The Next Five Years

Five Years.

Five years.

Five mammograms.

Five ultrasounds.

All clear.

This is the day you wait for after a cancer diagnosis. When you first learn that you have cancer, you live one decision at a time. Then one day at a time. Then a week. Then a month. Then one doctor appointment at a time. Eventually, you graduate to six-month increments. You hit the two-year mark, and the chance of recurrence drops. But the closer you get to that tenth scan — ten test results that say no evidence of disease — the more nervous you become.

At least, that’s how it’s been for me.

I wasn’t sure how I’d feel when this milestone finally arrived. Truthfully, I tried not to think about it too much. And even now, I’m still sorting through the emotions. What I didn’t expect was the crash afterward — every possible feeling rushing in at once: relief, joy, shock, exhaustion, gratitude.

One of the programs at WVU is based on the Clifton Strength analysis. My top strength is "learner" (which shouldn't surprise anyone). I have learned a lot since June 18th, 2020.

What Five Years Has Taught Me

You can do everything “right,” and life still throws you curveballs.

Of the seven risk factors for breast cancer, I had none. But I was diagnosed with cancer anyway. It’s a reminder that sometimes things just happen, and it’s not about blame or fault. It isn't a punishment for a choice I've made along the way. Just part of the journey.

Science is nothing short of a miracle.

Preventative screenings, regular check-ups, and treatment options gave me five years — and counting. The things medicine makes possible are extraordinary, and I don’t take that for granted.

Marry someone you’d want in your foxhole.

The one who changes bandages, drives you to appointments, brings home dinner when you can’t face cooking, or willingly participates in a podcast and a TV commercial. It’s in the vulnerable moments that love shows its true shape.

Sometimes the BEST things in life happen because of the WORST things in life.

In the past five years, I’ve changed jobs (twice), moved to a new town, bought a car, and built a house. I firmly believe that none of that would have happened without my cancer diagnosis, or without experiencing it during a global pandemic. It was the hardest chapter of my life — and also one of the richest. Both can be true.

You can’t pour from an empty cup.

It pains me to admit, but I can't do it all. I’m still learning to rest, to say no, to put my own oxygen mask on first. It isn’t selfish. It’s necessary.

Take the Vacation

Whatever brings you joy — a walk, a show, a vacation, an ice cream cone — that's the brass ring. I've learned to do more of it.

People care more than you realize.

I remain in awe of how many people continue to check in — former teachers, friends, colleagues, family, people near and far. It’s in the darkest times that we discover who’s really got our back.

Life will probably look really different five years from now. Our house will be an empty nest. We will be in our 50s. Here's hoping I take these lessons with me.

This blog has been part journal, part therapy, part record of a journey I didn’t ask for but have learned from in ways I never imagined. If you’ve been following along, thank you. Your encouragement has mattered more than I can ever put into words.

✨ Please - Schedule your mammogram.

Because life — even in its hardest seasons — is worth it.