‘I’m Alive’: Pink Rocks, a Survivor Bell and Confetti Party One Year Post Cancer Treatment

October 2, 2024, marked my last treatment for breast cancer. I had completed all of the hard stuff — experimental therapy, chemo, surgery and radiation — by the middle of April and for the last few months, I had immunotherapy every three weeks as the last part of my treatment required by my participation in the groundbreaking, nationwide clinical trial, iSpy, which has done so much for cancer patients like me.

As the day approached, nerves beset me: Without the constant surveillance, even every three weeks, could my cancer claw back? Whom would I tell of the little pain points that occasionally cropped up, like aches in my joints or headaches or swelling over a rib, and tell me, ‘It’s nothing or it’s the immunotherapy or it’s from the radiation?’ Sure, I could write to my care team, who would respond without fail, in a day or two at the very most, but I wouldn’t have that immediacy I had when telling the nurse giving me immunotherapy any symptoms that had arisen in the three weeks since I had last been to UCSF. 

When my surgeon, the phenomenal Dr. Laura Esserman, told me at my first mammogram post surgery in late August 2024, ‘See you in six months,’ my first response wasn’t, ‘Yeah, I am outta here, no more cancer,’ but ‘PLEASE, DON’T LEAVE ME.” Of course, she wasn’t leaving me and of course, I didn’t actually say that, the pleading was inside, every fiber of my being, straining and pleading, PLEASE. You think I’d be running from the hospital, but it was my nest and all I wanted to do was crawl inside to the safety of my mother ship and burrow there until I reached 5 years cancer free — the gold standard and when you officially become ‘cancer free.’

On my second to last immunotherapy infusion, I took myself to one of my family’s favorite places to eat in SF, Rose’s Cafe, and treated myself to a yummy pasta dish and a glass of wine — typically alcohol is a no-no for cancer patients. I nervously tried to tell myself this is a congratulatory meal, enjoy! The nerves ate more of my pasta than me. Around the same time, I tried joining a UCSF survivorship group, but I couldn’t get through my story, I started crying, then blubbering. And others cried, too. No, I can’t do this. I dropped out.

Fast forward three weeks: I sat in my chair in the chemo ward at UCSF. My neighbor? A woman who had a small tumor in her chest — as opposed to mine, which my surgeon called a “monster” because of its 50 cent piece size — that had already spread to her lungs. Fear wracked my being. I’d been, and still am, under surveillance for nodules in my lungs. Lots of folks have nodules in their lungs and most are harmless, but that wasn’t the case for my neighbor, whose young adult daughter sat at her side. 

Could this be me one day? These thoughts raced through my head, I’m embarrassed to admit, as she told me her story. My tumor seemed to like growing in one place, though it had spread to lymph nodes under my arm and near my sternum, a very dangerous location so close to the bone. I’d caught my cancer “early,” but it was already stage 3C — just one little step before stage 4, or incurable.

The nurses surprised me that afternoon with a confetti party as I finished my immunotherapy. They’d found construction paper and cut it up into little bits to shower me with just before I left. I smiled and laughed and thanked these thoughtful nurses so much — they were like my family on the journey, holding my hand along the way. They’d share laughs and stories about their kids, and one became a regular on adventures with the group. 

I then went to ring the survivor bell in the hospital and say the words inscribed on it (of course it’s a cable car bell!): 

Ring this bell

Three times well

Its toll to clearly say,

My treatment's done

This course is run

And I am on my way! 

And then, the cloud lifted. As I left the hospital, I recorded myself. I didn’t know how I’d feel leaving, but now “I feel exuberant and energized and that I’ll be able now to focus more on the things that I want to in my life, which is awesome. … I feel healthy, I feel happy, I feel alive.”

“Don’t let a day go by. Don’t take anything for granted.”

I reached the Golden Gate Bridge, treated myself to a latte and walked around the area. The sun beamed down as I passed a garden humming with bees in the late SF summer. I saw pink rocks formed in the shape of a breast cancer symbol. My heart jumped to my throat. I am a survivor. We are strong. I think of all of those souls who are in the fight. You are not alone, we are not alone. I am one of those stones, solid in my commitment to you and myself, solid at your side.

I bought a journal at a gift shop - I had to get these feelings down. I took a photo of myself in front of the bridge, that symbol of my city, a symbol of strength, beauty and welcome. I felt its embrace as warm as the orange color it beams out so all can see her (yes, the bridge is female!) from afar and through the fog.

A year later, how am I? I still cry when I recall my journey. I still can’t attend survivorship classes. I still fret before each surveillance exam every six months. But when I saw my oncologist after my mammogram in August, she asked if I had any ailments and I said, ‘I got nothing for ya.’ 

After, I went on a hike down memory lane in a San Francisco neighborhood where we lived when I was a kid. I smelled the fresh ocean air, felt the sand between my toes, laughed at the iconic Doggie Diner statue (the only remnant of the former Sunset institution) and smiled at how nothing had changed — and how everything had changed, and how I was so grateful to be alive.

“Don’t let a day go by. Don’t take anything for granted.” 

— Miranda