One Year
One year ago, on Monday, May 13, 2024, I had my first chemotherapy infusion.
A few days ago, on Monday, May 19, 2025, I had my last protein-blocking injection. The last cancer treatment. I am DONE.
A couple weeks ago, in mid-April, I got a text from one of my cousins–the one closest to me in age, just a month older than me. It was not a text I ever wanted to see from her. It said, I need to ask you to pray for me please. I had a biopsy done earlier this week on a spot in one of my breasts. The pathology report just came back and it’s not good. Carcinoma.
On the one-year anniversary of me receiving my diagnosis, she had her biopsy done. Two days later, she had her diagnosis. Not a club we ever wanted to be members of together. And not an anniversary we ever wanted to share. But in the days and weeks following, we had so many text conversations. We talked about cancer, about the anger and frustration that hits, when we feel like our bodies–the bodies we’ve tried so hard to take care of with good food and exercise–betray us. We talked about treatment options and surgery decisions…and then we’d share silly memes about random things just to laugh.
When I realized my one-year mark was approaching, I intended to do a reflection on the twelve months that have gone by. I didn’t expect to be walking through it with a friend and relative. And I certainly wouldn’t have wished this upon her. (For reference, her cancer is slow-growing and still small, and her treatment will be much different from mine, likely not even requiring chemo. Praise God! She’s having a lumpectomy today, with radiation to follow.) But you know…somehow this new tragedy just reminds me of God’s faithfulness all the more. Because as I talk through everything with her, I get to look back on it from my perspective now:
Healed.
Delivered.
Thriving.
And I get to remember how His Light led me through every shadow. I get to consider her question of “How has the psychological aspect of mastectomy been for you? Has it been a roller coaster?” with even more perspective than I had when I wrote my “The Me I See” post just a couple weeks post-surgery. This is what I said to her:
“I knew I made the right decision for me. And knowing that left me feeling like this was the me that I chose, the me that has the best chance of being healthy, the me empowered to live a full life.”
When I look back over the past year, it’s with a strange sort of fondness. It’s with gratitude. Don’t misunderstand–I hate cancer. I never want to go through it again, and every decision I made was to improve my chances of never going through it again (rather than “least invasive”). It was physically miserable. I felt sick for three months straight, I was so tired I often had to take two naps a day, and there were countless days when I wished I could just forget all the work that needed done and curl up with a book or a television show and indulge in that misery.
But I met so many amazing people, and getting to see them every three weeks made them friends. I learned so much about the faithfulness of God, and of His Church. I was endlessly encouraged by the love and care of both friends and strangers. My husband and I grew even closer, our love tunneling deeper into our souls. I had a way to relate to people that I’ve never had before–other members of this club no one ever wants to join. I learned so much, about myself and the world and the cancer itself.
I got through six intense rounds of chemotherapy, spaced three weeks apart.
I got through a bilateral mastectomy with lymph node dissection.
I got through 15 radiation therapy sessions.
I got through an additional 11 injections of the protein-blocking drug geared toward my particular cancer (this was part of the chemo sessions too, but these two drugs don’t make me sick like the chemo did)–that’s what I just finished up.
What’s left now? Final reconstruction in a couple months. And then…then, just check-ups every three months, then six months, then every year.
The last time I met with my oncology team, I was reminded that this particular form of breast cancer, the HER2-positive, protein-fed type, is agressive. It grows fast, and it recurrs more than hormone-fed cancers. I’ll admit it. That reminder sent a pang of fear through me.
I don’t want this to come back. I don’t want to do this again. Please, God, protect me from that.
I have no real reason to fear. I had a “total response” to chemo, meaning NO cancer cells were found in any scans or in the pathology from surgery. This is best-case-scenario. This means that any cancer cells floating around were likely eliminated as well, which means my chance of recurrence are lower. And the radiation therapy was one more weapon against it. But there are never any guarantees.
