Survivorship and Suitcases: Stepping Into the Unknown Twice

My sweet oncologist

The month after my oncologist transitioned me into the survivorship program, my husband and I signed papers on a house in a new city. I didn’t expect that leaving the safety of my cancer team and leaving the familiarity of my hometown would stir up the very same question in my heart: Who am I now?

When my oncologist told me I was being moved into the survivorship program, I smiled politely. I knew this was good news. Survivorship is the place every cancer patient hopes to land. It means active treatment is behind you. It means scans are less frequent. It means life is supposed to return to something resembling normal.

But as I walked to my car that day, keys clutched tightly in my hand, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

I felt untethered.

For months, years really, my cancer treatment center had been my anchor. The waiting room chairs, the familiar faces at the front desk, the quiet efficiency of the infusion nurses, and most of all, my oncologist. She knew my case inside and out. She knew my fears before I spoke them. When something felt off in my body, I could call and know someone who understood my history would respond.

Being transitioned into survivorship felt like someone gently, but firmly, removing the training wheels.

“You’re doing great,” they said. “We’ll see you in six months.”

Six months.

In cancer time, that feels like an eternity.

At almost the same moment this shift was happening, my husband and I were in the middle of buying a house in another city. Boxes were appearing in the corners of our home. Paperwork was piling up on the kitchen table. We were researching new grocery stores, new pharmacies, new doctors.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

In one season, I was leaving behind not just a house, but the place that had carried me through one of the hardest chapters of my life.

Cancer changes the geography of your heart. Certain streets hold memories of radiation appointments. Certain parking spaces feel sacred because you prayed there before walking inside for biopsy results. The walls of my treatment center had witnessed my tears, my flat chest, and my whispered pleas to God in sterile exam rooms.

And now I was being told: You’re okay. You can go.

At the same time, I was packing up my life.

Moving to a new city is unsettling under the best of circumstances. You leave behind your favorite cashier at the grocery store who always asks about your family. You leave the pharmacist who knows your medication history by heart. You leave the shortcuts you’ve memorized and the restaurants where they know your order.

You trade familiarity for uncertainty.

But for a cancer survivor, it’s more layered than that.

In my current city, people know my story. They saw me during treatment. They watched carefully as my body changed. They brought meals. They prayed. They know why I look the way I look.

In this new city, no one will know.

And strangely, that both thrills and terrifies me.

There’s something undeniably appealing about walking into a room where no one knows your medical history. In a new neighborhood, I won’t automatically be “the woman who had breast cancer.” I’ll just be the new neighbor. The lady down the street. The one unpacking boxes.

That anonymity feels like freedom.

But it also feels like hiding.

Because here’s the truth: I am flat-chested. I chose not to reconstruct after my mastectomy. Some days I wear my prostheses. Some days I don’t. In my current town, that choice doesn’t require explanation. People understand.

In a new city, if I choose not to wear them, I may get stares. I may get whispers. Someone may wonder if I’m transgender. And then I’m faced with another decision: Do I share my story all over again?

Do I open the door to the most vulnerable chapter of my life for the sake of clarity?

Or do I wear my prostheses every day, ward off questions, and blend in as “normal”?

It’s a conundrum I didn’t anticipate when we started house hunting.

Because this move isn’t just about real estate.

It’s about identity.

Cancer has already rewritten my reflection in the mirror. It has reshaped my body and, in many ways, my soul. Survivorship is supposed to be the chapter where you reclaim yourself. But what if you’re still figuring out who that self is?

Am I the “before cancer” version of me, trying to reassemble what was lost?

Am I the “cancer warrior,” defined by scars and survival?

Or am I someone entirely new?

Standing at the intersection of survivorship and relocation, I’ve realized something profound: both experiences are invitations.

Being moved into the survivorship program is an invitation to trust my body again. To trust that the treatment did what it was meant to do. To live without the constant hum of weekly appointments.

Moving to a new city is an invitation to step into unfamiliar spaces and discover who I am when no one already knows my backstory.

Both feel risky.

Both feel hopeful.

There’s grief in leaving the safety net of my oncology team. Even if I can still call them, it won’t be the same. The rhythm of regular check-ins is changing. The intensity of oversight is softening. I have to learn to carry more of the responsibility for my health awareness.

And yet, there’s dignity in that, too.

Survivorship says, “You are strong enough to walk forward.”

Likewise, moving says, “You are brave enough to begin again.”

I’ve started to see that the real question isn’t whether I’ll be the new me or the old me with baggage.

The truth is, there is no old me to return to.

Cancer ensured that.

But there also isn’t a completely new me untethered from the past.

The woman packing boxes carries scars, visible and invisible. She carries a fear of recurrence. She carries gratitude for life. She carries wisdom she didn’t ask for but now treasures.

The choice isn’t between baggage and freedom.

The choice is how I carry what I’ve been given.

Maybe some days in the new city I’ll wear my prostheses. Maybe some days I won’t. Maybe I’ll share my story with a neighbor over coffee. Maybe I’ll keep it tucked close to my heart until trust is built.

Maybe survivorship isn’t about pretending cancer never happened.

Maybe it’s about deciding that cancer doesn’t get to script every introduction.

As we prepare to load the moving truck, I find myself whispering prayers like the ones I prayed before scans: Lord, go before us. Steady my heart. Remind me that You are my true safety net.

Because the truth is, my security was never fully in a building with an oncology wing.

It wasn’t in a zip code.

It wasn’t even in the frequency of appointments.

It was in the steady faithfulness of God through every diagnosis, every treatment, every sleepless night.

That same faithfulness will meet me in a new city. It will meet me in survivorship. It will meet me in awkward introductions and in quiet evenings when fear creeps in.

This season feels like standing on a threshold.

Behind me: scans, surgical scars, therapies, familiar streets.

Before me: unpacked boxes, new doctors, unknown neighbors, longer stretches between checkups.

In both directions, there is evidence of grace.

I don’t know exactly who I will be in this new city. I don’t know how often I’ll tell my story or how often I’ll choose silence. I don’t know if I’ll feel untethered or unexpectedly free.

But I do know this:

Survivorship is not the absence of fear. It’s the decision to live anyway.

And moving forward, whether into a new home or a new medical chapter, is an act of courage in itself.

So here I am, keys in one hand and medical discharge papers in the other, stepping into a future that feels both fragile and full of possibility.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a clean slate.

But a brave next step.

If you are still in the thick of treatment, still counting infusions, still waiting on scan results, still gripping the hand of your oncologist a little tighter than you admit, I want you to hear this: the day may come when they move you into survivorship, and it will feel both victorious and unsettling. You may miss the rhythm of appointments that once exhausted you. You may long for the safety net you can’t wait to outgrow right now. That’s normal. Healing is layered. Courage is layered. And you are stronger than you know, even on the days you feel anything but strong.

For now, stay where your feet are. Let the nurses care for you. Let your body rest. Let others carry what feels too heavy. One day you will look back at this chapter, not because it was easy, but because you walked through it. And when that next season comes, whether it’s survivorship, a new home, or simply a new kind of normal, you will not step into it empty-handed. You will carry resilience. You will carry wisdom. You will carry proof that you can do hard things.

