Tomorrow I’m scheduled for port removal surgery.  The [technically] final step in this year-long journey.  I was going to submit a Caring Bridge entry when I completed my final echo (heart did well throughout the treatment process! 😊) but decided to wait till the process was complete. 

The Dr. wanted to schedule my final mammogram for July since my last treatment was in June.  I asked if we could move it up because when I finished my final infusion, I wanted to leave there without the specter of an outstanding mammogram looking over my shoulder.  So, he scheduled the mammo for a week before my final infusion.

It’s hard to believe that fear could still be lurking. . . I was approaching the END of a cancer journey, yet my thoughts were flying around worrying about the upcoming mammogram. . . I was sure that I’d get that same look from the tech with the words, “Well, the radiologist wants to do an ultrasound. . . he thinks he can still see a little something. . . “ 

The morning of ‘the mammogram’ I walked through the doors a seasoned cancer patient, ready for yet another scan thinking, “This isn’t my first rodeo”—but that seasoned cancer patient shared a body with a little girl, scared to pieces—almost like the first day of school.  I battled inside myself on the way through the doors, convincing myself that even if the news is bad I know how to handle it, I’ve done this before, it will be ok.  Then the smells, sounds, & appearance of the check-in area suddenly looked brand new.  I wondered, “what happens if they find cancer’s still there??” I was scared and lacked confidence and I was courageous & ready for whatever the results would be.  It was so, so weird.

The same young woman who’d done my 2021 mammo (that yes, needed the ultrasound afterwards & yes, detected cancer) greeted me to do this final one.  Her eyes & demeanor were tender & kind.  After the mammogram, she walked out announcing she was going to show them to the radiologist (same one from a year ago was on staff that day).  She looked at me with unspoken hope/fear.  She smiled, trying to balance professionalism with hoping for the best.  We both knew when she walked back in the words she said to me would change my life. . . one way or the other.  As the seconds ticked by, I sat in the same chair in the same room as I had a year earlier.  Actually, two Becky’s sat there.  The old hat who knew she could handle whatever news came and the scared little girl.

The door opened.  She came in with a huge smile & said, “you’re good to go!”.  I jumped up & we hugged, both with tears in our eyes.  At that moment she loved her job & I loved her. 

How to walk out?. . . Do I dance?  Do I cry?  Do I smite the cancerous tumor that had hobbled my walking out a year earlier?  I chose grace.  I would walk out with dignity, grace, & a thankful heart.

She opened the door & there stood TJ, arms outstretched for a hug.  That ever sweet tech that had been present for the ultrasound & biopsy in 2021 & had done the first, last & all the in-between scans of my heart during the past year.  My cheerleader, advocate, my friend.  The guy waiting in the wings to help with further imaging if the radiologist would have said, “Nope.  It’s not clean.  We need an ultrasound.”  He gave me one of the most authentic hugs that shared my joy I think I’ve ever gotten.  Then, around the corner came Jeff, the other imaging guy who was there on day one (& imaging days in between).  The nurse who looks like a construction worker. . . because that’s what he’d been prior to changing careers & becoming a nurse.  I happily accepted a genuine bear hug, with tears.  Well, so much for my choice of dignity 😊.  I was celebrating with a team who’d been there from day one.  I wanted to capture that moment, so there I was, sandwiched between TJ & Jeff with the nurse off to the side, all of us trying to squeeze in for a selfie.  Another nurse walked by & offered to take the picture.  She suggested we cross to the other side of the hallway to be by a quilt that hung on the wall.  I’ll attach that moment as a photo so if you’ve been following my journey, you can see the faces of who I’ve talked about.

A year earlier, if you remember reading, I had been crying pretty good at that first appt. so TJ offered to walk me out another way so I wouldn’t have to walk through the waiting areas.  This day, a year later, here I was crying again (I lose the tear-fighting battle every time!) only I told TJ he didn’t have to walk me out this time.  These were happy tears.  He said, “How about I walk you out anyway”.  The assured me I’d made an impression on them & they’d never forget me.  Wow, that was humbling.  I wish a team like that on anyone that has to go through what I did.

