking candidly -- and at times weeping uncontrollably -- with a talented young woman who has given me the tools to cope with life in the aftermath of a cancer diagnosis. And on Tuesday, the culmination of these two years will result in one final session. Together, my counselor and I will recount what has happened to me, how I have handled it, how I will proceed for the rest of my life.

At the end of my one-hour session on Tuesday, I will be set free. I will walk the white, sterile halls of a hospital basement, travel in an elevator up one flight, and exit a building I never knew could become so familiar. I will allow the outdoors to greet me, and for the very first time since cancer invaded my life, I will accept the challenge of living forward -- without the therapy that helped save my life.

On Tuesday, my case will be closed. On Tuesday, a new version of my life begins.