And that will be enough.

 

A Little Light in the Darkness

When I was a child, bedtime was never my favorite part of the day. While my mother tucked me in and smoothed the covers, I was busy checking under the bed for monsters and making sure the closet door was firmly shut. The dark always felt too big—too full of things I couldn’t see or understand. I’d beg Mama to leave the hall light on, but she’d just smile and say, “Close your eyes and go to sleep, sweetheart. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But I was afraid. The shadows on the wall looked like long fingers, and every creak of the house made my heart race. Night after night, I’d cry until finally Mama gave in. She agreed to let me leave the closet light on if I promised to keep the door just barely cracked. It was a small compromise, but to me, that sliver of light made all the difference.

It’s funny now, looking back, how much comfort I found in that faint glow. The light didn’t chase away every shadow, but it gave me just enough courage to rest. I think that’s why I love how the Bible talks about Jesus being the Light of the world. As long as I can see Him—even if it’s just a glimpse through a cracked door of faith—I know I don’t have to be afraid.

As I grew older, I learned that darkness still tries to creep in. It just takes different forms—worry, grief, doubt—but the remedy is still the same. Just as that closet light calmed my fears as a little girl, the light of Christ continues to bring peace to my grown-up heart.

And when I think about those long-ago nights, I smile. That small light shining through the crack in my closet door wasn’t just helping me sleep—it was teaching me to trust in the One who lights every dark place.

Dear Lord, thank You for being my Light in every season of life. When fear and doubt try to settle in, remind me that Your presence is brighter than any darkness I face. Help me keep my eyes on You, even when the world feels uncertain. Just as that little closet light once comforted a frightened child, let Your love and truth shine through every shadow that touches my heart. Amen.

F.E.A.R.

A long time ago I learned an acronym for the word fear: 

F - FALSE

E - EVIDENCE

A - APPEARING 

R - REAL

I'd forgotten it until last night. As I was thinking about my upcoming surgery, I was getting more wigged out. I was playing every possible scenario of how the surgery might go in my head and none of them were good. 

I don't know why my brain defaulted to negative thoughts, but it did. I guess the bottom line was, I was scared. And the fear I felt was exactly what the acronym represented - a fear of the unknown. 

I've heard several people say getting a knee replacement was one of the best decisions they ever made and there have been others who've had extreme complications for serious infections to blood clots. With my health history, I've dealt with unexpected side effects and they're never pleasant. Now that I'm older, a surgical complication would be more difficult to recover from but I'm going to hope for the best. 

False evidence appearing real - fear is powerful, but only if we let it be. 

I prayed about it and asked God to help me overcome the fear, to trust Him to guide the doctor's hands, and to protect me from any complications. My hope is that I'll get through surgery unscathed and then get physical therapy walking better than I am now. 

There's another acronym I learned:

F - FORSAKING 

A - ALL

I - I

T - TRUST

H- HIM

I like that one better.  

The monster under the bed

When I was a young child, I was afraid of the dark. As daylight dimmed and I knew bedtime was approaching, I'd begin to get nervous. I'd beg my mother to let me leave the closet light on so my room wouldn't be completely dark. She'd chide me and tell me I wasn't a baby, but after a few terror filled nights, she realized I was deathly afraid of the dark and allowed me to leave the light on in the closet as long as I only cracked the door. That gave me some comfort, but I always had to check under the bed before I climbed in and even though I shared a room with my sister, I was terrified that something would reach out and grab my ankle in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I feel like cancer is the monster under my bed now. Though I know, in my heart, it's not there, it sure feels like it might pop out and take hold of me again.

Yesterday, I went to the cancer treatment center for a bone scan. My oncologist ordered it to make sure all was well. It's been almost 11 years since I was diagnosed, but I still return for periodic tests. I'm thankful my doctor is keeping a watchful eye on me. Walking into the center after a year, I felt nervous. Though I wasn't there for treatment this time, the memories of all I'd been through over the years haunted me. The sights, the sounds, the smells of sickness were everywhere. 

Living in fear is definitely not fun. You'd think, after all these years of being cancer free I could accept the fact that I'm out of danger, but that's not the case. I know there could be a rogue cancer cell roaming through my body and one day, it could start growing. Next time, I might not be blessed to find it as early as I did the first one. I hope I never have to find out, but I may have to face that fear head on in the future. 

It'd be great if surgery to remove cancer could completely eradicate it. It'd be even better if there was some sort of internal scanner that could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was completely gone. PET scans, MRIs, CT scans and other tests do help, but I'm talking about a kind of internal high beam flashlight that is trained to look specifically for those deadly, wicked cells. 

Not long ago, I needed blood work. The technician had a hard time finding my veins because they're so tiny and she was limited to using only one arm due to my lymphedema. She tried several times and after missing again and again, went to get a lighted ultrasound scanner. Within seconds she'd found a vein and the needle was in. If we had a cancer cell finder like that, it'd be great but it would have to penetrate deep through tissues and muscles. I'd like it if it could work from the inside out, almost like radioactive dye works when having a thyroid scan. 

I imagine many have felt the overwhelming fear of a cancer recurrence like have. That fear has lessened over the years, but it's not completely gone. Some may think it silly to fear a possibility, but once you've experienced cancer, you don't ever want to meet that monster again. 

Though I'm grown now, I keep a nightlight on in my bathroom at night. It helps keep me from stubbing my toe or tripping over something. Sometimes, when I think back to my childhood, the feelings of those nighttime fears frightens me. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if my mother had talked with me and tried to soothe my fears or if she'd brought in a homemade bottle of colored water labeled "Monster Spray." It would have been great if she'd knelt with me and held the flashlight while I looked beneath the bed and fired away with the magic spray. At least then I would have felt like I had some sort of weapon to combat the evil. But cancer doesn't flee as quickly. Maybe that's why it scares me so. 

 

The Power of Fear

I used to wonder why the Bible says do not fear over 365 times. Pastors usually mention this in their sermons at some point during their career. Today, as I was experiencing some heart rhythm abnormalities, I started to become very fearful. The more fearful I became, the higher my blood pressure went. 

There are a lot of things you can control in your body, but you can't control your heart. Over the past few months, I've been dealing with possible AFib. If you don't know what that means, imagine having your heart beat really slow for a few minutes and then be really really fast and then start the same process over again. The rhythm is completely out of whack. It's extremely scary and can make you feel very light-headed and weak. Now can you see why I get scared? 

No matter what I tried to do, fear seems to overtake me. I do my best to remain calm. I'm a believer and I know that God is in control, but I don't want to die a heart attack. 

We have a huge history of heart problems in our family but none have ever touched me other than hypertension until recently. A few months ago, when something like this happened for the first time, the doctor determined that my potassium was very low and increased it. Then it got too high and they decreased it. More than likely, this is the problem right now but I won't know until my cardiologist gets back in touch with me. 

It's very frustrating trying to get in touch with your doctor's office only to be routed to a robot. I miss the days where you could talk to a human every time you called someone on the phone. That's not the case these days. As I typed this, I'm waiting for my doctor's office to get back to me. I've sent them a message through the portal, called and left a message with their office and I'm feeling very frustrated. 

