Today feels almost surreal. I just had my sixth and final Zometa infusion, a milestone I’ve imagined for so long. Yet now that it’s actually here, I’m surprised by the sudden rush of mixed emotions.
There is enormous relief, of course. Having finished two years of Abemaciclib last June, this marks another major chapter of my breast cancer journey that I can finally put behind me. For years, my life revolved around blood tests, hospital visits, chemo wards, and endless scheduling. Now, the constant cycle of biweekly blood tests and treatment trips stops. That freedom feels amazing.
Yet, finishing treatment brings an unexpected fear. Those appointments and medications were my safety net, proof that I was actively fighting to keep the cancer away. Even when exhausting, following the plan brought comfort. As that routine fades, the logical mind knows the medical team designed this path and that hormone therapy and monitoring continue, but cancer is as much mental as physical. The fear of recurrence doesn't disappear just because a phase ends; it highlights the lingering uncertainty.
I’m learning that these complex emotions can coexist. I can be profoundly grateful and still scared. I can celebrate how far I’ve come while holding anxiety about tomorrow. I don't need to force pure joy just because this is a major milestone.
With ten years of hormone therapy ahead of me, this isn't the absolute end of my journey, but today deserves recognition. There were times this day felt impossibly distant, yet here I am, six Zometa infusions completed, two years of targeted therapy behind me.
I am deeply thankful to the medical teams who cared for me, and to the loved ones who held me up. Above all, I am grateful to God. On the days I lacked the strength to carry myself, I know He carried me through.
So today, I choose to celebrate, not because the fear is gone, but because I made it. I am taking a deep breath, looking back with a grateful heart, and stepping into the next chapter with faith.
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