It's already been twelve years since I cut my dream of a camper van journey short to face down cancer. Even if/when it decides to reappear one day, I've beaten the cancer odds.
Today, I am still here.
I gotta admit, in those first days after my fingers stumbled upon the lump, I was sure the piper had come calling for me. I was prepared to go down fighting, but given the givens of my mom's cancer journey, I thought I wouldn't survive the decade. I was resigned to the probability I would be told, when I woke from my double mastectomy, that the disease had found its way to my lymph nodes. But I won the same genetic lottery I lost, my lymph nodes were clear. My cancer, caught early, turned out to be treatable, unlike Mom's, unlike Libby's.
I didn't survive the battle without some scars to show for it. They are my daily reminder of the difficult paths I walked in the midst of the journey. The part I like is that they are scars; no longer open wounds that need careful tending, they are reminders I made it through to the far side of that dark valley.
I have traveled far since those days. As I make new memories (both pleasant and less so) and have new adventures (both fun and less so), a sense of awe surrounding the fact I am still around to live my days is never far from my awareness.
This year, I was out in California with Kate, and together we celebrated our continued ability to open our eyes each morning. (Her cancaversary is three years less two days after mine; she is also NED - shows No Evidence of Disease. *whew*) With her partner Edwin and the amazing Ms. Lexi, we had a luxurious dinner and raised a toast or three in gratitude.
We are here.
Hallelujah!
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