I'm doing my best to hold on to the truth that God is still in control and that He's not going to let anything happen to me that He hasn't put into His plan for my life, but it's still hard and scary. I'm only human. 

Please say a prayer for me. I'd sure appreciate it. 

Losing Control Isn't Easy for a Type A Person

 

Be forewarned, this is a very long, personal devotional and definitely falls into the category of oversharing, but I need to do this for myself and hopefully, to encourage and bless someone else. (Also, if you're squeamish, you might not want to look at the pictures.)

Most of the people who know me know I'm a firstborn child. As a result of that, I learned quickly to become a people pleaser. I wanted to always do good and be good so I'd get the attention and affection of both my parents and others in my life. To do that, I learned I needed to be in control. I worked hard to keep things in check, things both big and small. But if you've ever studied about it, people pleasing isn't a good thing. In fact, it's a nasty flesh pattern and one that isn't a becoming trait. It's not something that makes God pleased. 

 

Through the years, I've struggled to learn to let go of my people pleasing tendencies and to squelch my need for control. I'm ashamed to admit it, but even today, I struggle a little with both of these although where I am today is way better than I was in the past. 

 

Without going into a very long list of details, I'll give you a nutshell version - I've endured trials many would never imagine, most of them health related, but there have been many others as well. I'm a strong person, not physically, but spiritually, and I know these trials have been permitted by the hand of God to refine and reshape my life. 

 

Kardia EKG machine

Yesterday started out as a good day. After breakfast, I started in on my housework. We ran a few errands, came home and had lunch. It was a typical day until it wasn't. 

 

Phil had gone out to work in the yard. We just had a lot of sod installed and it had to be watered. While he was doing that, I came into my office to check emails, write some prisoners (I'm part of a prison ministry), and do a few other piddly things. As I was working on an email, I started to feel funny. My heart was beating really fast and wasn't beating in the normal lub dub rhythm. I won't lie, it scared me and I became very shaky. I knew my blood pressure must be up too, so I went to check it. When I did, it was 202/99 and my pulse rate was 138. Definitely not good. 

 

Next, I pulled out my portable EKG (my cardiologist had suggested I get one several months ago after a similar experience.) The EKG was quick and indicated Tachycardia. 

 

Waiting on test results

As I tried not to freak out, I looked outside to see if I could find my husband to let him know what was going on. I couldn't find him and didn't want to waste time looking. I was feeling worse and saw the clock indicated it was 4:45 p.m. I dialed my cardiologist's number in hopes of getting some advice. I knew they were about to close so I prayed I'd get through. After 3 tries I was able to talk with a nurse. She said go to the ER. So I called 911 and when the ambulance got there, they worked on me a while before taking me to the hospital. 

 

At the hospital, the nurses were kind. Immediately they inserted an IV and took many vials of blood. About 30 minutes later, the ER doc comes in and says he wants to do a CT scan with and without contrast. He didn't explain why. 

 

When the transport team came to get me and take me to the CT room, the person pushing me in the wheelchair said, "We're going to do a CT scan. Have you had one before?" I replied, "Yes, many times." She said, "Good. This one will be to see if you have a blood clot in your heart." Hearing that freaked me out. I had no idea the CT was for something like that. 

 

My blood

In the CT tube, as the contrast flowed through my veins and I began to feel warm all over, I prayed, "Oh, Lord, please let anything that needs to be seen be illuminated clearly. If You're ready to take me home, I'm ready to go." Over and over as the test was running, I prayed. 

 

I was taken back to the room and we had to wait several more hours before the results were in from all the tests. While we waited, I worried, then prayed. Phil did his best to keep me calm, but this was definitely something I couldn't control....a blood clot in my heart??? I couldn't fathom it. 

 

Control. It's the one thing we wish we had but many times don't. Practically every waking moment of our lives we're surrounded by things we can't control- the economy, the weather, circumstances, opinion of others, our health, etc. It's easy to start doubting and worrying. But God didn't wire us to be in control. In fact, our lack of control requires us to rest in Him and lean on Him. It forces us to use our faith muscles.

I knew, as I waited to hear what was causing my health crisis that God was and is always in control. The Bible teaches us through various scriptures how there is nothing beyond His control. And if God was in control, I had no reason to fear. Because He loves me and has numbered my days. 

 

When the ER doc came back in to talk with us, He said my D-Dimer was high, my potassium was low, and I had some funky things in my lungs called ground glass opacities. But even with all those things, there was NO blood clot in my heart! Praise God!!! 

 

So, this typical type A has once again loosened her grip on the rope of control. Now I am praying I can get in to see the various doctors I'm supposed to follow up with on Monday. Would you please pray with me that an opening will be available? Mondays are usually packed full for most physicians. (I used to work for several docs. We always kept 2 work in appointments available each day, one around 10:30 and the other at 2:30. Hopefully this practice is still in place.)

 

Losing control is hard. Trusting COMPLETELY in God regarding health issues or any other problem in your life, is also difficult. Both take determination and will. But with God, it's possible, I promise. 

 

Scriptures to cling to: 

 

Jeremiah 29:11-12. "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you."

 

Job 42:2. "I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted."

Isaiah 55:9. "For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts."

 

Romans 8:28. "And we know that for those who love
God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose."

 

Philippians 4:12-13. "I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me."

 

Hebrews 13:8. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever."

 

1 John 5:14. "And this is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will he hears us."

Annual checkup time

In 11 days I have to go for my annual checkup at the cancer treatment center. It's a visit I kinda dread and am kind of excited for at the same time. I dread it because I don't like being around the visual reminders that cancer is real and ugly and relentless. It's so hard to walk the halls of the treatment center and see the expressions on the faces of the men and women there. I can instantly tell those just beginning treatment. They look bewildered and lost while those who've become veteran cancer patients display expressions of boredom or frustration. 

The cancer center is set up like a bicycle wheel. The center of the wheel is the hub of the treatment facility where the administration team works. There are receptionists and administrative staff here. They greet guests, help with financial issues, give out directions, and do whatever they can to aid patients during their stay. The spokes of the wheel are specific medical services like radiation therapy, chemotherapy, imaging, holistic health services, the labs, etc. It's a well-organized building and patients learn their way around quickly. 

For the past few years, when I go for my checkups, I've felt out of place. I've even noticed other patients looking at me with that "what are you doing here?" look on their faces. On the outside, I look pretty healthy. I don't show outward evidence of ever being a cancer patient, but on the inside, they have no idea what I've been through. 

This week, I've had some concerns I know I'll need to bring up to the doc when I go for my appointment. I've been having terrible hip pain, deep in the joint of my right hip. It's been so bad I can hardly walk. I also found a large lump on the back of my neck. I don't want to think those are bad omens, but it's hard not to let my mind wander there. 

I'm sure, when I bring those things up at my appointment, the doctor will pay close attention. She will more than likely order some imaging tests. I'm due for a PET scan again, but if blood work looks good, they may not want to do one. I'm kind of hoping they do. I'd rather be on guard looking for potential problems than discover them too late and have to figure out what to do about them then. Being proactive just makes sense to me, cancer isn't something I want to gamble with. 

