Two Years Later: Storms, Detours, and Unexpected Light

At the time, my world had narrowed to one desperate hope: make the pain stop, fix the blockage, let me go home. I didn’t yet understand the scale of what was happening inside my body, or how long the road back would be.

Today, I know so much more — about resilience, about fear, about patience, and about what “in sickness and in health” really looks like when it’s lived rather than spoken.

The emotional detours no one prepares you for

One of the hardest emotional blows came early on. I was told the colostomy could likely be reversed in three to six months, and I clung to that timeline like a lifeline. Before we had even really started treatment, I was asking the oncologist about it at almost every appointment. I think he was relieved when I finally stopped bringing it up.

And then came the day I learned the reversal wasn’t going to happen after all. No one said, “just kidding,” but that’s exactly how it felt. Losing that expectation knocked me back in ways I didn’t anticipate. It wasn’t just disappointment — it was grief for the version of my life I thought I was walking toward. It took time to find my footing again.

This year’s unexpected turns

Since my February update, this season has brought its own surprises:

• the frightening “has it spread to my brain?” scare ( it hadn’t, thankfully)
• another round of dehydration that reminded me how fragile recovery can be
• and a treatment completion date that has now shifted to the end of May

None of these were part of the plan, but they’re part of the story.

The financial and insurance maze

I also learned firsthand how difficult it is to navigate the financial and insurance side of cancer while you’re sick. I watched my mom go through it, so I knew it was “a thing,” but I didn’t understand the emotional toll until I was the one trying to make sense of bills, approvals, denials, deductibles, and out‑of‑pocket maximums while recovering from surgery and treatment.

Some of it was upsetting. Some of it was unnecessary. And all of it was harder than it needed to be. There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting for your health and fighting the system at the same time.

And still — I’m here

Even with the setbacks, the scares, and the shifting timelines, I’m here. I’m healing. I’m moving toward the end of treatment, even if the finish line looks different than I once imagined. I’m learning to look forward again — not with certainty, but with a quieter, steadier kind of hope.

I’m grateful for the care, the science, the support, and the stubbornness that have carried me to this anniversary. And I’m grateful for the reminder that even when the path changes, the progress still counts.

Two years ago, a surgeon removed a softball‑sized tumor and handed me back my life. Today, I’m still learning how to live it — fully, gently, and on my own terms.

Closing

Anniversaries like this aren’t celebrations, exactly. They’re acknowledgments. Markers. Moments to pause and say: This happened. I survived it. I’m still moving forward.
And that, in its own quiet way, is enough.