Ten Years Later, Here I Am

Renee:

It's October, which means Breast Cancer Awareness Month is upon us, and everything is turning pink. Pink ribbons. Pink shirts. Pink merchandise. Pink everything.

As a breast cancer survivor, I have a confession. I've never been particularly enthusiastic about the whole month of pink. Don't get me wrong, awareness matters, and if all that pink encourages someone to pay attention to their breast health, I'm all for it. Consider this my friendly reminder to know your breasts and get the screenings recommended for you. Yes, men, that includes paying attention to yours too!

But personally, I'd rather celebrate something else this October.

Ten years.

That's how long it's been since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A whole decade, which is somehow both hard to believe and completely believable when I look at everything that's happened since.

When I was diagnosed, Eden and Xen were six years old.

Today they're sixteen. They're driving, we're talking about college visits, and I'm discovering that raising teenagers comes with an entirely different set of reasons to worry than raising six-year-olds. 

We go to concerts together, I've taught them to drive, and in two weeks, we get to escort Eden onto the football field as part of her homecoming court.

Ten years ago, I wasn't sure I'd get to experience any of those things.

And now here I am, worrying about teenage drivers and college applications like every other parent. I'll take it.

This milestone has been on my mind a little more than usual lately. I was recently asked to record a video for the Florida PTA about the impact breast cancer has on families and children. The hope was that sharing my experience as a mom might offer some encouragement or support to another family going through something similar.

And then Friday was my annual oncologist appointment, although apparently we've graduated to calling these survivorship visits.

I have to say, I like the upgrade.

We talked about my health, medications, and the usual things that come with having a medical history that's a little more complicated than I'd prefer.

I've been on medication for nearly ten years, and fortunately, I haven't experienced many of the side effects that others do. But there are still considerations, including how ongoing treatment and my medical history can affect things like obtaining certain types of insurance.

Then came the part that reminded me I'm apparently a bit of a medical oddity.

My oncologist recommends that I stay on this medication for the rest of my life.

The available research doesn't establish an additional benefit beyond ten years for this particular treatment, but my situation is unusual enough that there isn't clear evidence to tell us what happens in a case like mine. So my doctor is using his experience and best judgment to recommend what he believes is the safest path forward.

In other words, there isn't a neat little box to put me in.

Shocking, I know. 

But the conversation reminded me of something I've been learning since the day I was diagnosed.

Life doesn't come with guarantees.

Cancer just has a way of making that fact a whole lot harder to ignore.

I remember sitting there ten years ago hearing statistics about survival and recurrence. Those numbers were scary, especially with two little kids at home. I took them seriously, and I took my treatment seriously too. Surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, medication.

But I also made a decision that those numbers weren't going to become my identity.

Statistics are important. They help doctors make decisions and help us understand risks. But they describe groups of people, not the entirety of any one person's future.

I couldn't control every outcome, but I could make decisions about my care, keep planning for the future, and keep participating in my life.

And that's exactly what I've tried to do.

Have I worried over the years? Of course. Have I occasionally wondered what the next appointment might bring? Absolutely. I'm human.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that waiting for certainty before enjoying my life would mean missing an awful lot of it.

And who among us has certainty anyway?

We all have things we can't predict or control. Health challenges, business setbacks, family changes, unexpected opportunities, and all the twists and turns that make life interesting, whether we asked for them or not.

We don't get to choose every circumstance, and positive thinking doesn't guarantee a particular outcome. But we do get to make choices about how we approach the life in front of us.

For me, that has meant continuing to make plans, saying yes to experiences, spending time with people I love, and refusing to put my life on hold while waiting for answers that may never come.

And what a life it's been.

Not a perfect one. We've had plenty of challenges over the past decade, and I still have days when I'm annoyed by something completely insignificant. Apparently surviving cancer does not magically make you patient, enlightened, or immune to getting irritated when someone leaves dishes in the sink.

But it has given me a different appreciation for some of the ordinary things.

Like sitting in the passenger seat while one of my teenagers drives. (Appreciation mixed with a healthy dose of terror, but appreciation nonetheless.)

Or making plans for college visits.

Or getting ready to walk onto that football field with Eden.

Those are the moments that make ten years feel like so much more than a number.

So while October may be filled with pink ribbons, I'm choosing to celebrate the life that's happened between my diagnosis and today.

The concerts. The birthdays. The family adventures. The business we've built. The everyday moments that don't look particularly extraordinary until you realize how much they mean.

And that's what I really wanted to share with you today.

You don't have to have a cancer diagnosis to know what it feels like to face an uncertain future. Maybe you're navigating something difficult right now. Maybe life looks nothing like you thought it would. Or maybe everything is going along just fine, but there's something you've been putting off because you're waiting for the right time, the right circumstances, or some reassurance that everything will work out.

I get it. We all want to know that the plans we're making are going to turn out the way we hope.

But if there's one thing these ten years have taught me, it's that we don't have to know how the story ends to enjoy the chapter we're in.

Make the plans. Take the trip. Go to the concert. Celebrate the little things. Tell people you love them. And don't wait until life feels perfectly settled to start enjoying it.

Because ten years from now, you might look back and realize that some of the moments you almost overlooked became the ones you treasure most.

As for me, I have a football field to walk onto with my daughter in a couple of weeks, and I fully intend to soak up every second of it.

My oncologist may consider me an anomaly, and I suppose that's fair.

But I prefer to think of myself as a unicorn. 

And this unicorn has a whole lot more living to do.