But I'm going to try my best not to dwell on the what ifs. You can't live in that land and hope to maintain your sanity. So, I guess I'll just keep on with my daily routine until my appointment comes and see what the doctor has to say. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I would appreciate your prayers. 

When the fear of cancer recurrence becomes detrimental to health

 

For the past nine years, I’ve struggled with waves of overwhelming fear of cancer recurrence. I knew I had an issue, but until recently, wasn’t aware of how much fear was affecting my life.

The fear began to manifest in physical problems. First, I noticed my heart would race even though I wasn’t exerting myself, so I started seeing a cardiologist. I’d had problems with hypertension in the past, but this was something new. After running a slew of tests, the doctor assured me I was OK and the three medications I was already taking were doing a good job. He told me not to worry, so I tried my best to heed his advice.

Next, I began having trouble sleeping. I’d done a lot of reading about aging and sleep problems, so I wasn’t too concerned, but when I started waking up exhausted. I knew something wasn’t right. The cardiologist suggested we do a sleep study, so I agreed to it. The test revealed I had sleep apnea, so I found a pulmonologist to address that.

I started having stomach issues and wasn’t able to digest my food well, so my primary doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist. After several tests, it was determined I had legitimate concerns. I was afraid I had esophageal cancer — the cancer that took my brother’s life — but the doctor assured me he’d do more testing. I endured two endoscopies and a colonoscopy, and even had my esophagus stretched. While I awaited the results from those tests, my fear grew.

An enlarged lymph node on the side of my neck freaked me out. Immediately, I called the oncologist and set up an appointment. She ordered an ultrasound. When the test was inconclusive, I panicked. I wasn’t ready to face cancer again. The doctor ordered a CT scan of my neck and one of my abdomen just to be sure there was no cancer there. I was thankful she was proactive.

When I received an email alert through the patient portal of my cancer treatment center, I just about lost it. Why was the oncologist calling me in to see her? If it was good news, wouldn’t she have called and told me? The fear inside reached epic proportions.

I called my husband at work and asked if he could take a vacation day to accompany me to the appointment. I didn’t want to face bad news alone. Immediately, he went to his boss and made the request. I felt a little more at ease knowing he’d be with me.

The night before the appointment, I didn’t sleep a wink, even with my CPAP machine. My thoughts were all over the place. What would I do if I had to face cancer again? I didn’t think I could do it.

In the morning, as we drove to the cancer treatment center, my husband held my hand. He talked softly to me and assured me that whatever the news, he’d be right with me.

After waiting in the lobby for about thirty minutes, my name was called. Grasping my husband’s hand, I tugged on it hard as I stood up to follow the nurse. Together, we walked into the exam room and waited for the doctor.

I did my best to control my breathing as the nurse took my vital signs. The nurse asked if my blood pressure was normally high. I replied, “No.” She turned the screen to reveal my systolic pressure was 157. I told her I guessed I was nervous.

The doctor came in with a scribe and her medical assistant. She barely greeted us before sitting down and opening her laptop. I tried to read her body language but couldn’t. She seemed to be all business.

As she pulled up the report for the CT scans, she said, “There’s no cancer on your scans, so you have nothing to worry about. And I see here that that you’re coming up on nine years being cancer free, so I don’t need to see you but once a year now, unless you have something that pops up in between time.” She stood and folded her laptop, then headed toward the door.

“But wait!” I said anxiously, “Are you sure? This wasn’t what I was expecting.” She nodded her head and put her hand on the doorknob. As she turned it, I felt a rush of cool air brush my face.

When she’d exited the room, I turned to my husband, tears in my eyes, and exhaled. We were both in shock. Neither of us expected to hear good news delivered in such a cavalier fashion. Sure, the appointment was probably the last of the day for the doctor, but gee, didn’t I deserve a high five or something?

As we left the cancer treatment center, I suddenly realized I wouldn’t be coming again for an entire year. I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I was happy to be walking out with good news, on the other, I wondered how I’d let fear overpower me so easily.

When I got home, I went into the bathroom and cried. The tears were a much-needed emotional release. Until that point, I hadn’t realized that every time I’d felt any kind of physical malady I’d subconsciously defaulted to “it’s cancer.”

I’m a pretty grounded person, but that afternoon, I realized I had some unresolved post-traumatic stress to deal with. I’d thought that I’d done most of that healing work over the past nine years, but I guess a barb of fear had lodged itself deep in my spirit.

Fear is a powerful weapon the enemy uses against us. The important thing is to learn to recognize it and disarm it.

If there was one piece of advice I’d like to give others facing the overwhelming fear of recurrence, it’s to give yourself grace. We’re only human. It’s normal to dread a recurrence of cancer, especially when it's come into your life and done a number on your mental and physical well-being. Sometimes, it’s necessary to get professional help to conquer it and there’s no shame in that. But please, don’t let it control your life like I did.

I once read a powerful quotation by Emily Freeman I’d like to share with you, “Worry is a thief, fear is a liar, and anxiety is their trembling, furrow-browed baby.” That sums it up perfectly. No one deserves to live under that kind of stress.

Nine years is a long time to deal with the powerful side effect of fear that cancer brought into my life. So today, I choose to release myself from it. And if it ever tries to rear its ugly head again, I’m going to lop it off and scream, “NOT TODAY! I am alive and doing well.” That, my friends, is my new mantra. I’ve fought too hard to let down my guard ever again. I am blessed and I’m going to start living like it.

One Step Forward & One Step Back

 I finally got the results from the stomach biopsies last week but was so busy I forgot to blog about it, so please forgive me.Thankfully, I was right. It ended up being no news was good news. 

When the doctor called to give me the report, I was so happy to hear him say they were benign tumors and we'd just keep an eye on them. Whew! I felt like I dodged a big bullet. That was my one step forward because knowing I wasn't going to immediately face another cancer diagnosis, I felt a huge weight lifted from my shoulders, or should I say belly? Lol!

But after that phone call, I got to thinking. Was I really getting the kind of surveillance care I needed? After a cancer diagnosis, patients need to be kept under a watchful eye. Routine tests need to be performed and everything that can be done to prevent a possible recurrence needs to be done. I'm coming up on my 9th year post cancer and while I'm extremely blessed to be able to say that, since changing back to my old oncology group, I was only being seen once a year. That didn't quite seem enough in my book. I felt like I should at least be seen every six months. 

A niggling little feeling kept at me and I decided to reach out to the cancer treatment center I'd gone to for 5 years before. Let me give a little back history, in case you're new to the blog and don't know the details. 

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I'd just moved to a new city and didn't know any doctors so I had to look on the internet for oncologists in my area. After finding the closest ones to me, I became a patient in their practice and got good care until my doctor, Dr. F, decided to leave that group and go with another hospital in a neighboring city. At that time, I tried a couple of other doctors in the group but they were much older and ready for retirement. I wanted a doctor who was going to be around a while and was pleasantly surprised when a new cancer treatment center was built just about ten miles from my home. 

