Old memories sneak up when you least expect them

My friend Karen and I, both survivors 

Yesterday, I went in for an abdominal CT scan. I'd been having a lot of digestive issues over the past couple of months and the doc felt it would be wise to do some further testing. I didn't realize it until we pulled up to the building, but I'd been there before. 

As we sat outside the diagnostic imaging center, I did my best not to think about the last time I was there. It had been shortly after we'd moved to this town and I was so unfamiliar with the city. 

We went inside the register for my test and that's when I saw it - the big pink neon lighted ribbon on the wall just in front of the registration desk. I remember seeing it 8 years earlier, the day I'd been sent over to have a diagnostic mammogram. 

I'd been petrified that day. Not only was I scared to death of what they'd find, I was scared to death because I was alone. I'd never really had to pull up my big girl panties before, but I definitely had to do it that day. I didn't like it one bit. Yeh, I was an adult, but I liked the comfort of having someone with me whenever I had a medical procedure done. It put my mind at ease knowing someone else was close by. 

I filled out the registration forms and sat down. In the waiting room, I watched as more and more people filed in. Trying not to stare, I wondered how many were there for mammograms. It didn't take long before I found out. 

Several women sat in chairs across from me. It wasn't difficult to overhear their conversations. One woman was there for her very first mammogram. She had her mother with her, lucky girl. Two middle aged women, clearly good friends, sat together chatting about their last mammograms. They were diligent about their breast health because they had family histories of breast cancer. A much older lady came in and went up to the desk. She reminded me of my mother in law, who'd passed away from breast cancer many years ago. This sweet gray haired lady had come to the wrong office. The receptionist explained her appointment had been at another facility where 3D mammograms were done. This facility only did 2D exams. She offered to help the elderly woman reschedule her test or contact her doctor to see if a 2D exam would suffice. The older lady opted for the 2D exam if her doctor would agree to it. She didn't want to inconvenience her travel partner by having to change locations. 

I watched as she took a seat and waited for news. My heart went out to her. I felt like she'd probably had a brush with cancer previously from the way she acted and the bits of conversation I overheard as she talked with her driver friend. 

That moment, I felt a wave of emotions I wasn't expecting to feel. I didn't want to even think about breast cancer again. I'd done my best to forget it. After 8 years of survival, I felt pretty good about being "out of the woods." But in the back of my mind, I always have a niggling voice saying, "You're not done." I do my best to drown out that little voice every time it dares to speak. Some days it whispers. Some days it yells. When I can, I say out loud, "Not today, Satan!" It helps. 

The constant fear of recurrence is a real thing. It's hard to live a life of uncertainty but no one is guaranteed tomorrow. The only thing I can do to stay ahead of it is to recognize the fearful thoughts as they come and remind myself that feelings aren't fact. 

I do a lot of self talk. I journal. I use art as therapy. Anything I can do to keep my mind from going to that dark place in the past, I do. 

One day, I know I'll die. We all do. Until that day, I want to live my best life possible. 

I found a form online, a short survey, for those who think they have a fear of cancer recurrence. I decided to take it and see where I fell on the spectrum. There were only 9 questions and the ratings went from 0- which meant no fear at all to 4 - which recorded a great deal of fear of recurrence. 

Some of the questions asked on the survey were: 

I'm worried or anxious about the possiblity of a cancer recurrence 

I believe I'm cured and the cancer won't come back

In your opinion, are you at risk of a cancer recurrence? 

How much time a day do you think about a cancer recurrence?

Those are just a few of the questions. Out of the 9, I scored 29. I have no idea what a healthy score is because I couldn't find the scoring criteria or an evaluation of the "test." I assume I fell within the moderate range - the range I assume most survivors fall into, but I'm not sure. I may be an anomaly. I do know it's affecting my quality of life in a negative way. I need to figure out a way to correct that. 

