It’s been one year (and six days). One year (and six days) without cancer. One year (and six days) since I finished my last immunotherapy treatment.

The date snuck up on me. It was a look back at my Facebook memories last Sunday that told me it’d been exactly a year since my final time in that brown recliner at the Cancer Center. I can tell you the date that I found out I was sick – December 7, 2022. (The irony of that fact that is not lost on me.) Wasn’t the date that I claimed victory one that I should also have etched in my brain?

I haven’t been dealing with the debilitating side effects of chemo for a year, but I continue to discover ways that cancer is still present each and every day. First, my toenails are weird and I do not like it. Apparently this is a side effect of treatment and one that I am not pleased about. No more shall be said. And no, I won’t show you my feet. What kind of weirdos are you, anyway?

But the biggest issue for me is post-traumatic stress. It’s pretty obvious (at least to me) that I’m a little off-kilter when I have an appointment or labs coming up, but it manifests itself in other ways too.

Back pain? Cancer. (Not the fact that I sat like a pretzel on the floor.)
Headache? Cancer. (Not the astounding lack of caffeine.)
Upset stomach? Cancer. (Not the stupid amount of Nerds that I devoured.)

I’m hopeful that the further away my diagnosis and treatment appear to me in the rearview mirror, I’ll jettison some of the anxiety and stress. But I know that there’s always going to be a little bit of me that will still wonder “what if?”

Weird toes and anxiety aside, it’s time for me to get moving and live the rest of this cancer-free life that I’ve got. I intend to make the most of it.