 I contacted the center and liked the fact that everything was in one building - doctors offices, imaging services, physical therapy, chemotherapy and radiation therapies, a nutritionist, chiropractor, acupuncturist, naturopath, dietician, library, and religious services. It was a one stop shop! With my old oncologist, if I'd need any scans or tests, I always had to go to another facility and sometimes it was very inconvenient.

The doctor I was seeing at the cancer treatment center, Dr. H, specialized in breast cancer and hematology but not long after I'd gotten established with him, he left and started a practice in another state. At that point, I was randomly assigned to another oncologist just before Covid hit. 

The first time I saw that doctor, Dr. M, I went to the facilty for an in person meeting but was surprised when I first had an "interview" via an iPad. It was weird to sit in an exam room with a chair in front of me staring at a screen as the doctor asked me questions. When he felt like I was "safe to approach in person," he came into the room but stay on the other side far away from me. Through a masked face, he asked a few questions and left shortly after. To say I felt slighted was a huge understatement. 

The day after that experience, I contacted the cancer treatment center and told them I didn't want to see Dr. M again. I requested a new doctor, one that would treat me as a valued patient. But somehow, I slipped through the cracks and kept getting the run around every time I called back to schedule an appointment. I had no idea what was going on and tried to get back in for several months before finally giving up and going back to the first practice I'd had care under. 

I was received there and assigned to Dr. P, a young, cordial doctor who felt like I could see him annually and do okay. 

In the meantime, the cancer treatment center was bought by an organization called City of Hope and a lot of positive changes were made.

One day, while checking my emails, I came across an email from a woman I remembered from the cancer treatment center. Her name was Kelly and she was a patient outreach coordinator. In her message, she asked how I was doing and if there was anything she could do to help me. I was surprised to get her message, especially since I'd tried for months to get an appointment there. Explaining the situation to her, I sent a reply. The following day, she messaged back and said she'd forwarded my message on to another staff member and she assured me I'd hear back soon. Within a couple of days, I got a phone call and the ball started rolling fast. 

To make a long story shorter, I was scheduled for a screening phone call and then a telehealth appointment with an intern there. After answering a gazillion questions, I was given an actual appointment with a new oncologist, Dr. S. Not only was I given a new appointment, I was also scheduled to have lab work done, to meet with the naturopath, and to meet with the occupational therapist all on the same day! Talk about a difference of service and attention! 

My new oncologist

Going back to the cancer treatment center, which was now called the City of Hope was a step back but not really. It felt kind of like I was doing a medical tango going from one doctor to another over the years, but there are no rules in cancer care. It's okay to do what's best for you. 

Sometimes it's necessary to make changes to your medical staff, especially if you feel you're not getting the care you need. I've found, over the years, I am my own best advocate. And I've learned to listen to that still little voice that speaks to my heart telling me when I need to do something different. 

9 years is a long time to survive cancer. This July 9th, I'll celebrate that milestone and I'm looking forward to celebrating year after year in the future. 

Although it seems I've been through the alphabet when it comes to doctors and I've had to adjust to new technologies in the way they're doing things now, I think I'm on the right track. I'm looking forward to meeting Dr. S this coming Wednesday. 

It will feel kind of odd to be back in the old cancer treatment center, but it will feel good, too. I know exactly where everything is there. I won't be scared, like I was when I first started going there. I'm thankful I felt led to keep pushing until I got what I wanted and needed. Getting the best health care possible is so important to someone who'd been through cancer. 

A fear of recurrence is always something we struggle with.  That reminds me, when I was having the telehealth appointment with the intern from City of Hope, he told me that he'd also been through cancer and was currently celebrating his 16th year of being cancer free. As we were talking, I asked him if the fear of recurrence ever goes away. He said, "It will with time." That gave me hope that I won't always struggled with these feelings. You'd think I'd be over those feelings by now, but I'm not. Every time I have any kind of physical malady, my first thought is, "Oh No! The cancer's back." I know it's not health to think like that, but it's exactly how I feel. Cancer does a number on your body, but also on your mind. Being a survivor means you have to find a way to push through those "what if" moments each day as they come and that takes a lot of will power.

Let go of the victim mentality

Victim. The dictionary defines victim as a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action. That about sums it up. It's how I see myself - as a victim of cancer. I didn't ask for cancer. I never expected it. But it came. And when it did, it did a number on me.

You'd think, after 8 years, I'd have let go of the victim mentality, but I haven't. I didn't even realize I was suffering from that type of thinking until recently. 

After a bout of Covid and then several consecutive illnesses, I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I blamed it all on cancer or cancer related fatigue, really, since cancer, as far as I knew, wasn't still active in my life. But ever since diagnosis, I haven't felt myself. My energy level was practically non-existent. I was finding it difficult to get through each day without making myself do the things I needed to do. Every day was exhausting but I pushed through and did what I needed to do anyway. 

It wasn't living, it was existing. There was no happiness or joy. I wanted to thrive, but I didn't know how. How do you celebrate life when it takes every ounce of energy to get through a day? 

Oh, I'd wake up each morning, thanking God that I'd made it one more day but as the day wore on and I faced one challenge after another, I wondered why it was so hard. So, I asked Him. On my face, in my prayer closet, I wept turning my burden over to the Lord. 

"Why can't I let go and break free?" I asked. In that still small voice, He said, "You've got to let go of the victim mentality." 

Though I heard the words clearly in my mind, I was shocked. Had I really been living that way? Had I been thinking that way? I didn't consider myself a victim...not really...but I guess, somewhere in the back of my mind, I did. 

Eight years had passed. You'd think I'd have long since left thoughts of cancer behind, wouldn't you? But that nagging fear had taken root and wouldn't let me go. Every ache, every pain, every uncontrollable thing my body did made me wonder if I was going to be under attack again. 

That's what cancer felt like to me - an attack, just like a rape or a robbery or some other violent crime, an unprovoked, unexpected assault on my person. No wonder I'd adopted a victim mentality!

After any kind of attack, whether it be health related or otherwise, the victim has to decide whether or not to survive. Something inside them has to "want to" keep living. Making that choice is crucial and can greatly impact one's future. 

So, I had to come to the realization that I wanted to live. Not only did I want to live, I wanted to live well. I wanted to do the things I enjoyed and have fun doing it. No longer did I want to allow my body, and the way it was feeling, to dictate my choices. 

I asked God to forgive me and asked Him to help release me from the victim mentality I'd been clinging to and I'm happy to say, He has! 

The day He revealed my stinkin' thinkin' to me, I was dumbfounded. First of, that He'd point out my flaw. But He didn't do it in an accusatory way, the way Satan would have, He quietly and sweetly whispered to my heart and said, "You've got to let go..." 

I knew, He wanted the best for me because that's the way my Abba is. He loves me unconditionally. He knew I needed to be set free and He gave me time to come to the point of need so He could swing wide the gate and point me to freedom. It had to be my choice. 

Since making the decision to let go, I've felt an indescribable weight lifted from my shoulders. No longer am I carrying around a burden I wasn't supposed to bear. Now, it's like I've been given a new lease on life. 

