Ten years have passed since that momentous week when I inserted the final chemo needle into my belly, pushed the plunger, and tears of relief streamed down my face. The sharp container received the needle, and I spun around in jubilation, startling Emmett, Lucas, and Cooper – my loyal canine companions – as I joyfully exclaimed, “I’m done!” To them, it must have seemed like I’d lost my mind.
Eleven years ago, during that very same week, a doctor had delivered a daunting prognosis: a 65 percent chance of never reaching this remarkable 10-year milestone. Statistically, my fate appeared more inclined towards recurrence or even death. In those days, eleven years ago, I embarked on my first round of daily, grueling two-hour infusions. Overwhelmed by anxiety and fear, I settled into the chemo chair, hoping to find solace as the nurse connected the IV to my newly-implanted port.
During that same morning, another patient began his own journey with chemotherapy. The nurse overseeing our treatments believed we could be friends, stating, “You two are the same age, battling the same cancer, and undergoing the same treatment. You should compare notes!”
However, we never became friends. While we shared a diagnosis, it wasn’t a sufficient foundation for friendship.
The other patient, a man, diligently worked on his laptop as soon as his IV was connected. Meanwhile, I passed the time by reading, napping, watching TV, or engaging in spirited conversations with my beloved chemo nurse.
His pregnant wife would drop him off each day, only to depart shortly thereafter – presumably, a chemo suite isn’t an ideal place for a developing fetus.
As time passed, we grew increasingly fatigued from feeling unwell, shifting from productivity to mere presence in our chairs. We were two ships passing in the night, never exchanging more than polite nods.
Then, one day, the other patient simply stopped showing up.
I inquired with one of the nurses about his absence. She informed me that he had not completed his treatment; they had decided to explore a different approach.
I continued my regimen, eventually transitioning from the two-hour daily chemo sessions to self-administered at-home injections. Each week, I returned to the oncology office for more needles and vital sign check-ups.
And then, on one fateful day, as I entered the oncology office for a routine check-up and prescription refill, I received the heartbreaking news: the other patient, he hadn’t made it.
As I commemorate the incredible achievement of a decade free from cancer, I can’t help but grieve for the young boy who will turn ten this year without ever having the chance to know his father.
My heart aches for my dearest friend who presently grapples with her own set of burdensome cancer-related complications.
I mourn for the remaining 65 percent of individuals who won’t get to share in the victory of reaching their tenth year.
I grieve for the countless millions who receive a cancer diagnosis each year.
However, amidst the sorrow, I also celebrate. I celebrate because cancer does not define me. I celebrate because I emerged victorious in this relentless battle. It has altered the course of my life and the way I live it. The dogs, my faithful companions, played an irreplaceable role in this journey. They are the reason I penned the book I am presently querying. They are the reason I am resolute that this path is the one I was destined to tread.
I extend my heartfelt gratitude to all of you. Many of you have been by my side throughout this past decade. We have cultivated a supportive community in this digital space, united by our shared love for dogs. I eagerly anticipate walking this path with you into the next decade.
I am thankful to have arrived at this point – the “cancer-free” juncture. The ominous shadow that loomed over my shoulder for the past ten years has gradually receded. The path ahead now stretches before me, luminous and full of promise.
