I’m pacing the hallway, heart pounding, waiting for my husband to come home—because after everything, he deserves to hear this before anyone else. I can’t ask him to leave work early. It’s not an emergency. Yet I feel like it is. Because today… today everything finally ends.
In 2020, the doctors found a brain tumor. “Probably benign,” they said, and opted to wait because of the global pandemic. Relief pulsed through me—until early 2023, when a routine scan revealed a significant bleed. They rushed me into emergency neurosurgery. When I woke, I learned it was cancer—but remission seemed promising, with minimal risk of return.
Then, four months later, the symptoms stormed back. My GP, bless her, ordered another scan—and there it was: the tumor had returned, and in just months, had grown to the size of a walnut.
“They said it’d be easy,” I told myself. “A few cycles of oral chemo, and it’s done.”
But it wasn’t that simple. Over the next two years, I endured 8 different types of chemotherapy, a staggering 49 cycles total, two more surgeries, relentless radiotherapy, and endless discussions about palliation. I weathered infections that thrived on my suppressed immune system, my kidneys began failing, and chemo ravaged my heart and lungs.
5 long years. And now… now we come to today.
This morning, I got the call: an emergency appointment with my oncologist. I went. I came home. Alone. And sat, letting relief wash me clean.
Because today… I’M OFFICIALLY CANCER FREE!
After half a decade fighting every single day, the battle is over. My body, scarred and worn, is finally free. Exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe it. But I’m so, so ready to exhale.
I had to tell someone. Anyone. My heart is bursting with happiness, relief, and gratitude—I can’t keep it bottled in. I nearly shouted it from the rooftops.
And soon—just soon—my husband will walk through the door. And I wonder: Will he drop to his knees? Will he hug me so tight we both forget how tired we are? Will we both finally exhale?
