April 7, 2014 I was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer with spots on my liver and lungs. At this point, you’ve probably heard this story before, so I’m not going to type it out. I would love to say that the reason this blog is up a day late is because I was reflecting on life and what a journey it has been, but, to be honest, I was just too tired to type the last few paragraphs. Hey, I just fought cancer for 2 years; I have a right to be tired.
The past two years of my life have revolved around cancer and the eradication of it from my body. From the moment of my diagnosis until January of this year, I have been hit with various treatments with the goal of shrinking the tumors as much as possible. Last year I wrote a post about how being one year post-diagnosis (aka my cancerversary) felt (which you can read here) while was still in active treatment. This cancerversary feels a lot different; a lot better. As a matter of fact, my bell-ringing ceremony was yesterday, officially marking the end of treatment.
Writing about cancer post-treatment versus still in active treatment is very different. I can use past tense to refer to things that were present tense for so long. I have to stop myself now when I jokingly pull “the c card” by saying “well I have cancer….” because, oh wait, I don’t. The first few months of treatment everything felt so foreign and uncertain. As 2015 progressed, hospital and clinic visits began to feel more natural. But now that I’m out of the cancer universe, life kind of feels weird again. It’s like when you go into a tunnel and the sudden shift to darkness blacks everything out. As you spend more time in the darkness, your eyes start to adjust and you can somewhat see things directly around you. But as you come out of the tunnel into the daylight, the sun blinds you, just like the darkness. It will take your eyes time to adjust again. That’s how I feel right now. I am finally in the sun again, but I’m a little blinded. It’s going to take a while to adjust.
I’m going to share a story that not everyone knows. Three days after my diagnosis, I walked into Blair E. Batson Children’s Hospital for the first time ever. I had an appointment with my surgeon and also my oncologist to discuss the first steps in my course of treatment. I’ll never forget the moment that we walked out of the exam room after talking with my surgeon. He smiled and said, “We’re going to beat this.” I’ll be real. I had googled the survival rates. I had heard stories. I knew this didn’t look good. That didn’t matter to me. So what if the 5-year survival rate is 10%?? Someone has to be in that 10%. Throughout my treatment I held onto those words. I somehow knew that I WAS going to beat this. Maybe that was really naive or I am just a relentless optimist, but I knew that at some point I was going to be told I was cancer-free.
I can never accurately describe my journey to someone who hasn’t experienced the same thing first-hand. Unless you’ve had a life-threatening illness, you’ll never know what it feels like to believe that your body is betraying you. It’s terrifying to think that having the flu with low immunity could be fatal. It was such a blessing that I somehow made it two years with never even having a cold. But for two years, cancer was my everyday life. Since January, that hasn’t been the case. I still think about cancer every day, and I probably always will. I don’t have to plan my life around infusions, surgeries and procedures.
Over the past two years, I have grown so much into the person God created me to be. He knew from the moment He knit me together that cancer was going to be a part of who I am. Without cancer, I would never have known anything about Blair Batson. I wouldn’t know how special a place it is for the children of Mississippi. I wouldn’t have met so many incredible patients, nurses, doctors, and staff brightening the halls of the hospital. I wouldn’t have ever started writing, let alone starting a blog. I would have never shared my testimony in front of 200 people. Cancer is the worst, and I can’t wait to see the end of cancer whether that is on earth or in heaven. Despite the fact that I LOATHE cancer with all of my being, I can’t change the fact that it happened. I’ve embraced how cancer has and will continue to affect my life, and I’m okay with it. The opportunities I have had because of cancer have shaped me into who I am and who I will continue to become.
It feels so fitting that I got a medal at my bell ringing. I’ve been running a marathon, and I’ve finally crossed the finish line!
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