The quality of being thankful

Gratitude for sunshine on our faces on a mild day in November

One more huge milestone checked off the list!

I had a successful total hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy and received the AMAZING news that no cancer was found in any of the removed organs and tissue.

While it was harder than I expected, I’m already feeling better.

I’m exhausted and sore, but grateful for the amazing humans who have and are caring for me. Every single medical professional I’ve encountered over the course of this year, through Levine Cancer here in Charlotte, has been exceptional. They’ve treated me with kindness, compassion and dignity going through one of the hardest things a human can endure.

And my team at home is pretty amazing, too.

It makes a difference, having a good care team. I’m incredibly lucky to have such a large support system who has been there for me — both physically holding my hand and also cheering me on from a distance — for the past 10 months.

Ten months that have been a roller coaster of ups and downs, with a few loop-de-loops.

Diagnosis then plan. Treatment and recovery. Surgery then more recovery then more treatment. And another surgery. Hair loss. Radiation burn. Fatigue. So much fatigue. All the while my mental and emotional health have been doing acrobatics trying to hold onto the safety bar.

What a ride.

At times I’ve felt like this phase was going to stretch on forever. 2025 has been the longest year of my life. The chemo countdown moved at a snail’s pace. The radiation delay felt like a huge setback. Not being able to have reconstruction until next year ...

But I’m getting there. Each day is one day further from diagnosis, one day closer to normal.

I can not wait to get back to normal. To a more routine way of life. To not have multiple doctors appointments each week. To feeling better, healthy on a regular basis. To having energy, to not feeling the need to explain my terrible hair to any and every person I encounter. To being able to plan. To taking vacations. To getting rid of brain fog.

It’s the anniversary of first finding a lump — even though diagnosis wouldn’t come for more than a month after that discovery — and it’s still a bit unbelievable that all of this has actually happened to me. It still feels surreal. I have an impulse to apologize and comfort those I tell I have cancer. The word is so loaded and scary — and it doesn’t feel honest? It’s so hard to explain, but it just feels like a lie, perhaps because it’s never fully sunk in?

It feels at once as though so much has changed and nothing at all has.

My body is completely different than this time last year. I’ve been to more doctors appointments with more specialists receiving more treatments and drugs and technologies than I’ve experienced throughout the entirety of my life.

I’ve gone from running six to ten miles a day to getting winded walking up the stairs. I’ve been catapulted into menopause and zapped with lasers.

I’ve lost my breasts and my ability to bare children.

Through all of it I’ve (mostly) kept my spirit.

And, bonus, I’ve been truly blessed to have had an incredibly strong response to treatment.

I met with my oncologist the other day for the final time as an active cancer patient. My next appointment, in March, is titled “Survivorship.”

Wow. Wow wow wow. You guys. I have been chanting “I will survive” all year, but now I get to say I AM A SURVIVOR! Just wow. It’s overwhelming and thrilling. I feel little tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the word.

But yet, that word isn’t final. It’s a verb I must continue to live. I will continue to survive as the risk of recurrence looms.

Which is why this phase is the most terrifying.

It feels like I’ve been slaying a dragon, wearing armor and brandishing a sword, stabbing and slicing the enemy in front of me.

Now my sword has been shelved, my armor taken, and the enemy is hidden. Will it return? God I hope not. But it’s not unlikely.

Thanks to BRCA and the fact that chemo didn’t kill all of the cancer — putting me in residual cancer burden class I — the risk is real. And scary.

Because if this beast comes back, it will almost certainly be a higher stage.

For now I’ll do everything I can to live to the fullest, never missing an opportunity to hug my kids or kiss my husband. Saying yes to lunch dates and silly games. Slowing down to enjoy sunny days and putting together puzzles instead of folding laundry.

Things that would have caused anxiety or stress before I’m no longer looking at as good or bad — they just are. I’m seeing them and letting them go. I decide what I will get upset about and I control what I can and need to.

The fear of recurrence, however, it’s something I can seem to let go — and I don’t know that I should. The way I live can greatly influence my risk. I’m reducing sugar, alcohol, and stress. I’m taking two daily medications — one for a year and another every day for five years — to mitigate the risk, but serving as a physical reminder of the continuing fight.

I’m hoping time and therapy help me get a handle on the fear of recurrence so it doesn’t steal my joy.

Right now I’m focusing on the holidays — my favorite time of year, and a beautiful distraction. The planning, the decorating, the festivities, the celebrations with friends, the excitement of the kids, seeing the joy, beauty, and magic in all of the things — simple and extravagant.

I have always felt I have so much to celebrate and be thankful for, but this year its different.

I’m grateful for all the same things — the love I never thought I would find, the kids I fought so hard to have, the beautiful home we’ve built, all of the blessings I’ve been so fortunate to enjoy that have shaped my life — but in a much bigger, more existential way.

I’m grateful for every hug, every fight, every “I’m bored” and “hurry up we’re late,” for blonde dog hair stuck to black leggings, for being too tired to sit up, for the love that got me through this year.

I’m grateful for modern medicine. For free speech — may we be able to keep it! For friends from all backgrounds, genders, religions, sexual orientations, generations. I’m grateful to live in a community that stands up for what’s right — supporting trans and gay people who only want to love and be loved, immigrants who want what our ancestors wanted, a better way of life, families who work hard but simply can’t make ends meet, can’t feed their children — when basic human rights are being dismantled, and kindness and compassion for our neighbors are no longer a given.

I’m grateful that I’ve been waiting an hour for my surgical follow-up appointment, because I have a great surgeon who is busy and in-demand, but also because it’s given me a chance to reflect and write this blog.

I have no idea what things will look like in another year, two years after finding the first lump, a year after completing treatment. Hopefully the stress of recurrence will fade and I’ll stay healthy.

What I do know is that I’ll take advantage of every moment, be grateful for every second, and never miss a chance to love.

Stay tuned. Be well. Happy Thanksgiving.