Thanks for the Toxins, I'm Good Now

Poisoned professionally, survived spectacularly!

Yes, it’s true—I had my final chemo treatment on March 10th. Cue the confetti (preferably virtual). Since then, I’ve had nearly three weeks to recover, and surprisingly, it’s been… kind of okay? This last round came with only a few pesky side effects—nothing like the full symphony of misery I was bracing for. It turns out the medical team had been sneakily lowering the dose each time, trying to avoid the whole “immune system in total freefall” situation. Wise move. My white blood cells and I are deeply grateful.

For my final chemo treatment, I had the A-team with me—my husband Ed and our daughter Sarah. It felt a bit like a milestone family outing… minus the balloons and overpriced snacks. Sarah’s been my sidekick through much of this chemo journey. Thanks to her work benefits (and the fact that she’s a total gem), she was able to take time off whenever I needed her. Between the ever-changing chemo schedule and Ed’s work commitments, it was a bit like coordinating a three-person relay race. Spoiler: we made it work.

I always love having time with Sarah. She’s juggling more plates than a diner waitress—work, part-time university classes, her kids, self-care (when she can squeeze it in), and her husband. The fact that she made time for me, over and over, means more than I can say. Chemo wasn’t exactly a bonding activity we dreamed of, but in a strange way, it gave us those little pockets of togetherness that life doesn’t always make room for.

There I was, hooked up for what would be my final treatment. First came the immunotherapy drug—business as usual. Then came the real star of the horror show: the infamous Red Devil. Unlike most chemo drugs that politely drip their way in, this one demands a direct, slow injection into the IV port. The nurse has to take her time because, well… it burns if it goes in too fast. Charming, right?

When the treatment was over, I got to ring the bell. And let me tell you—it was surreal. They gave me a paper certificate (which felt oddly like graduating from a very unpleasant course), handed me a shiny little handheld bell, and gathered the nurses and staff to cheer me on.

There was clapping, a few teary eyes (mine, mostly), and a collective exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding. It was surreal—after months of appointments, medications with names I can’t pronounce, and side effects that had me Googling things at 3 a.m.—it was suddenly…done.

Well, this part was done.

Because the truth is, healing doesn’t happen with the last treatment. It’s the start of another phase. One where your body is recovering, your emotions catch up, and your calendar isn’t ruled by oncology appointments. But in that moment, with the bell in my hand and cheers in my ears, I let myself feel the win.

Because it was a win. And I earned it.

As I rang that bell—firmly, triumphantly, maybe with a little dramatic flair—it felt amazing. Like exhaling for the first time in months. But then, something unexpected happened: I got choked up. And not in a cute, single tear down the cheek kind of way. No, this was full-on throat-tightening, can’t-speak, oh-no-what’s-happening-to-my-face kind of emotion.

I’m not usually a public crier. Actually, I’m not much of a crier at all. I can do stress, sarcasm, and stoicism like a pro. But apparently, bell-ringing broke through the emotional dam I didn’t know I had. I wanted to say something heartfelt to the nurses—really, I did. I wanted to thank them for being the calm in the storm, for their kindness, their humor, and their steady presence. They made the whole brutal process bearable, even—dare I say—bright sometimes.

But the words? They got lost somewhere between my heart and my vocal cords. I just stood there, clutching my little certificate, blinking a lot, while my throat staged a silent protest. Crying and speechless? Chemo really pulled a fast one on me in the final act.

Even though the chemo chapter is closed (and thank you, sweet heavens, for that), the journey isn’t quite over. I’ll still be heading to the cancer center every three weeks for IV immunotherapy—the friendly-ish cousin of the harsher drugs. And starting April 10th, I’ll dive into 15 straight days of radiation. Monday through Friday. Like a job. With lasers.

Thankfully, I’m in the “less is more” camp when it comes to radiation. Because all my lymph nodes were clear, and with newer research showing that fewer treatments can still be just as effective, my oncologist opted for a shorter plan. Some folks go through far more. I’m grateful for my “lite” version—though I hear it’s still no walk in the park.

Before all that begins, I have a date with a CT scanner this Monday, where they’ll map out the radiation targets and tattoo the spots they’ll aim for. Yes, tattoo. Not exactly the kind you show off at the beach, but still—permanent-ish. I’m not sure I’ll enjoy that part, but then again, I haven’t exactly enjoyed most parts of this ride. And yet… here I am, still standing. Still showing up.

Because that’s what this whole journey has been, really: one strange, painful, unexpected thing after another—met with deep breaths, some muttered sarcasm, and a whole lot of strength I didn’t know I had.