On June 21st I sat through my final infusion.  Again, I wanted to submit a Caring Bridge entry prior to that so I could know I was covered in prayer & had well-wishers in my corner for this last leg of the treatment journey.  But, I decided again to wait till the process was actually over—meaning, the port would be removed.  In full disclosure, I wondered if I hesitated sending out a ‘final’ Caring Bridge post because somewhere in the recesses of my mind I didn’t want to cut off the connection to so many people who cared & were rooting for me.  Whether they posted a reply on the site, called me on the phone, sent email messages, or cards in the mail. . . what if I needed this support again?  Spring was doing weird things to my mind, probably because anniversaries of good and bad things tend to gnaw at our peace.  I kept thinking things like “a year ago at this time, I didn’t even know I HAD cancer. . . “ , and “just think, a year ago, in a week, I’d be learning I had cancer. . . “ The birds singing, the garden calling to be tilled & planted, school busses driving by with kids anxious & smiling all announced “Spring is here!”  For me, the 2021 spring arrived like a scary winter blizzard.  Suddenly I was snowed in, trapped, afraid I wouldn’t be able to shovel myself out.  So, as 2022’s spring hope was replacing 2021’s spring devastating news, fear tagged along.  Almost daily I would have to battle the thoughts of “what if. . . ”.   I got angry with myself because I should be celebrating, not pulling that black cloud back over myself.  What the heck was my problem??

I think a cancer diagnosis took me by such surprise, was such a shocking gut punch, it made a lasting impression, like a tatoo of fear on my heart.  Jeff, one of the imaging nurses said it’s almost like a form of PTSD and it’s hard to try to learn to live with yet another new normal, especially when the new normal is good and we’d just mastered learning to live with a new normal that wasn’t.

So, if anyone is reading this & someone you care about should be celebrating recovery, yet battles with fear, be patient with them.  I’ve learned, this is normal.  I’m not crazy.  I’m human.

The last box to check would be to have the port removed.  Imagine if you can a nurse (not at Lakewood, but at Essentia at St. Joes hospital in Brainerd where I had to finish my treatments because my oncologist went there full time), answering my question of “So, when can I schedule the port to be removed?” with. . . you ready, she actually answered me with this lovely statement: “Well, some people don’t get them removed, you know, in case the cancer comes back.”  WAS THE WOMAN CRAZY?!  WHAT SCHOOL DID SHE LEARN HER BEDSIDE MANNER FROM?!  Here I am, trying to slay the fear beast & she comes along & feeds him!

Needless to say, I messaged my oncologist & asked about that. . . (Jeopardy! music playing. . . .)  He responded that I am at no higher risk than anyone else so he saw no problem with me having my port removed.  Touché Nurse Ratchet!!

I made the appt. & am schedule for surgery tomorrow at 9:15 a.m. 

Do I need a mammogram again in 6 months?  Yep.  Will I be afraid?  Yep.  But, if you’re reading this, that means you care enough to.  You’ve offered prayers, food, encouragement, advice, support, walks, lunch dates, & gift cards or cash.  You’ve been the prayer warriors & 3 a.m. battle buddies.  You’ve been in or surrounded me in my foxhole during this battle.  You & your concern & support have given me the strength to put one foot in front of the other.  Some of you are from way back in high school, yet have stood with your old classmate.  Some of you I’ve heard from because you read my Caring Bridge site & I had no idea you were keeping up with my battle but have heard through others you’ve been praying for me, wondering when the next post would be.   Whether we’ve attended the same school or church whether you’re a new or old close friend or just an acquaintance. . you cared.  Your care has made a difference in my life’s history book and I can’t thank you enough.

I wanted to have a big ice cream party & invite everyone who’d been part of Team Becky (since, if you remember, a stop at DQ was in order after every chemo treatment of those first 12 weeks).  But, I thought that might be weird so I didn’t.  So, my final chemo was celebrated by a trip to DQ with my son Jonah who wasn’t working that afternoon.  Then yes, the mimosas that he decided last summer that we should have to celebrate the final treatment (after he’d heard the word & learned what they even were 😊), we had those with the BBQ ribs I made for dinner that evening.    

No bell to ring as I walked out of the hospital.  Just the sunshine.  Just the new lease on life.  Just the big “C” in my rearview mirror.  Just the slow drivers to be irritated with because I can go back to normal frustrations.