I'll see my oncologist in two weeks for an annual exam. I imagine he'll want to do a PET scan since I haven't had one done in the past 2 years and I've been having some significant spinal pain. While there, I'll talk with him about this test and get his feelings on ways to combat FCR (fear of cancer recurrence.) 

In the meantime, I'm going to cling tightly to this wise quotation: 

"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones." ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Fear is an emotion you can't see or touch, but you can certainly feel it's power. Finding a way to strip it of that power can only be conquered by faith. And I have faith, even though it's just a little bit...the Bible says, "If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can say to a mountain be moved into the sea, and it will be moved!" I'm not sure I have that much faith but I'm close. 

Here's a link for the form if you'd like to take it yourself: 

Fear of Cancer Recurrence Inventory-Short Form (FCRI-SF) Screening (cfp.ca)

Accepting Results Gracefully

Yesterday was the big day. I was to receive the results of my bone scan. It had been a year since my last one, and I was nervous. I’d been having a lot of spinal pain and was concerned. I didn’t want to admit my worst fear – the fear of recurrence. After a lot of prayer, I finally resigned myself to the fact that the news was either going to be good or bad and there was nothing much I could do about it. I was determined to accept the outcome gracefully.

Seated in front of the oncologist, we went through the customary formalities of greeting one another. When that was out of the way, I sat on the edge of my seat. I wanted the test results. The doctor could tell I was eager and said she wouldn’t beat around the bush. I braced. I was prepared for the worst but expecting the best. Thankfully, I received the latter. As Dr. N shared the good news that there was no evidence of active disease, I was filled with joy. She could tell by the look of relief on my face that she’d given me a huge blessing. I thanked her and we moved on to the next subject, the one I knew was coming…Arimidex.

Dr. N asked if I was going to take the anti-hormone therapy. Since my specific cancer had been fed by estrogen and progesterone, she explained that I needed to do whatever I could to prohibit the production of those hormones. I listened as she explained the cancer could come back at any time if those hormones were not in check. I mustered up the courage to ask her a question. “Since I’m three years out and I’ve been doing everything naturally with wonderful results, is it necessary for me to take this drug?” She looked at me and said she wanted to show me something. Pulling her laptop onto her lap, she began to type. As she typed, I waited and wondered what she was going to show me. It only took her a few minutes to pull up the website. She entered some data and flipped the computer around for me to see. Pointing to the screen, she explained that she’d entered my age, the type cancer I had, the stage of my cancer, and the hormones that fed my tumor. After she’d entered that information, she’d clicked enter and the computer program had pulled statistics to indicate specific results. The results showed the percentage of women with breast cancer over a five-year period who’d not take anti-hormone therapy vs. women who had taken it. The recurrence possibility for both categories was assessed and displayed on the screen. As we looked together, the doctor and I saw that taking the anti-hormone therapy drugs only would buy me a 2 percent increase in life expectancy.

After reviewing the results, Dr. N expected me to make a decision. It was an easy decision for me. I looked her straight in the eyes and said, “My Daddy always said if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. What I’ve been doing is working. You have evidence of it with my latest scan. I think I’ll continue to take the natural supplements and do exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three years. I don’t want to take Arimidex or any of the other anti-hormone therapy drugs.” The doctor smiled and nodded. I was surprised at her reaction. I expected to receive a dismissal as I had from my previous oncologist but as I asked if she’d continue to be my doctor, she answered in the affirmative.

It felt good to fight for my rights, although I hadn’t had to fight hard with my new doctor. It was my body and I was the one with the right to choose the treatment best suited for me. I’d tried three anti-hormone therapies in the past and each of them came with wicked side effects so I knew I didn’t want to travel that path again. The statistic chart did not impress me, although I was surprised to find there was such a thing available online and to know doctors use it. The program is called Predictor and you can find it by visiting this website. You’ll need to enter your age, tumor size, grade and other information. If you don’t have it all, enter as much as you do have but be forewarned, this is only a statistical tool. It is nothing other than that. It was interesting to see the results, but they did not affect
my decision. I’d made my decision right after I’d been given my Oncotype DX results.