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Surviving cancer has a strange way of rearranging everything. Your calendar, your body, your priorities… all up for review. People talk about re-evaluating their lives after something like this—about focusing on wellness, meaning, purpose. Turns out, they weren’t exaggerating. I’m right there, asking the big questions: What do I really want to spend my time doing? What deserves my energy? What aligns with the person I am now—and the person I want to become?

It’s been a swirl of thinking, praying, scribbling half-finished thoughts into journals. There’s a lot coming up, and not all of it is tidy. My brain’s throwing ideas at the wall like it’s in a rush, and I’m just trying to sort through the noise without making any knee-jerk decisions. I want to choose wisely with guidance from above. Intentionally. With care.

I want to experience joy. Not the performative kind, not the “say yes because it’s good for you” kind. Real joy. The kind that comes from following my passions, from doing what I love, from living in a way that actually makes sense for me.

And to make room for that kind of life, some things have to go.

There’s one long-standing commitment that I once thought would be life-giving. When I stepped back from full-time work and started part-time teaching, I thought this would be a fun outlet, a chance to connect with others with shared passions, maybe even something spiritually rich. Instead, it turned into a stress storm. There’s nothing fun about it. It dredged up all the tasks I loathed from my time as an Executive Director—finance reports, admin details, files I can never seem to keep in order. Let’s be real: I am not a numbers person. Never have been. Math was the class I survived, not thrived in. I transpose numbers like it’s a party trick, and the margin for error here just adds to my anxiety.

It didn’t hit all at once. It crept in slowly, like clutter accumulating in a drawer. And now? That drawer won’t close. It’s time to clean it out.

This one has to go.

And then there’s the PhD. The big one. The “this will open doors” thing. The “maybe I’ll finally feel like I’ve arrived” thing. Except… did I really want it? Or did I want the writing, the teaching, the ideas that light me up?

Because the truth is, the dissertation isn’t the book I’ve always dreamed of writing. And this particular journey, as rich as it has been in learning, has come with a heavy cost: finances, stress, pressure, expectations I never wanted. I’m proud of what I’ve done. Truly. And I loved that I got an article published in a journal. But I think it’s time to let that one go, too.

Every choice from here on out has to pass a simple test: Does this reflect my values? Does this contribute to the life I want to live, however long that may be?

I’m choosing:

Less stress.

More joy.

More hikes. More books. More slow mornings. More deep laughter. More meaningful connections.

More writing that feels like me.

More space to breathe.

The world will keep spinning. But I don’t have to spin with it at full speed anymore.

I think next time, I’ll write about my values. It’s something I walk through with my students in one of my courses—a values exercise—and honestly, it’s one of my favorite things we do. Watching young people choose values that actually matter to them, not just the ones they’ve inherited or been told they “should” have, is kind of magical. Sometimes it takes a few rounds to land on the right ones. I’ve redone mine more than a few times myself.

Life shifts, and so do we.

What mattered most to me ten years ago might not even make the list now. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t important—it just means we grow, we adapt, and we start listening to the different sounds of our souls. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll put together a little workshop on the topic and post it here. What a great idea, Kathie! (Yes, I do talk to myself in the third person sometimes. Occupational hazard of being a teacher and writer.)

Right now, though, I’m diving into The Artist’s Way, a book my son Nathan recommended. He’s thoughtful like that. And honestly, it feels like just the nudge I need. There’s something deeply comforting about the idea of restoring creative practices to my daily life—not just someday, but now. Writing music. Playing piano and violin again. Dusting off my watercolours. Writing books—real books, the kind I’ve dreamed of for years.

It’s all bubbling up.

And I think that’s because creativity has always been at the core of who I am. I believe God, the original creator, wove that into me from the beginning. If we’re made in His image, it makes sense that we’d carry some of that divine spark—the urge to create, to express, to make beauty out of mess.

When that part of me gets buried under tasks that drain me, under work that doesn’t fit, something inside me wilts. I become a version of myself I don’t like very much—stressed out, short-fused, joyless. I carry a quiet anger that simmers just beneath the surface, and when it goes on too long, it becomes something heavier. Something darker. Something like depression.

Looking back now, I can see it. I can trace the threads between doing too much of the wrong thing and slowly losing myself. I once read that unresolved anger is the root of depression. I don’t know if that’s the whole truth, but I do think it’s part of it. For me, it’s not always anger so much as the absence of space to be who I really am. And that takes a toll.

So here I am, beginning again. Making space. Listening closer.

Trying to choose—on purpose—the things that bring me back to life.

My prayer this time is one by Thomas Merton.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

As always, I’m so grateful for you, dear reader. I appreciate that you took the time to subscribe and that you keep reading.

I’m grateful for sunny days.

I’m grateful for my husband, this week especially.

I’m also grateful for pets this week…

Always near me, keeping me company.

Much grace, my friends… Kathie