Today would be a treatment day.  It’s 3 weeks from my last.  This is the first Tuesday in over a year that I haven’t been poked & chemo drugs haven’t been pumped through my veins.  In a weird way, I’ll miss it.  I’ll miss it because I knew there were drugs working inside me, battling any stray cells that may have evaded the first round of 12 strong treatments, the 5 weeks of daily radiation, the tri-weekly monoclonal antibody infusions.  What if a cell got away?. . .

My choice now is to live with a “what if?” attitude or a “what’s next?” attitude.  This fall will begin my final year as a homeschooling mom.  That scares me as bad as cancer did!  The most rewarding thing I’ve ever done in my life was to be a mother.  I also will begin classes with MN State Southeast to earn a certificate in Creative Writing.  For those of you who know me well enough, you know words have always been one of my favorite things.  And, crafting them in writing for others to read is like winning the lottery for me. 

I’ve spent the past 14 yrs educating my kids.  I had one semester left to complete my bachelors, then I’d planned to get my masters in psychology.  I was going to be a counselor.  I’ve learned life is too short.  Instead of earning an impressive title (& having acknowledged I am too empathetic to think I would be able to leave my clients battles & pain at the office), I decided to forego that effort.

Instead, I plan to pursue writing & continue my love of cooking for others by working my way into catering.  I’ve catered a couple of weddings & even a funeral—I LOVE cooking for other people.  I’ll most likely never complete my bachelor’s degree.  But, if I can write & cook, those pursuits will satisfy much more than a master’s degree. 

If you’re wondering how I’m going to afford school (time & money wise since I’m still a homeschool mom with outstanding medical debt from the cancer battle)--by that 5-letter word, FAITH.  The program is 1.5 yrs (3 semesters) & costs just under $4000 to complete + another $2000 or less for a new laptop.  So far, I applied for & have rec’d a $3000 scholarship so I’m on my way to not having to incur debt for my little educational endeavor.  I’ll apply for more scholarships & hope something more comes through. Once I earn my certificate upon completion of the program, I will have a fine portfolio of samples of writing to use for potential publications / publishers.

I do still work very part-time with Kinship, matching kids from single-parent homes with volunteer mentors—talk about rewarding!!  Nothing like giving a kid hope for a better future & more caring adults in their corner.

This will probably be my last entry, unless there’s a problem with surgery tomorrow, because there won’t be a cancer battle to write about.  I will check in so I don’t miss any replies that someone’s taken the time to post.  I welcome emails beckyolson21@outlook.com or even phone calls (email me your # & I’ll contact you) if anyone wants to stay in touch. . . or if you’re in need of a cook for a special dinner 😊  Or, maybe someone reading this wants to read what I get published after I finish school.  Or just maybe I can be of support for you in some way.  One droplet of encouragement adds up to buckets of blessings.  Thank you for being in the bucket.

P.S. Update on my boys.  Tucker ended up receiving enough money in scholarships (no grants, no loans) to pay for not only 2 years at Alexandria, but 2 yrs at Bemidji (online).  He’ll get his diploma from Alex, then after Bemidji he’ll graduate with his bachelor’s in Construction Management. 

Jonah made the MN All-State band again.  This year he had the top audition for tuba & gets to be the only tuba in the orchestra band (All-State has 3 different bands students can audition for).  He’ll spend 4 days in August at St. Ben’s under stringent rehearsals & training.  He got a 30 on his ACT but is unsure of future plans.  His life’s dream of going to space or joining the military is still on his mind. . .  He LOVES being young & wishes youth lasted a lot longer since there are “so many more instruments he wants to learn in band & things he wants to do before having to be a grown up”.  He also tied for 2nd place at the Clay Target Championship Shoot in Alexandria out of 241 kids in his group.  Technically he was awarded 3rd place, he was in 1st, then got bumped down to a 3-way tie at 93 (1st place had 97) but the way they figure when you missed your shots was how they determined 2nd & 3rd place winners.  He plans to wrestle again this year & had a good year in track.  He plans to take voice lessons starting this fall. . . & now thinks he wants to join cross country. 

XOXO

Becky