Each person has to make their own choices. Do what feels best for you. Consult your doctor and make wise, informed decisions. If you don’t want to implement a recommended treatment, talk to your doctor and weigh the pros and cons. What’s worked for me may not work for you but I’m thankful my oncologist supports me in my decision. I’m blessed to be doing well after three years and I’m thankful to claim the status of NED right now. I could say if that ever changes, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, but why entertain negative thoughts? Today I am cancer free and hopefully I’ll be able to say that for years to come. God only knows what tomorrow holds. I’m glad I don’t shoulder that responsibility.

God Sent Mr. Browning

My signature on the gloves

I had been in a hurry to get to my appointment with the oncologist. Traffic in the mornings here is always hectic so I wanted to make sure and leave early. I grabbed a frozen smoothie, got dressed, put on my makeup and dashed out the door. I didn't have time to ready my Bible and have my devotional as I usually do but on my way to the center, I began to pray and asked God to give me a verse to hold on to today. I felt Him impress Philippians 4:13 on my heart, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." So I meditated on that verse until I reached the center. (I had been nervous about getting the results of my bone scan but had surrendered the results to God and had told Him earlier in the day that no matter what they showed, I'd accept either good or not so good from His hand because I knew He'd have a purpose for either result and I trusted Him completely.)

Armband and nametag

When I entered the cancer treatment center, it was extremely busy. There were people everywhere. As I looked over the sea of people, I saw so many cancer victims in various stages of treatment. It made me sad to see there were so many gathered in one place and all I could think about were the hundreds of thousands across America that I couldn't see.

I made my way to the oncologist's office and sat down to wait. In the waiting room, chairs filled every few minutes until the waiting room was almost to capacity. The last couple to come in were African American. They sat down close to me and I smiled to greet them. I watched as the man pulled out a full sized Bible and I smiled realizing he was a man of faith. I assumed he was going to read to himself while his wife went back for treatment but was I ever wrong. Mr. Arthur Browning (all CTCA patients and visitors have to wear name tags) began to read Scripture aloud! At first, I watched to see how others in the waiting room reacted. There were some wh

o were visibly uncomfortable as they squirmed in their seats and cast disdainful looks in his direction. Others ignored him completely but I was extremely grateful! God sent Mr. Browning to personally bless me.

Sweet Mr. Browning reads the Bible

For about ten minutes, Mr. Browning read Scripture. When he was through, he and his wife closed their eyes to pray. (That's when I captured their photo) After he raised his eyes, I went over to Mr. Browning and whispered a quiet "Thank you." I explained to him that I'd been unable to read my Bible before coming and I was expecting to receive my test results today. Although I was unsure whether I'd receive a diagnosis of a recurrence of cancer or if I'd get a clear bill of health, his Scripture reading had blessed me and I wanted him to know it. He smiled a big smile and the medical assistant called Mrs. Browning back.

My turn came next and I went to talk with the oncologist. She didn't beat around the bush but got straight to my results. There was no evidence of active cancer!!! I was so thankful to hear that good news. My degenerative disk disease had gotten worse and the scan showed a herniated disk, two bulging disks, osteoarthritis, and arthritis in my knees and heels (weird, I know).

Although I'm struggling with the extreme spinal pain, I'm so grateful for NO CANCER! I have to continue to see the oncologist every 6 months unless things change but I am blessed and highly favored!!! I'm being sent to a spinal specialist to see if we can find a way to manage the pain so I'm hopeful. Thank you for your prayers.

The Never-ending Fear of Recurrence

The fear of recurrence looms overhead like a brown turkey vulture on a Georgia, hot summer’s day. Swooping and diving, she circles. I can feel her, a living presence. I walk daily in her shadow. Some days the ominous darkness overwhelms me.