Sure, I still struggle with fear, worry, and anxiety and I probably always will. Those are weak spots in my armor, but I know, He's got me. He won't let me fail as long as I walk with Him and trust Him. And no matter what comes into my life, He's able to handle it. I won't have to handle it alone. That gives me great comfort. 

My calendar already has several upcoming trips on it and I'm looking forward to those. In the past, I'd be hesitant to go anywhere because of the possibility of catching Covid or having a health crisis. Now, I move forward in faith. 

I'm so glad God allowed me to see the error of my thinking. I'm thankful He loved me enough to point out improper thoughts and gave me the key to freedom. Now I can honestly say I'm working on learning to celebrate life in big ways and in small ways, every single day. 

Can you say Roto-Rooter?

For months I've had trouble swallowing. It started in December and got progressively worse. After several visits to the ER, urgent care, and to the ENT, we thought we'd found a solution. The ENT treated me for a salivary stone, then, after more tests, said I had an auto immune disorder. One frustration let to another as I endured test after test. The last one, a modified barium swallow study, revealed the problem wasn't only in my salivary glands, but also in my esophagus. 

I'd had an upper endoscopy done earlier in the year for severe acid reflux and a hiatal hernia, so I was surprised they wanted to do another, but the swallowing was getting more and more difficult. I wasn't being able to eat normal meals. After a few bites, I felt full and would blow up like a balloon from bloating. I knew something was extremely wrong. 

There had been a follow-up endoscopy scheduled for October, but I knew I couldn't wait that long, so I went into the portal and asked to be put on the waitlist. When they called Friday to offer a Tuesday appointment, I jumped on it. I knew God was in the details because this doctor was always booked up and it was rare to get a spot. If I didn't take it, I'd have to wait until October and by then, I'd have probably choked to death! 

Friday through Sunday, I existed on protein shakes and water. The test wasn't until 2:45 p.m. on Monday, so after midnight Sunday, I was instructed only to have one sip of water with my blood pressure medication. 

All day Monday, I waited and watched the clock. Time moved so slowly. Finally, when it was time to go, hubby and I dashed out the door. We'd calculated how long it would take to get to the hospital in a neighboring town - 45 minutes. 

We made small talk along the way and not long after we'd departed, a concrete mixer pulled in front of us. He was going so slow and there was no way to pass him. 

We poked along behind him for the majority of the way until finally, just a few miles from the hospital, at 2:40 p.m. he turned on a side street and we were able to cruise at a faster pace. 

I was dropped at the front door of the hospital while hubby went to find a parking space. I didn't want my slot to be given away, so I race walked to the elevators and made it to the suite just in time. 

As I sat and waited the waiting room, I was praying. God, please, help them find a vein! Every time I go to a medical office for a blood draw, the staff have trouble. I'm limited to my left hand because of the breast cancer and lymphedema. Those veins are so tiny and crooked it makes it difficult for even a well-trained nurse to find a usable vein. 

About 15 minutes passed and I was called back. As usual, the nurse had trouble. A doctor came over to see if she could help and neither of them could find a good vein. Then, they brought in a vein scanner light. 

The vein scanner lit up my veins and they were finally able to find one. 

After inserting an IV, I was wheeled into the room and the doctor told me what he was going to do. I had no idea he was planning to stretch my esophagus until that very moment! Apparently, the barium swallow study had revealed a stricture that was causing the food to stick in the middle of my throat. 

I was turned on my side and a device was placed in my mouth to hold it open. They strapped on an oxygen cannula and administered the anesthetic. Instantly, I was out. 

When I awoke, I was in the recovery room with the worst sore throat you could imagine. It felt like someone had taken a broomstick, wrapped it in sandpaper, and reamed me out. I asked the nurse if they had something I could drink. I told her I hadn't had anything since 5:00 a.m. and that was just a sip of water. I was surprised when she said no that I could get something after I left. How rude! I'm sure they had a little dixie cup they could have filled with tap water. Heck, I would have even taken water in a urinalysis cup at that point, my mouth was so dry. 

She went over paperwork with me and then the doctor came in. He told me all he'd done. Not only had he stretched my esophagus, but he'd also taken multiple biopsies of my throat and stomach. 

I'll have to wait for 7-10 days to get the results from those tests. In the meantime, I'll be living on liquids and soft foods for the next day or so while my throat heals. 

I'm really scared about a possible recurrence of cancer and since my brother died of esophageal cancer, this worries me even more. 

All I can do is pray and trust God's got this. I'm so tired of going through medical procedures. I just want to feel normal for a change, but what's normal, right? Are any of us really normal? 

Modern Day Leper

Yesterday we had a new dishwasher installed. The man who came to do it was fast and efficient. We did our best to make him feel welcome in our home, talking to him about various and sundry things as he worked, but we could tell he was uncomfortable. He wore a mask and gloves - of course we knew it was due to Covid concerns, but it seemed so unnecessary. 

When he finished his work, we thanked him and I offered a gift of gratitude. Though he accepted my gift, he made sure my hand never touched his gloved one. When I stuck out my hand in thanks, he thrust his elbow at me. "Oh," I said, "I get it. Covid. Okay." With that, I gave him the acceptable elbow bump and he was on his way. 

I felt like a leper. 

I don't do well with rejection. It's been a thing since childhood. Rejection hurts, no matter how large or small it may be. 

Thinking about the worker's fear of contracting a disease from us made me feel sorry for him. I understood it and respected it, but wished he'd been more open to our hospitality. 

That led me to think back to Biblical days, where true lepers existed. Back then, leprosy was considered not only a health risk but a curse for some unconfessed sin. People with leprosy were considered outcasts and forced to live away from society. Alone and abandoned, these people suffered terribly. Their skin condition caused all sorts of problems as it disfigured their body but the emotional toil must have been much greater. 

I've seen movies on the Bible where lepers entering a town had to call out, "UNCLEAN, UNCLEAN." Their warning was meant to keep healthy individuals away. How painful that must have been for them, to not only suffer physical maladies but to suffer social anguish, too. 

Lepers still exist in the world today. In Africa, Asia, and other parts of the world, there are colonies of lepers living together. Many organizations work to help them receive medication and treatment for their disease, but still, the stigma of uncleanness follows them. 

I've often wondered what it would have been like to have lived in Bible times. With my heart of mercy, how would I have responded to a neighbor or friend with leprosy? Would I have shunned them or tried to help them? I'd like to believe I would have done whatever necessary to give them aid. 

I find it interesting that Jesus healed many with leprosy. He never condemned them, but had compassion on them. 

Can you imagine what it felt like for the leprous man to call out to Jesus asking for healing the one fateful day their paths crossed? He called out to Jesus saying, "Lord, if you're willing, you can make me clean." That man had big faith. He knew Jesus had the power to heal him and he wanted to be healed. 

Jesus could have just said, "Go, your faith has made you clean." But He didn't. Instead, He reached out and touched the man saying, "I am willing, be clean."

That touch...that marvelous touch must have lingered on the leper's arm for days afterward. How long had it been since anyone had touched his scarred and damaged skin? 

Can't you just imagine the power of Jesus' love flowing into the man's body as His fingers graced the man's skin? I can! I'm sure it was electrifying! Instantly, the broken man was whole. 

