December

Yesterday I had an appointment scheduled with a cosmetic and reconstructive surgeon in Jacksonville. He is not the usual type of plastic surgeon. He does advanced reconstructive work, microsurgery, and procedures that support lymphatic drainage. I had booked the visit because I thought it might be time to learn what my options were, both for reconstruction and for anything that might help my lymph system. To basically learn and maybe plan.

While I was getting ready to leave, I decided to call the office because I had received a text the day before saying the visit would cost more than three hundred and fifty dollars. At this point everything should be covered, since I have met all my deductibles. The girl at the desk tried to get my insurance information to load properly, but nothing she did worked, so the appointment had to be canceled.

And wow, I did not expect the wave of relief that followed. The truth is that I am tired. I have spent most of this year walking in and out of medical buildings, sitting in waiting rooms, taking calls, hearing results, and bracing for the next step. The idea of not adding another appointment to that list feels like a small breath of freedom. Maybe I can coast a little through the end of the year.

I am going to physical therapy tomorrow to help my lymph system, and I am hoping to get several sessions in before the year ends. I have some rib pain and swelling that linger from radiation, and I want to get ahead of it before it becomes something harder to manage.

One thing that irritates me is something simple and frustrating. Before all of this happened, I was doing well. I was losing weight, I felt stronger, and I finally had a little momentum. You would think that going through extreme stress and medical upheaval would make the weight fall off, but you would be wrong. Instead, I gained some of it back. Weeks of rest and recovery from surgeries and radiation have left my body feeling weaker than before. It feels unfair and discouraging.

I keep telling myself that next year can be different. I want it to be the year where my body is not in crisis. I want space to focus on getting stronger, losing weight again, and feeling healthy. I want a stretch of time where I am not recovering from something. Hope feels fragile, but it is still there.

On Tuesday I got my hair cut. My hair has been so long that even taking off around four inches still leaves it long, but it felt good to have some of the weight removed. As it turned out, the girl who cut my hair went to high school with my daughter. I recognized her as soon as I saw her.

As we talked about how our year had gone and I told her what has been happening to me, she said something that shifted the whole conversation in an instant. Just before she graduated high school, she was diagnosed with stage two lymphoma. She went through chemotherapy and lost all her hair. We ended up talking for a long time about radiation, surgeries, fear, recovery, and how disorienting it is to have your life rearranged by a diagnosis. There was this unexpected sense of understanding between us. She knew exactly what it feels like to live through something that forces you to confront your own body in a way you never prepared for. It actually felt good to talk to someone who has been there and is still happy and thriving.

I will always be grateful that I did not have to go through chemotherapy and that I was able to keep my hair. Hearing her describe what she endured made that gratitude sharper. I also cannot imagine being only eighteen years old and having to face something that terrifying. She is incredibly brave. And somehow, after everything she survived, she is about to have a baby in just a few days. Life finds a way to keep moving forward.

January 18 will be my 60th birthday. I sometimes cannot believe it. I do not feel old, but the number sits in front of me as a reminder of how quickly life moves. I still cannot believe that all of this happened to me. The surgeries, the radiation, the fear, the endless waiting for results, the effort it took to stay strong and keep perspective while trying to live my life at the same time.

And now it is essentially over. I survived it. I am still here, standing in my own life. Yes, I will be taking medication for five years, and I will keep seeing the medical oncologist, but hopefully that is all that remains. Hopefully the worst part is behind me.

As I move toward sixty, I am starting to understand something I never fully grasped when I was younger. Life does not pause for us. It pushes forward whether we feel ready or not. I cannot control what has already happened to my body, but I can choose what comes next. I can decide how I want to live the time that is still mine. I can choose to care for myself, protect my peace, and rebuild strength slowly and steadily, without worrying about for the pace.

I survived an experience I never expected to face. I stood up to every terrifying thing placed in front of me, and I am still standing. That truth alone feels like its own beginning. I am ready for days that feel lighter, for a body that feels stronger, and for a future that feels steady and bright. For the first time in a long time, I can picture it.

In the end, what matters is that I made it through. I am still here. I am still healing. And I can feel the possibility of a calmer, healthier stretch of life opening in front of me. I am ready for that.