I never thought myself to be a fearful person. I’ve always done my best to walk by faith, not by sight, but when the oncologist scheduled a complete body bone scan three years after my initial diagnosis, doubt and worry crept in. Thoughts I’d failed to consider became reality. What if? What if cancer returned? How would I feel? What would I do? The more I thought, the closer I felt the brush of her wings. I wasn’t ready.

Do all lives touched by cancer feel this fear? At diagnosis, does that great bird of destruction perch idly on shoulders waiting for an opportune moment? Do we carry her with us for days, months and years, unseen and quiet, or am I the only one sensitive to her nearness? Am I overly sensitive?

I’d prefer not to think about recurrence, but how do I suppress truth? One solitary cancer cell. That’s all it would take. Just one. Floating carefree in my system, reveling in the precious flow of my life’s blood. And that minute cell has the power to decide when, where, and if. It seems so unfair.

Cancer was an uninvited guest. I don’t know how or when it decided to reside in my breast. It could have been there for ten years or more according to the doctor. I never felt it. I had no idea until that fateful day in the shower. As my fingers trailed over my soapy breast, the hardness of the solid mass stopped them. The discovery life altering.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hospital. The technician will inject a radioactive tracer into my vein. The tracer will travel through my bloodstream and into my bones. A special camera will scan my body and take pictures. Areas that absorb very little of the radioactive tracer will appear as dark spots. These places could show a lack of blood supply to my bones or could indicate a problem. They could pinpoint a recurrence of cancer. Areas of increased absorbency will show up brightly. These are called hot spots and may indicate problems such as arthritis, tumors, fractures or an infection.

At present, the fear of recurrence is circling. She floats silently on the breeze feeling the updraft beneath her wings. As she dips and dives, moving ever close, I watch. In my mind’s eye, I see her clearly. She is hideously ugly. She is ravenous. She frightens me but I can’t spend my time watching her. There are things I need to do. I have a life to live.

Take one day at a time, wise advice I received years ago from a friend who lay dying. She was stage 4, metastatic. Her frame wracked with disease, yet still, she loved. She was the epitome of brave. A young mother with four little ones. She fought valiantly, but cancer fought harder. On the day she succumbed to breast cancer, I sat by her bedside. Our friendship touched by unbearable pain and suffering, I needed to be with her. The last words she said to me before leaving this earth still echo in my mind, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.”

If there was one word I wish I’d never learned, it would be the word cancer. But to be ignorant of the word would not negate its power. I’ve been fearful, especially this week, as the bone scan looms in front of me but as I look up, toward that dark figure in the sky, I hear the words of my sweet friend whispering in my ear, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do. I can’t worry about tomorrow. Today has enough troubles of its own. One day at a time, that’s all I can handle right now and that’s enough.

Ultrasound Results

We met with my new oncologist today. She's very nice and very professional. As she went over the results of the ultrasound, I was happy to hear there was nothing visible other than dense scar tissue. The pain I'd been experiencing was due to the regrowth of nerves in that area. Dr. Ninan explained it can take up to three years for nerves to regenerate and grow. Since I'm still having severe back pain, she wants me to have a bone scan next week. We'll discuss my treatment options depending on what that scan shows.

After we finished our time with the doctor, Phil and I wandered through the facility. I hadn't had a chance to learn my way around and the patient advocate assured me there were some areas I'd want to visit. We made our way up to the fifth floor to the rooftop terrace. There, patients had the freedom to lounge in outdoor breezes under the shade of the rooftop pergola. Comfy seating and complete quiet provided a getaway from the hustle and bustle of the downstairs areas. We also visited the chapel located on the second floor. This small worship area was beautifully designed and featured a lovely stained glass window. Worship services are held throughout the week and on Sundays. Phil was amazed at all the attention to detail in the center. He couldn't get over the fact that there was an onsite Hair Salon, Restaurant, Gift Shop, and Acupuncture center.

It was a good, productive morning. I was thankful he was able to go with me to my appointment. He's been having to work so many Saturdays lately, I was worried he couldn't go. It always makes me feel more at ease to have his moral support.

