Celebrating A Big Victory

Easter will probably always remind me of my breast cancer journey because Resurrection Sunday fell the week before I rang the bell to signify my last chemo treatment. You probably remember that day, as well. The year was 2020, and we all celebrated Easter from home due to the pandemic.

I wore camo for my head-shaving.

Jim and I decided to have our own little sunrise service that morning. We took our coffee to the back patio, and I played worship music. It was stunning, peaceful, and it rocked my world.

See, I’d already been struggling with emotions as we neared my last round of chemo. I’d gone through three months of a relatively easy chemo, then I had to go through two months of an evil drug—unaffectionately nicknamed “the red devil.”

Not only did the red devil make me nauseous (my hubby had to crush my medication into applesauce so I could keep it down), but it also caused what nurses referred to as “bone pain,” which essentially made me feel like I’d been hit by a truck. I was winded and had to lie down after a routine trip to the bathroom. And the steroids I took to help my body battle through chemo would keep me awake all night.  The red devil also tanked my blood counts to the point I was told to go home and not leave the house because I could die of a common cold. I even ended up in the hospital for three days with a neutropenic fever.

Thus, I struggled with wanting to celebrate my last chemo treatment while actually dreading it. How does one celebrate getting back in the boxing ring to get beat up again? (Imagine Rocky having his swollen black eye cut open so he can see to fight.)

During the sunrise on that Easter morning, I made the mistake of playing the song I Still Believe by Jeremy Camp. If you don’t know the backstory, he wrote the song after his wife died of breast cancer. His prayers for her healing had seemingly been unanswered, yet he chose to believe in God anyway.

So many emotions.

1.      I’d been clinging to joy throughout my whole battle, and now that I’d reached the end, it felt like I could finally let go. I allowed myself to mourn the loss of my hair (eyebrows and eyelashes included), appetite (nothing satisfied), and breasts.

2.      Why did I get to live when so many others like Jeremy Camp’s wife didn’t?

3.      I realized that more than I wanted to live, I wanted my family to believe in God.

I cried for three days straight. And I asked Jim questions like, “Are we getting buried or cremated?”

He’d respond, “You’re not dying!”

He was concerned. He who called his buddy at the fire department when I had a fever and there was not a thermometer to be found in the stores (Thanks, Covid.), and his buddy sent a fire truck over full of firemen to take my temperature.

He was confused. In his mind, I’d made it. My blood counts were going to go up. He wasn’t going to have to crush my drugs in applesauce anymore or worry about germs or thermometers or becoming a widower.

Poor guy. I had him to take care of me, but he had nobody to take care of him. And because of Covid, he wasn’t even allowed in the hospital to attend my bell-ringing.

The nurses celebrated my bell-ringing with me.

Unbeknownst to me, Jim organized a celebration outside the hospital. He picked me up from my last round of chemo, and we walked outside to find an array of friends and family socially distanced on the lawn, wearing masks, and holding signs.

I waved and yelled, “Thank you,” which was basically all I could do. I couldn’t hug anyone. I couldn’t even tell who was there because everyone was all so far away and wearing masks. To this day, people mention it, and I’m like, “Oh, you were there? Thank you for coming!” Though I couldn’t see faces, it was a beautiful celebration of a remarkable moment. I really had made it.

The day was April 15th exactly five years ago. With my kind of cancer, if it doesn’t come back in five years, it probably won’t. Today is enormous.

Every time I say that, Jim reminds me I’m still going to get checked annually. He doesn’t have to remind me. Because after a group of breast cancer survivors cheered me on through my battle, two of them have had to go through the fight again. One of them lost. I dedicated a book to her last year.

As for today, I’m still going to celebrate. When I first found out I had breast cancer, I asked myself, “How do I feel about death?” All I knew about breast cancer at the time was that my Grandma Ruth had died when she was the same age I was, and my mom had been really sad her mom hadn’t been at her wedding. I’d prayed, “God, I just want to be there for my daughters when they get married,” and my youngest is getting married this year.

I’m blessed to be here. I have lots to celebrate. And tonight, I’m getting a tattoo to commemorate the occasion. My husband, daughters, and even my mom are getting tattoos of the breast cancer ribbon with me.

I remember buying my first breast cancer ribbon earrings. Everything was pink and said “hope” on it. Hope is part of my mission statement. I want to inspire, create, and encourage hope in myself and others. So of course I’d get breast cancer. It fits in with my life’s purpose.

I recorded one second (almost) every day.

As I reflect on the past five years, on the pain and on the victory of Easter in 2020, I’m thinking the internal battle I faced gives me a glimpse into how Jesus felt in the Garden of Gethsemane when he prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.” He faced the red devil for us so that we all might live.

How are you going to celebrate this year?