That's the kind of compassion Jesus has for you and me. He meets us in our brokenness and makes us whole again. He understands our struggles, our fears, our weaknesses and offers us His love, mercy, and grace in their place. 

I'm so thankful we have a Savior who sees us and cares deeply for us. He wants us to be whole. He doesn't force Himself on us, instead, He waits for us to approach. When we do, we must do so with boldness and confidence knowing He not only wants to help, He will help, for He is the lover of our soul. 

When Jesus commanded the leper to be clean, He didn't only cleanse the outside of the man's body. He also cleaned the inside. What joy the leper must have felt to have finally been made whole again! He was restored, set free, loved and accepted. The Savior had seen him, heard and honored his request, and he would never be called UNCLEAN again. 

I don't want to go there

 This past Friday, I went in for a routine colonoscopy. I wasn't expecting them to find 2 polyps, but they did. Although my mind doesn't want to go there, I can't help but wonder, could it be cancer? 

Today, I was scheduled for a CT scan on my lungs. A couple of months ago, after visiting the ENT for some swallowing issues, he did an MRI on my head and neck. That test also revealed a "small tumor" in my right lung. He didn't think it was anything, but I begged to differ. When you've had cancer, even the smallest thing can turn out to be something big. Immediately, I called my oncologist and told him about the findings. After he reviewed the report, he wanted me to have a CT scan with and without contrast. I was glad he was being proactive. My mind didn't want to go there, but once again, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the cancer was trying to come back. 

In exactly 2 months from today, I'll celebrate my 8th cancerversary. I really want to make it to this celebratory event. I'm hoping neither of the aforementioned tests screws it up, but they might. 

Survivors always live with the fear of a possible recurrence. Just because we pass the five year mark, the standard where oncologists tend to take their hands off and allow your visits to slow considerably, doesn't mean we're home free. Cancer can come back any time and usually, when it does, it comes back with a vengeance. 

The polyps in my colon have already been removed and biopsied but I don't have the results yet. As for the tumor in my lung, I'm praying it's already gone, that it magically disappeared. But if they do call me in to do a biopsy, I'll probably have a melt down. I don't want to go through anything to do with breast cancer again. 

Did you know, even if cancer were to show up in my bones, spine, or any other place, they'd still say it was a recurrence of the breast cancer even though I've had both breasts removed? Yes! They'd just say it had metastasized. 

I am doing my best not to dwell on the what ifs, but it's hard. I don't want to allow my mind to go there, but it's not listening very well. 

Please pray I don't hear the word cancer in the next few days or even next week. I'm planning a beach trip! I definitely want to go there. And I want to go without the awful news that my cancer came back. 

Dear Body

Dear Body, 

This is a very difficult letter to write. You've broken my trust, not once, but several times in the past and here you go again. 

I thought, after you decided to pull the cancer card, we'd find a way to coexist, and we did for the most part, but apparently, you didn't think that challenge was difficult enough. You wanted to play dirty. So, you fostered a tiny clump of cells and allowed them to feed and grow in my right lung. You're sneaky. I'd have never known they were there, but for another health issue and the test that brought it to light. 

Reading the test results, I never dreamed a tumor would be present, especially in my lung. The ENT was looking for a problem in my throat. How did that happen? Was it merely coincidence, or was it God's grace allowing the CT scan to light you up? It doesn't really matter. I'm just thankful it did. Now your secret is out. 

I called the oncologist's office. I wondered if they'd like a copy of the test results. I'm glad I called because they did. They asked me to fax it right over.  After reviewing the scan, the doctor asked his nurse to call. She said I needed a chest CT within 3 months. I was thankful they were being proactive, but I was nervous at the same time. I didn't want to let my mind go there, but it did. I couldn't help but wonder if the tumor was malignant. What if rogue cancer cells had slipped into my bloodstream way back in 2014 when I had my breasts removed? I wondered if I'd be able to handle a recurrence. I didn't want to think about it, not yet anyway. Why borrow trouble, as my grandmother would say? But what would I do in the meantime? 

When I received a diagnosis of cancer on June 5, 2014, doctors suggested chemotherapy, radiation, and anti-hormone therapy. I was stage 2B and the cancer was invasive. It was estrogen and progesterone positive at 99%, which mean the chances of it coming back were good. I'd watched friends fight cancer the traditional way. They'd suffered terribly through chemo and died painful deaths shortly after diagnosis. I didn't want that. I was selfish, I wanted to live, but not that way. I chose to fight differently. 

I thought about you when I made my decision. For 56 years, I'd done my best to care for you well. Of course, there were things I couldn't have prevented, like organs that had decided to go on the fritz, or the terrible car accident in 1991, but I did my best. I ate well and exercised. I did everything within my power to keep you safe until the betrayal in 2014. Even then, I researched natural alternatives to fighting cancer and I did them religiously for 7 years and then I slipped. I got lackadaisical. I didn't adhere to a strict diet. There were days I didn't juice or take my supplements. I forgot to drink the green tea. I assumed I was cancer free and would be forever, and then...

Oh, body! I can't believe we're in this pickle! Is it my fault or yours? Does it really matter, though? Fault finding won't solve the problem and it won't contribute to the solution. So where do we go from here? I guess I'd better crack down and get serious. It's time to go into full cancer fighting mode again, even though I don't know for sure what kind of tumor is currently growing in my lung. I can't afford to let it feed and grow. I want it out now! 

But the doctor won't recheck for 3 months. I'm scared. 

So, I'll do the only thing I know to do. I'll fight. You may think I'm too weak to win, but we'll see about that. You don't know me as well as you think. You're not a mind reader, you know. I'm strong and I'm resilient. You may throw fear and anxiety at me, allowing me to shake and shudder, but I have a secret weapon you know nothing about. I have faith. 

I hear you laughing. You say my faith is too small, and I'll admit, it is. But the Bible says, "If you have faith as small as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, move from here to there and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 17:20. I assure you, body, I have that much faith. 

May 9th can't come quickly enough. 70 days. I wonder how much damage you can do to me in that amount of time. No. I'm not going to focus on that. I need to save my energy for the fight. 

I'm pulling out the big guns this time, body. I'll do everything I can to ensure you stay healthy and strong. And if the time comes when something else is needed, I'll consider all my options. I don't want to poison you; I love you too much. But if there's no other way, believe me when I say, I will. 

Please don't let me down again, body. I need you. I'm counting on you. 

With love, 

Bonnie

7 Years is a Long Time to be Cancer Free

Seven years ago, I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Stage 2B with Metastasis to the lymph glands. When I heard the words, 2 jumped out at me – carcinoma and metastasis. I knew those words and knew they were bad. I didn’t pay much attention to the stage or the type of cancer. The only thing that concerned me was whether I was going to live or die. 

The first year was tough. Being thrust into the world of breast cancer is challenging. There were so many experiences I never dreamed I’d face, from surgery to treatment and then, learning to live life after those were through. 

It took time to learn to cope. Most days, I felt alone and helpless like I’d gone to sleep and had woken up in a bad dream, a dream that seemed as if it would never end. But as I fought through each challenge that came my way, I found myself becoming stronger. I was determined to live, no matter what the cost.