A little PTSD

A phone call. That's all it took to shake me to my core. I didn't even get to talk to a real person but the message on the other end of the phone speared me through and through - "This is --- from --- I need to talk to you about your test results. Can you please call me as soon as possible?" I wasn't expected that call and I certainly wasn't expecting it to affect me the way it did. I had an honest to goodness meltdown and I didn't realize it until I was in the middle of it.

We had been in the middle of eating dinner. I'd gone to my office to retrieve a book and saw the red light blinking on my desk phone indicating I had a message waiting. I picked up the receiver because I knew it would only take a second to hear the message and curiosity got the better of me. I wish I hadn't seen the red light.

I walked back into the dining room and told my husband I'd received a call from the endocrinologist's office. They wanted me to call them back about my recent ultrasound. As soon as I said the word ultrasound, I began sobbing uncontrollably. My bewildered husband took me into his arms and held me tight. I bawled like a baby, deep guttural sobs. When I came up for air, I looked into my husband's eyes. He hadn't said a word. I told him I didn't think I could survive another bout with cancer. At that point, he understood my deep seated pain. He hadn't thought of that. He sat down and held his head in his hands and began to weep. We cried until we couldn't cry any more and we didn't even know what we were crying about. We hadn't received any real news yet, only a message to call back as soon as possible. Why did we immediately fear the worst first?

As I thought about it, the only logical answer was cancer post traumatic stress disorder. Just like soldiers who'd been in the midst of battle were traumatized, so were we. Cancer does that. Cancer is hard...no, it's not hard, it's extremely difficult, more difficult than you can imagine. It takes a lot of resolve to fight cancer. It's indescribable.

It took a while for both of us to calm down and get our minds off of the phone call. He was distracted with TV and I decided to down a pint of Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream. Neither of us were really coping, but we did the best we could in the moment.

Tomorrow morning, I'll be sitting by the phone to see if it rings. If it hasn't by mid morning, I'm going to place a call to the endocrinologist's office. I am afraid of what I'll hear but I'm hoping for good news. Maybe I'm just shell shocked. Maybe I'll get good news.

I don't like PTSD. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. It's like a slowly exploding grenade blossoming into oblivion growing stronger and more dangerous minute by minute. I don't know how to manage it right now and maybe I never will but I know if I keep on using ice cream as my coping mechanism, I'm going to weigh 300 pounds and then things are going to really get hairy.

Another ultrasound...

It all started with a scheduled visit to the breast surgeon. I've progressed from the regular 3 month visits to the periodic 6 month visits now. (All of my doctors are in this same rotation pattern. Thank goodness for my trusty iPhone. Without my iCalendar, I'd never be able to keep up with every appointment. It helps me remember who I'm supposed to see and when I'm supposed to see them.) Since this was a routine visit, I wasn't overly concerned. I figured I'd breeze in and breeze out. I love going to see my breast surgeon. She's a very kind and caring physician. She never makes me feel hurried. When she comes into the exam room, she sits down on her stool and begins talking to me like I'm her best friend. She shares news about her family and asks about mine. We have a good rapport. After a few pleasantries, we get down to business. She starts palpating my chest and comments on my scar. She says, "I did good work on you! Just look at that beautiful pink scar! It's almost perfect and I even worked hard to save your tattoo." I smile a big smile and she does, too. I like her. A lot. She continues talking and feeling my chest. Her fingers are steady and sure. She knows exactly what she's looking for and I can tell by the way she moves her hands. She never stops talking but as she talks, she pauses for a minute over one area. I blurt out a strong "ouch" and she asks if that really bothered me. I explain to her that the area she just touched if very sensitive. She tells me it felt spongy and she wanted to check it out a little further. She tells me to sit up and I tie the ends of the white linen robe so my bare chest isn't exposed to the scribe she calls in to take notes. "I'd like to order an ultrasound for you so we can't see what this is," she says. In the same breath, she tells me not to worry. Right. I've already started. When we're through talking, I ask if she'd mind taking a selfie with me. I tell her I'm documenting every step of my journey for my daughters. She doesn't mind and the scribe does the honors. I watch as she walks out the door, on to her next patient, and thank God for my sweet doctor.

