A decade ago this week, I administered the final chemo injection into my belly, pushed the plunger down, and was overwhelmed by tears of relief. I disposed of the used needle in my sharps box, then ecstatically danced around my beloved trio of dogs: Emmett, Lucas, and Cooper. To them, my joyful celebration seemed utterly baffling.
Exactly eleven years ago, I received the grim prognosis that I had a mere 35 percent chance of surviving to reach this remarkable 10-year milestone. Statistics suggested that a recurrence or even death was more probable. During that week eleven years ago, I embarked on my first round of daily, two-hour-long infusions. Anxious, overwhelmed, and filled with fear, I settled into the chemo chair while the nurse connected the IV to my newly-installed port.
On that same fateful morning, another patient commenced his initial round of chemotherapy. His nurse approached me, introducing us with the words, “You two will be friends. You share the same age, the same type of cancer, and the same treatment. You can compare notes!”
However, contrary to the nurse’s prediction, we did not become friends. Although we spent two hours together every day, our exchanges were superficial at best. A shared diagnosis, it seemed, wasn’t a solid foundation for friendship.
As for that other patient, he worked diligently. As soon as his IV was connected, he pulled out his laptop and immersed himself in work. Meanwhile, I divided my time between reading, napping, watching TV, and engaging in lively conversations with my cherished chemo nurse.
His wife, heavily pregnant at the time, would drop him off each day and then depart, presumably to protect the baby from the somber atmosphere of the chemo suite.
Our daily routine persisted: he focused on work, I kept to myself.
Gradually, we both underwent physical transformations, losing weight and hair. The relentless onslaught of discomfort took a toll, forcing both of us to simply sit quietly at times. It’s exhausting to feel unwell constantly, but still, we never truly communicated.
Then, abruptly, the other patient ceased to appear.
Curious, I asked one of the nurses if he had completed his treatment. Their response was heartbreaking: no, he hadn’t. Instead, they had opted for a different treatment strategy.
I, however, continued with my treatment, eventually transitioning from the two-hour daily chemo drip to administering self-administered at-home shots. I returned weekly for needle refills and vital sign assessments.
Then, one day, when I visited the oncology office for a routine vitals check and prescription refill, I learned the devastating news: the other patient, that man I shared my early days of treatment with, had passed away.
As I celebrate a full decade of being cancer-free this week, I can’t help but mourn the loss of the little boy who will celebrate his tenth birthday this year without ever knowing his father.
I mourn for my dearest friend who is currently grappling with her own series of distressing cancer-related complications.
I mourn for the 65 percent of people who won’t have the chance to revel in their ten-year victories.
I mourn for the millions who receive cancer diagnoses each year.
Yet, amidst the mourning, I am also celebrating, for I have triumphed over cancer. I emerged victorious in this harrowing battle, and it has irrevocably transformed nearly every facet of my life. I couldn’t have navigated this challenging journey without the unwavering support of my dogs, which is why I have penned a book currently undergoing the querying process. It’s why I am confident that this path is the one I’m meant to traverse.
I’m profoundly grateful for all of you. Many of you have accompanied me on this tumultuous ten-year journey. We have established a community in this digital space, bound by our shared love for dogs, and I am eagerly looking forward to walking alongside you in the upcoming decade.
I’m grateful for reaching this juncture, this “cancer-free” milestone. The dark shadow that loomed menacingly over the past decade has gradually receded. The path forward gleams brightly and clearly.
Now, please go ahead and give your dog a loving scratch from me.
“Do not be disheartened by the brokenness of the world. All things may break, but they can also be mended. Not through the passage of time, as some say, but through deliberate intention. So, go forth and love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The fractured world awaits the light that is you.”
