Ten Years Later
Dr. James Orcutt and Betsy Kalman
On December 1st, three thousand six hundred fifty days will have passed since I learned I had breast cancer.
For about the first thousand days I woke up every morning with something that felt like a gravestone weighing down my soul. Most of those days I would have to tell myself a verse from the 118th Psalm, “This is the day the LORD has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.” I would say it just to work up enough enthusiasm to swing my legs over the side of the bed, especially on days when I had oncology check ups.
Today, I sing. I gossip, I yell, I laugh out loud. I call to my grandchildren, “I love you, sweetie-pie.” I inhale peace and exhale joy.
Sure, you may think. You’ve been cancer-free for ten years. Easy for you to say. And I would have to agree—time accrued equals a measure of relief.
But, for me the turn from the inward dread of recurrence to the forward gaze at life happened on about the one thousand and thirty fifth day, as I left my oncologist’s office. I had pressed him for reassurance that the cancer would never return and he, as he always did, answered with statistics. My cancer had been advanced. The chemo, in combination with the mastectomy and radiation had reduced my chance of recurrence to about twenty percent. Or maybe it was twenty-five percent or forty percent. I can’t remember. For the moment, though, the tests were all negative.
I left his office with a sigh of relief at his temporary certification of good health. I was walking to my car when it hit me.
I am one hundred percent alive.