On the way home from the appointment, I text my husband telling him the doctor has ordered a test. He responds immediately and voices his concerns. Although I can't hear the inflection in his words, I can read he's worried. I reassure him and try to sound upbeat. As I drive home, I feel numb. I wasn't expecting this.

When my husband arrives home from work, he instantly comes to me and gives me a big bear hug. As he smothers me, he begins to cry. I pull away from him so I can see his face. I ask why he's crying and he tells me he doesn't want to lose me. I wasn't expecting his reaction but I understood it. It felt like we were beginning at the beginning again. We'd already been here and done that with the first round of cancer. Neither of us wanted to be there again.

When the doctor's office called to confirm the appointment, the scheduler said they wanted to get me in quickly. I was surprised when she asked if I'd be okay to have the ultrasound performed the following day. I was glad it was going to be done so soon and that way I wouldn't have to spend days worrying. I didn't sleep well that night. I tossed and turned wondering what I'd do if the test revealed the cancer had returned.

As I drove to the appointment, I tried not to think about the numerous trips I'd made to hospitals, labs, or doctor's offices over the past 2 years. When I pulled up to the outpatient clinic, I was overcome with emotion. I could feel the pressure building. It felt like I had a volcano brewing inside me. All of a sudden, tears came spewing forth and they did not stop. Waves of grief overtook me. I felt so out of control. I didn't know how I'd be able to face another diagnosis of cancer. It had taken over 2 years to get past the first diagnosis. I just had gotten to a point of feeling like my life was returning to normal again. But here I was again at the same location where it all began. I cried a few more minutes and then decided it was time to suck it up. My appointment was at 11:15 a.m. I looked at my watch and saw I only had a few more minutes. I worked hard to regain my composure and when I felt ready, I made myself get out of the car and go inside.

I only had to wait a few minutes before being called back. I was thankful I didn't have to wait long. A volunteer took me to the dressing area and I was told to undress from the waist up. She handed me a gown and told me to put it on with the ties in the back. I looked at her and said, "Are you sure?" I could tell she was new when she said adamantly, "Yes, please put it on with the ties in the back." I knew every doctor or technician previously had asked for the gowns to be tied in the front for easy access to the chest, but I did as I was told. After my gown was on, the volunteer helped me put my belongings in a locker. We sat in the waiting area together and chatted. As I talked with her, I found out she'd just been diagnosed with Stage 0 breast cancer the week before. As I listened, I could hear the trepidation in her voice. She explained she'd hoped for a lumpectomy but her doctors said it wasn't an option. She'd have to have a mastectomy. My heart went out to her and I asked if she'd had time to process it yet. She said she hadn't and I advised her to really take some time to do that. I shared a little about my experience and her countenance seemed to improve slightly.

The radiation tech came to get me and take me for my test. She laughed as we were walking down the hall and commented on my gown. I shook my head and said, "Yep. I tried to tell her but she wouldn't listen." The tech said I could turn the gown around when we got into the testing room. After getting my gown turned around, I was asked to lie down on the table. The warm conducting jelly felt soothing to my skin as the technician applied it and within minutes, she was gliding the ultrasound wand over my chest. She asked if I knew where the area of concern was located and I pointed to an area just underneath my incision. She made several passes over that area and I watched the monitor to see if I could tell what lie beneath the surface of my skin. I know she wasn't supposed to comment but she said, "It looks like a lot of fluid." I didn't respond knowing the Radiologist would review the films later that day. 

