Ten Years

“It s been ten years. And I’m still breathing.”

I mentally composed this opening months ago in preparation for my 10 year anniversary. Ten years ago today, on February 20, 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. You know, ten years after cancer, you’re considered a survivor. And you also know, if you’ve read my past posts, that I haven’t blogged in almost three years. I mean . . . pandemic. And now I'm busy living. I consider myself a survivor.

Perhaps prematurely.

Last month, a serious sinus infection turned into pinkeye which required a round of Augmentin, steroids, and eye drops. When stomach pain flared a week later, I figured it was a reaction to the meds, or maybe the probiotics I was taking to counteract the meds. But the pain persisted, and I felt lumps in my abdomen that concerned me, so I saw my doctor. She sent me for a CT scan. We went looking for diverticulitis, but found a large fibroid instead.  

I’ve known for years I had fibroids. Fibroids are usually benign. But I have variables that put me at risk for uterine cancer, one of them being that in 2021 I walked my mom through uterine cancer, chemo, radiation, and recovery. She’s doing well. Now our doctor is worried about me.

This feels surreal, this worry about cancer again. My total hysterectomy is scheduled for February 27, one day shy of ten years after my breast cancer surgery on February 28, 2013. Back then, they knew the tumor was cancerous. This time, they won’t know ‘til after surgery.

Our emotions come in waves, depending on the day—or the hour. Our daughter Nicola asked, “Is this going to be my life? This fear of impending loss?” Sometimes it feels like that has been life for the past 10 years. For how many biopsies have we awaited the outcome, convinced that death was certain, only to be told that all was well, everything was benign?

We grow weary. We long for open seas, smooth sailing. Bur storm clouds gather, and we wonder if they’ll pass or send us to the depths. Then Jesus comes, just like He did to the disciples caught in a storm on Galilee. Nicola texted: “Was reading in Mark this morning about Jesus calming the storm. The words ‘great calm’ stuck out to me. Praying that over you today.”

God’s Word brings calm. Friends send scriptures that minister. My devotions or a worship song line up, confirming the truth of God’s sovereign care, of His never-ending love.

This is what I know from my times in the valley of the shadow—He is with me. Fear hovers, but I have a choice. My dear husband Greg, who feels each waiting period deeply, put it so well: “Do you find your mind going down into a hole, but you tell yourself, ‘Don’t go there’? And then you come back to a place where you think, 'Everything's ok' . . . but you're not sure that's true, either?”

That’s exactly what I feel. It’s a trick to keep your mind perfectly balanced between fearing the worst and expecting the best. There’s tension as you wait, keeping your mind fixed on what you know is true at this moment.

This afternoon, Greg and I gazed at each other across the table and pondered the fact that it has been ten years since we first heard the words, “It is cancer.” I thought my life was over then, but a decade later we're still here, having watched our kids grow up, having lived so many dreams. I am grateful.

No matter what happens, whether next Monday leads us through the portal marked “benign” or the one marked “cancer,” behind either door is Heaven.