Cancer free and DISCHARGED

I remember sitting in my college composition class, and my professor asked the class to write a story using six words. No more. No less. It had to be a six-word story that had meaning and made total sense. And we had probably about 15 minutes to do it.

I can remember sitting and pondering. I would write down two words and then scratch them out again. Write down a word, change my mind scratch it out. I wrote down three words, shook my head, and the words met the wrath of my pen again.

By the time I got to the bottom of my sheet of paper, I was pretty ready to give up. There was no way I could write a full-blown story using only six words.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment and set my pen down for a moment. That is often how I think. It's how I tell my brain to reset and focus on the one task ahead of me. Or, in this case, those six words.

I opened my eyes and then I had it.

I hurriedly picked up my pen and turned to a new page out of fear that my idea might leave my head just as quickly as it had come.

And those six words I wrote were:

Diagnosed with cancer, not the end.

And now, I think that holds the most true. I could not believe the news I received just two days before New Year's Eve 2016.

I can remember exactly what I did that very day, and will probably remember it for a very long time. I woke up and got ready just like any other day. I had been a bit tired from my drive home from Gillette just the night before. I think my dad and I arrived home at about 10:30 that night. I barely unloaded the car and decided to head to bed.

It was dark and it was cold. I was so grateful that my dad had driven up to help me on my journey back. I was at home for Christmas and then went back to Gillette for a couple of days and then I came back down for my annual MRI at Children's Hospital and would stay at home until New Year's.

It took me quite a long time to figure out how to get my nose stud out for my MRI later that day—it's recommended (well, required) to remove every piece of metal on you before you get into a giant magnet, for obvious reasons.

We got to the hospital pretty much just in time and I went back into the waiting room – alone. It was the first time my mom wouldn't be coming back with me. Weird to think she had sat in every MRI I had ever had up until now. There was a row of lockers at the right of the room and the nurse handed me a gown and I changed into it.

I sat in the room alone for about 10 minutes before someone came, and during that time I couldn't help but think about how the heck I would react if the tumor were to actually return, or if another were to rear it's head in my direction.

I know it's not the best to think in this way at all, or ever. But sometimes it gets very hard to stay positive when that is a probable outcome. It just is. Those are the straight, and somewhat unfortunate facts.

Finally someone came to get me and we walked back down this long hallway to another room with the loud MRI machine. Now, the absolute best part about getting a MRI done at Children's is the fact that you get to watch a movie. The tests go so fast now that you hardly get through the previews, but when I had my first MRI in 2001, I can remember watching the whole thing, previews through credits – that's a long time for a six-year-old (my age when I first started this journey) to lay there.

Once it was all over, I went back to retrieve my things and we went upstairs for, you guessed it, more waiting. We were then led back to other waiting room on the oncology floor.

Then in came my doctor. He sat down, we chatted for a while, he said the scans looked great, as they had for years and then he said something that caught my mom and I completely off guard;

"Well, I guess there's nothing left to do but discharge you."

My mom and I sat and stared at each other for a moment and turned to home and, in unison, said, "What?"

It took my doctor saying it at least two more times for us to get it.

I would walk out of those doors and not have to return for checkups.

I was done.

Weird.

Of course, I made my doctor and favorite nurse take selfies with me and turned to the internet almost instantly to share the best news I could have ever received.

Now, a full year later, and after a whirlwind of a year, all I can be is grateful. Most are never discharged because they had radiation treatments, so I feel incredibly lucky. I also have to give a shout out to all those out there fighting the battle. No one ever know how strong they have to be until it happens. The fighters inspire me every day.

I feel lucky to have been fortunate enough to have had, and continue to have, great role models and supports during my treatments and cheerleaders on the sidelines. It was quite the journey.