The diagnosis on my ultrasound order

I was told I'd know the results in 3 to 4 days. I'm hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. I can't tell you how much fear and dread came over me when I was told by the breast surgeon she'd found a suspicious area. Instantly, I was transported to that fateful day in June 2014 when my cancer was first discovered. At that point, I felt like my life was over and I'd been handed a death sentence. Now, after having lived a little over 2 years since that date, I know that feeling wasn't necessarily true. I do wonder how long a fear of recurrence will have power over me. Will it totally disappear after I reach the miraculous 5 year mark or will it haunt me the rest of my days? I have a feeling I'll always be looking over my shoulder to see if cancer is lurking somewhere deep in the shadows but hopefully, if it is, it won't catch up to me again anytime in the future. I'm trying my best to be optimistic. When and if I ever have to face a recurrence again, I'll deal with it then. I don't want to waste any more time today thinking about it.

Good news!

The phone rang at 8:00 a.m. and naturally, I expected the worst. I had been waiting for a call from my oncologist about the results from my recent bone scan. I assumed, since they were calling so early, that the news must be bad. They were probably going to ask me to come into the office to discuss the test results and come up with a strategic plan of attack for the recurrence of cancer. I had steeled myself for this news and when I received just the opposite, had to ask the office to repeat the information to make sure I'd heard clearly..."Mrs. Annis, we have the results back from your bone scan. There was no evidence of metastatic disease. There was no evidence of a recurrence of cancer." I listened intently and thanked the caller for the good news. Before the call ended, I was told I needed to see a spine specialist to address the pain I'd been having. I'd take that any day over chemo or radiation.

When I got off the phone, I was overcome with emotion. The dam burst and all the feelings I'd held bottled up inside me for the past few days poured forth. I fell to the floor and lying face down, I began to weep. My weeping grew exponentially into torrential sobs of thanksgiving. I was so grateful to God for giving me such good news.

After regaining my composure, I wondered why I expected to receive bad news. Why didn't I expect to receive good news? Was I just preparing myself for the worst and hoping for the best? Maybe that was my coping mechanism or a survival tactic.  In any event, I was extremely blessed and I wasn't going to take this gift lightly. I immediately notified my family so they could share in my joy. My sweet husband wept openly and told me he was so worried and afraid he would lose me. I had no idea he felt this way and my heart ached as I watched him cry. The tears weren't sad ones but still, I felt his pain and the deep love he had in his heart for me. My children were happy and excited. I think they'd been worried the cancer might have returned too.

Thinking back to my initial diagnosis and the results of my Oncotype DX (a test that determines the possibility of recurrence based on the type of cancer and the hormones that feed it) I remembered my score was a 7 out of 100. The number 7 is very significant in Biblical times and is the number of completion. When I was given the results of that test in July 2 years ago, I felt God speak to my spirit and say, "It's over. It's done. It's complete, Bonnie." So I claimed it! I claimed that completeness but somewhere in the back of my mind, a little doubt started to fester and grow. That little doubt turned into a bigger fear and worry as time passed and things seemed out of control. But today, God reminded me of that day back in July. And that's why I was so overcome with emotion. God's promises are real and I know He is faithful. If I'd had time to focus on all of this before receiving the call from my doctor this morning, I would have answered the phone with expectancy. I would have looked forward to hearing the scan was completely clear instead of bracing for the worst. But even though I thought I was going to receive bad news, God blessed me with His very best. I am grateful. I am happy. And I am feeling very optimistic about my future.

As a breast cancer survivor, I can tell you cancer feels like it is constantly sneaking up on me. It seems to be lurking just around the corner ready to jump out and scare me to death. I can't live in fear because I know fear is the opposite of faith. I firmly believe God has honored my obedience to walk with Him in faith and that's why He's given me this wonderful test result. And this proves He isn't through with me just yet. There's something more He wants me to do to glorify Him. I don't know what it is just yet, but I'm going to be seeking His face and asking Him to guide me in the days ahead. Life is good and I am blessed. What more could I want?

© bonnie annis all rights reserved