Every year, I knit a hat to mark another year of clean scans as a cancer survivor. A few weeks ago, I tempted fate by picking out a really special color of yarn (Turks & Caicos by Knitted Wit) and prepared for the best.

Last week, my yearly mammogram resulted in “bilateral focal asymmetries” that necessitated a phone call from the nurse rather than my results automatically uploading into my chart. Damnit.

They got me back in 6 days. Notwithstanding my appreciation for the quick turn-around, anyone who has wrestled with healthcare, either as a worker or a patient, can appreciate how scary things might have to be for someone to get moved to the top of the list. My body felt like 2012 all over again.

I waited after more angles on the mammogram. “The radiologist wants an ultrasound.” They walked me down the hall to where the ultrasound tech clicked about 18 pictures on the machine. I waited, alone, for the radiologist.

The radiologist: “I’m not concerned about anything. I don’t know why your tissue looks so different this year than last year.”

Me: “Is it because I’ve lost 40 pounds?”

Radiologist: “Oh, I didn’t know that. Maybe.”

Internal Monologue: Why don’t you know that? I get weighed every time I come to the doctor’s office- previously it was a source of great anxiety – NOW YOU DON’T EVEN CARE?!?!?!

Radiologist: “Come see us in a year.”

Cancer is an indiscriminate bastard. It breaks my heart that so many people don’t get the time they deserve with those whom they love. As religious a scholar, I study the Crucifixion – I leave the Resurrection to others (for those not familiar with the Christian tradition, this means my studies are focused on experiences of suffering and death, I remain on the fence about whether or not crappy situations are always redeeming) – so I’m disinclined to sit here and say that I’m wiser and more compassionate for the cancer experience. Maybe I am, but maybe that’s bullshit.

This week, I learned that my body is still keeping the score, and I remembered that I did learn something surprising about myself back then. I can be petty a.f. sometimes but, from the first moment I got that shitty phone call 10 years ago, from the absolute depths of my soul, I hoped for a world where everyone else could be spared ever being asked whether they were sitting down before they heard the world “cancer.” And the passion of wishing that was a lot more than I expected from myself.

So, today, I went and got a coffee, ate some cake and took a Tram pic. Apparently, cancer doesn’t go into “remission” anymore – it just becomes “no evidence of disease” and, after 10 years, the chance of recurrence plummets, but doesn’t disappear. I’ll take every second I am granted. And do my best to continue with my hoping.

**With heartfelt thanks to all who have persevered in healthcare over the past few years. Healing and peace to the spirits of all of us who have said goodbye to ones we dearly love.