 As a person of faith, I found myself relying on God for each minute of the day. Whenever I was discouraged, felt unlovely, or like I didn’t matter, I turned to the Bible and found solace there. 

My family and friends were also a source of strength. They offered their love and understanding when I needed it most. Without them, I don’t think I would have made it. 

Learning to live as a breastless woman, I had to conquer the feelings of self-loathing and learn to extend myself grace. When I finally learned to accept my appearance, I found others did, too. 

I look back now and it seems a lifetime ago that my life was turned upside down, but it’s only been 7 years. 

 Seven, in Biblical gematria (the study of the significance of the usage of numbers in Scripture) has great significance. It’s the number of completion. That makes this cancerversary ominous for me. With cancer, a fear of recurrence is normal, but sometimes, especially in instances like this, the fear seems to loom and a sense of foreboding engulfs me. 

 I wonder how to shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, my time of being cancer free is over. I can’t help but question, what I’d do if the cancer returned. 

I’d like to hope I’d fight with the same determination and resilience I did when I was first diagnosed but it might come back with a vengeance. If that happened, I might choose to do chemotherapy instead of refusing it, like I did 7 years ago. I might choose to take drastic measures to fight the cancer, instead of doing everything I could to fight it naturally like I’ve been doing for the past 7 years, or maybe not. Perhaps I’d just give in and give up…who knows. 

I don’t like to wonder and worry about something over which I have no control. That’s no way to live! I think I’ll make a conscious effort to stay in the zone of positivity. If I’ve survived for the past 7 years, chances are, the cancer won’t return. More than likely, at the age of 63, I’ll die of something else, right? And then I think of my dear friend who also suffered from breast cancer. She was diagnosed over 22 years ago and then, when she least expected it, her cancer returned and took her life. When that happened, I was devastated and even more afraid than ever. But if you give fear the power, you lose. 

Once I read an acronym for the word fear. It said, “Fear: False Evidence Appearing Real. And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Fear causes us to accept the thing that appears to be true even if there’s no substantial evidence to prove otherwise. 

I can’t live that way. 

So today, and every day forward, no matter how many days I have left, I choose to live like it could be the last day of my life. None of us are ever promised tomorrow anyway. And if we choose to live like we’re dying, the choices we make will be profound.

I am not going to let go of my survivorship crown, the one I’ve been wearing for the past 7 years. I earned it and I’m going to trust God to give me many more years of life to live, love, and enjoy.

This survivor is grateful for every minute of life and I won’t let fear scare me any longer. I. AM. A. SURVIVOR, today and forever. 

Amen.

The Little Things

The day started out bright and early, earlier than I'd intended. 5 a.m. isn't my idea of a "normal" wake time, but today, it happened that way. So I jumped out of bed, put my phone on speaker so I could listen to a sermon, and hopped into the shower. (I'm a multi-tasker,  a vice I've had since birth - typical type A, you know the drill.)

After showering, I stood, wrapped in a towel, staring at myself in the mirror. "Who are you and what are you doing here" I asked myself. Analyzing my face, I realized the number of wrinkles there had multiplied. No doubt about it, I was getting old. 

63, by most standards, isn't really old, but some mornings, I beg to differ. Bones creak and muscles ache and yet, I'm thankful to be able to feel them. And as we age, body parts start to need special attention, most recently my left eye.

Around 2008, I began to notice cloudiness in that eye. It grew more and more bothersome until I went to see the ophthalmologist who said I'd developed cataracts in both eyes. In 2011, I had surgery to remove the cataract in my left eye and insert an artificial lens. In 2012, I had the same done for my right eye. Then, in early 2020, the outer edge of the left eye became clouded and I thought another cataract had formed. Once again, I made a trip to the doctor and he told me I had been leaking vitreous fluid. I'd need another surgery called YAG. That surgery would involve a laser and I was assured it wouldn't hurt, so I had it done. For a couple of months, it seemed to have cleared things up and then, I began to have eye pain and loss of vision. Another trip to the doctor revealed I'd continued to have issues with leaking vitreous fluid and needed another surgery called an Anterior Vitrectomy. In March 2021, I had that done and have been recovering from it since. 

Months before the YAG surgery, during my prayer time, I felt the Holy Spirit speaking to my heart. He whispered, "You're going to lose the sight in your eye, but don't be afraid." When I heard that message, I questioned whether or not I was actually hearing from God or if, perhaps, I had some underlying fear that was expressing itself. Pushing the thought to the back of my mind, I'd almost forgotten about it, until 2 days after the anterior vitrectomy when everything went pitch black in that eye. Instead of freaking out, which I would have normally done, I remembered the word I'd received. I chose not to be afraid but to wait and see what happened. Gradually, over the next week, my eyesight got a little better each day. First it was like looking through a thick, dark curtain. Then, it was like the curtain had been changed to a sheer brown one. A day or two later, it was like looking through a hazy, gold curtain and then, everything was just fuzzy but noticeably clearer. I was so thankful! The doctor had warned, before I was sedated for surgery, that there was a small possibility that I could lose vision in that eye but he hoped that wouldn't be the case.

Since eye surgery, I've had to shield my eye from bright light and foreign objects. Daily, I've followed the medication regimen of 4 different eye drops four times a day. It's been tedious and frustrating, but anything to protect my eyesight is worthwhile.

I stare at myself In the bathroom mirror. Leaning in close, I notice my eyes look weak partially from the bright light and partially from the lack of makeup. It's been over a month since I've been able to wear eye makeup. That may not seem like a big deal to some, but for the woman with sparse lashes, mascara can be a lifesaver. 

Today was the day I was going to try it. At my appointment last week, I'd asked the doctor if it was okay to resume using eye makeup and he assured me it would be fine, so why was I hesitant to bring the mascara wand close to my eyeball? 

Fear paralyzed me for a few moments before I had enough courage to move the mascara wand lightly across the lashes of my left eye. Slowly and methodically, I applied a light coat of black mascara. I'd made sure to purchase a new tube at the drugstore in anticipation of this day. (They say you're supposed to discard mascara every 3 months, so I even took a Sharpie marker and wrote the date on the tube so I'd know when to ditch it.)

When I'd completed my makeup regimen, I looked in the mirror and smiled.

There I was! I'd missed mascara more than I realized. 

Isn't it funny how the little things in our lives seem to matter so much? The things we can control seem to help us understand who we are and why. But there are so many things we can't control, and those things tend to make us wonder and worry. God doesn't want us to worry, even over the little things. 

In the Bible, we're told many, many times not to worry or be afraid. Why? I think God wanted to emphasize that worry accomplishes nothing and fear can keep us paralyzed. He wants us to enjoy freedom and peace. 

Little things, like my mascara, remind me I can only enhance the beauty God's already given me and even without mascara, He sees me as His beautiful daughter. 

As I slip the tube of mascara back into my makeup bag, I hear a quote in my mind - "Vanity, thy name is woman." And you know, I'd have to agree.

The Bible says, "Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." Proverbs 31:30

I'd much rather be known as a woman who fears the Lord than a woman who looks good on the outside and is hollow on the inside. 

It's always the little things...