There are never guarantees in life. I always knew that, but now I know it in a new way. Now I know that every day, every month, every year is a walk of faith. It’s clinging to His hand and trusting.
Trusting that I’ll stay healthy, yes.
But also trusting that if I don’t, He is no less able. No less God. No less loving.
Trusting that if it’s His will, I could fight this battle again and win. Or fight this battle and end up in His arms. Either way, I will trust. Trust His will. Trust in His best-for-me.
Again, going through it again would obviously not be my will, and I absolutely pray it will never happen.
But I already faced down those fears, last year. Every scan, every test, every unknown was a chance for me to look Death in the face and say, “My Redeemer lives, and I live with Him. In here or in heaven, I live with Him.” Every day of misery was a day to say, “I still have work to do for Him. And when He does call me home, it will be with the trust that someone else will take up that work. But for now? For now, I do the work with what strength He gives me.”
It was not a year I want to repeat. And yet it was a year of profound blessing. It was a year of deeper faith, of greater friendships, of unfathomable love.
As I write this, tears well in the eyes of this girl-who-rarely-cries. Because friends, this year was the worst and the best. This year was fear and salvation. This year was exhaustion and triumph. This year was vulnerability and humility.
And this year is over. The year of cancer, complete. Treatments done.
Now…now I walk. I walk forward, into the rest of my life. I walk with my hand in God’s. And I walk with my eyes trained on those around me, ready to hold out that hand when other diagnoses come. Because they will–they already have. So, so many friends face this.
Last year, I wrote about how “Pink Isn’t My Color” and I will NOT be defined by breast cancer. And that still holds true. I am so much more than cancer. I still claim purple as MY color, not pink. Purple, because it was always the color of my dreams. The color of royalty.
And I am a daughter of the King. That is still my core identity. I am who He made me. Woman, daughter, sister, writer, wife, mom, friend. Survivor. That gets its place on the list, yes. Because while cancer is not part of my identity, fighter is. Warrior is. I didn’t volunteer for the battle, but I waged it, and I pray I waged it well.
Now, I walk this path with a chemo port still in my chest (that stays for a year, grumble grumble) but with no more treatments looming. I walk this path with a body that’s still too weak and joints that have decided to ache and hot flashes that may not go away (apparently in women over 40, chemo often results in menopause. Sometimes it’s temporary and cycles return…sometimes they don’t. We’ll just have to wait and see) and one more surgery to go. The tissue expanders still hurt whenever there’s pressure on them. My pectoral muscles, now over those expanders, still get tight and sore. I still can’t reach to zip up my dresses all the way, like I used to be able to do. My hair is a whopping 2-inches long, and my eyebrows and lashes are thin.
I’m not the same person I was a year ago, in many ways. Physical ways. Mental ways too.
Because though my body is weaker right now, my spirit is stronger. Though I don’t look like the me I was before, I look like the me I fought for. I am changed. And praise God for it.
I don’t know what the future will hold, for me or anyone I love. I don’t know where this year will take me, or the next, or the next. I don’t know if this was my one battle or if someday, I’ll fight it again. I don’t know if I’ll have to stand by the side of people I love to my core and hold their hand as they fight.
But I know that I don’t have to know. I know I am in God’s hand. I know that each day, all I have to do is the work He sets before me.
Praise you, Lord, for every shadow. Praise you for every day of weakness. Praise you for the valley. Praise you for the fear. Praise you for the disappointments. Praise you for the pain.
Because it has allowed me to praise you even more for the Light. To praise you for the strength you give. To praise you for the mountaintops. To praise you for the trust. To praise you for the joys. To praise you for the healing.
Praise you, Lord, for the victory. Not mine–yours. Today, I walk into tomorrow. Because you’ve given me that gift. Help me to walk worthy, Lord. Help me to walk well. Help my tomorrows to be exactly what you want them to be.
Amen.
Roseanna M. White is a bestselling, Christy Award winning author who has long claimed that words are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary.