For three years I’ve waited for the moment I can breathe. For three years I’ve waited for today.
Today is my two year anniversary of being in remission.
Cancer limbo is a strange place to be. You no longer have cancer but you can’t say you’re a survivor. You have to wait for year five for that declaration.
But two years and three months ago I had to choose my cancer path. Two years and three months ago I had to decide between high dose chemotherapy coupled with a full bone marrow transplant for a 60% cure rate or radiation for a 10% chance. Two years and three months ago I once again went against the advice of my doctor. Two years and three months ago I chose the 10% chance.
Two years, I was told. I would have to make it to two years of clean scans and then I could breathe.
And every day for the last two years I’ve held my breath and waited. For two years I’ve “lived” without really living. I’ve moved on, I told people. I’m no longer worried, I said. But those were lies. Or maybe those were hopes. Either way, every day, for two years I thought about today.
Today, I hit the jackpot.
Today, I can breathe.
Today, I will live.
