“So I have a question. People keep asking me, ‘so are you in remission? Are you cancer free?’ I know I’m done with my main treatments. I’m a survivor right? But I don’t know the lingo. The proper terms. Am I in remission?”
“You are cancer free. You do not have cancer in your body as far as we know. You have fought. So hard. You have done everything you needed to even given some really hard side effects. You had a hard fight. But you don’t have to fight anymore. You are cancer free. You are not in remission because you had a diagnosis with a cure. So to me, I call you cancer free.”
And with that, I exhaled. I am sure I had a perma-grin for the next two hours at least. You don’t have to fight anymore.
Wow.
I knew the whole time. Why I was doing it all. I knew I was doing chemo. I knew I was dealing with the side effects. I knew I would have surgery and have to recover. I knew I would miss out on so many moments with my boys. I knew I would not be the wife my husband had always known. I knew I’d have to say no to things. I knew I’d have to endure radiation. And I know I still have healing for that. To get rid of the cancer. I knew that. I knew Dr. T told me at the beginning if I made it through it all, I could live a relatively normal life. A normal life as a forever-changed-because-of-cancer survivor.
But I lost sight, at points, of the most important word by the end of it all: cure.
With my diagnosis, I was offered a cure.
What a gift.
For my oncologist to say, “you are cancer free”, we both know what that means. It means that we have done all the protocols and treatments and when they removed the mass and the nodes, they saw true evidence that the chemo worked. And what was left at surgery, they removed. And then blasted the area and all the node areas in my clavicle and arm, and all the tissue in my chest with radiation. Radiation that has left me with an evident char. A char that proves, it was there. That it went to work. Scars that prove the cancer was cut out. Fatigue that proves the chemo and radiation zapped my body. There is evidence that something big has indeed been here. And that, for all medical understanding, that something big has been evicted.
The whole time, I feared, “what if it’s somewhere else?!” but there is no reasoning to think it would be. But then again, there was no reason to think I would have had breast cancer in the first place. I trusted my team immensely. Immensely. But I was still scared.
So, when I sat across from Dr. Tandra yesterday, almost 9 months to the day from the first time I met him, with my three boys playing bumper cars with the wheely stools and he, so patiently, explained what lies ahead, he made me feel like cancer is now something I did. Something I conquered. And for all intents and purposes, I am just as cancer free as anyone else right now (did you know we all have cancer cells in our bodies?). And we don’t need to focus on stats but technically, for the first five years, I have about 3% recurrence rate.
Jeez Louise. I did it. That probably sounds like bragging. But it really isn’t.
Because there’s a very big statement hiding beneath me being cancer free. And it is that we did it.
We.
MY husband. My parents and in-laws. My boys. My siblings and their spouses. My nephews and niece. My aunts, uncles, cousins. My framily. My neighbors. My tribe. My church. My school mom friends. My sorority sisters. My blog community. My writer friends. My former co-workers and board members. God. My prayer warriors. My bible study group. My hometown. My FUBC girls. People I’ve never even met. My care team at Nebraska Medicine — everyone who helped with my treatments and vitals and phone calls {including Jenny}. My pharmacist. The fighters and survivors I’ve met along the way. My moms office and angel nurse, Catherine. People I never even anticipated. The children whose bedtime prayers included me. The “goodness gifters” that have allowed me to spread goodness and give back. The people who stopped me at Barnes and Noble or the grocery store or the Komen event or the Cattlemen’s Ball and said, “you are an inspiration.” And I am always like, “what? An inspiration?” Because YOU. You are all of my inspiration. Do you know that? All of you.
It was Ashli’s Army who did this. We beat this breast cancer, you guys.
You who were with me in ways I never would have known to ask for. You who showed me goodness — daily. I don’t know what to say… Except thank you.
I got to hear the words, cancer free, in part, because you carried me when I couldn’t go on my own.
Dr. Tandra said, “you fought so hard. You never changed you. You so rarely let your attitude go negative. You did everything we asked and more. And you chose to help others along the way. You did great.”
I honestly could not have kept it up without you. All of you.
I know. When I had surgery, they told me that they got all the cancer. So technically then, I was cancer free. But now, having completed the three main steps of my protocol, I feel like I can breathe.
I’m done with my fills of Mr. Lefty. My burn is starting to heal. Herceptin for 5 more months. I go back in July to start my hormone control — Lupron shots once a month to suppress my ovaries and and aromatase inhibitor every day for at least five years. Bone density scans once a year. Reconstruction in 4-6 months and port removal. And otherwise, touch base with my team once every three months. The reminders will still be there. The maintenance.
What is my treatment from here on out? Doc T says: eat the way you eat. Listen to your body. Do the Lupron+aromatase inhibitor to block hormone production. Keep me posted on any side effects. You will slowly get your energy back. Take your normal meds. I’m okay with homeopathic treatments like acupuncture or adjustments — just nothing that goes in the mouth. Exercise, exercise, exercise. Take care of your mental health. And breathe. Enjoy life. Live.
And I must add: keep praying, saying thank you, and spreading goodness.
Is there a chance that I could get cancer again? Absolutely. But I’ve gotten this second chance and I’ll ride that wave as long as I can. I will keep writing. I will keep in touch with my medical team — every three months for awhile. I will exercise and love my body. I will love my husband. Make memories with my boys. Enjoy having four healthy parents. I WILL write a book. I will stop worrying about what people might think of the book. I will live as fully as I can figure out how to do. Because this is our one earthly life. It’s our time to explore. Be adventurers. Spend our time figuring out what we want to be and do. Enjoy the littlest and biggest of things. Be the people we are meant to be in the depths of our hearts and souls.
And thanking my army every single day. For the meals. The coffee. The notes. The gifts. The thoughts and prayers. The love. The messages of solidarity. The everything that I can’t even think of.
I will have hard days. Days where my energy is low. Where my sex drive is shit. Where I have aches and pains. Where I wonder, “what if that pain is cancer” and where I have PTSD from the whole situation. I will need naps. And I will need prayers. I’ll still have moments where I’m frustrated with my kids, worried about my house being messy, and days where I just don’t wanna… the reality is, just because I had cancer doesn’t mean I have eternal perspective. It just means I have a little more gratitude than I did.
I know. I’m waxing poetic at this point. But I finally feel it. I finally feel like I’m not in survival mode. That I’m no longer in fear every second. And that because of all of you, I get to be here. I feel like I can say to my boys, “I am cancer free and I am not going anywhere because of cancer any time soon,” because of you And Nebraska Medicine, Dr. Clinkenbeard (my therapist), and Dr. Saxena (my GP who was smart enough to get this whole ball rolling).
It’s a good day to have a good life. And the gravity of the words, “cancer free” are not weighing me down, but boosting me up today. I feel lucky. Blessed. And for today, not stressed.
And knowing that God moved my mountain.
And always carried hope with me. Every day.
This post is dedicated to Adam. My rock. My best friend. My poop donor. My hand holder. My snuggle buddy. My eternal optimist. And everything a husband and father should be.
