Today is the last day I had to take this cancer medication.

Finally. Highly anticipated. Today. Today is here.

Anastrozole has been my daily companion for the last seven years. This morning, promptly after breakfast, I shook the bottle and dropped my last dose into the lid. My oncologist prescribed this estrogen blocker after I finished five months of chemotherapy and 33 radiation sessions for breast cancer. Before I lifted that little cap to my lips, we paused to praise God for this day of endings. I swallowed that little white pill as if it were like all the others. It wasn’t. It was the last one.

Yes, we celebrated a little. Tony wasted no time taking the amber pill bottle with a few remaining doses away from my sight. I texted some family a picture just to make it more real.

 Today has been a day to reflect. Moments of pain and victory have wrestled in my mind all day. There are days I recall one health care provider saying, “Oh, in a year, you will hardly remember this.” Not so. I can recount nearly every bad day, almost every chemo blister, and night spent awake trying to be quiets because the steroids overcame a tired body.

My amazing oncologist said I would walk like a grandma when I stood up because of joint stiffness and pain; she was right. We had to learn to travel all over again to give my body time to move and stretch. Now I’m learning to do common tasks in new ways because my joints aren’t the same.

Victories, at least in this battle of mine, begin with God’s faithfulness to provide all He said He would provide—His presence. Psalm 46:1 says, God is our refuge and strength, a helper who is always found in times of trouble. Oh, how I love that God has been found in every step of this journey! And God has given me people who represent Him so well in my life. Naming names would inevitably lead to leaving someone out and to a list far too long for this blog. So, I’ll only name one. My husband.

Tony’s care for me since the day I was diagnosed isn’t a surprise to anyone who knows him. It did surprise some doctors and nurses, though. After my initial surgery, we went to a follow-up appointment. A nurse asked, “Okay, how often did you drain the tubes.” Tony pulled out the log he kept showing every three hours like we were instructed, including the middle of the night. The nurse teared up. “Many women come in here,” she said, “and their husbands have refused to help at all.” God is good to me to let me have Tony.

I have family and friends who have been encouragers when encouragers were needed. Housecleaning? One friend paid for it and another did it. Meals. Visits. Cards! One long-distance friend sent me a card a week for nearly a year! That got me through surgery, chemo, and radiation. God gave me people. My faith family has celebrated with me and mourned with me—and laughed when that was what I needed. All of these made walking in victory easier.

As much as I have felt the negative changes, my body is stronger than it has ever been. My cancer exercise specialists—at least a dozen over the past seven and a half years—have invested expertise, patience, and encouragement to make me healthy. I never expected to enjoy and rely on exercise the way I do. The University of Northern Colorado Cancer Rehabilitation Institute (UNCCRI) is the place God gave me to physically fight cancer. While chemo, radiation, and anastrozole worked in ways I couldn’t see, working out at UNCCRI fought cancer in ways I could see. My body was stronger. My mind was clearer. And I connected with others in the fight, both patients and those helping us.

Today. I’ve remembered what this journey has been. I know some challenges will take months to conquer and some side effects won’t go away at all. It’s good for me to remember. It keeps me from being flippant about God’s care for me.

Tomorrow— the first day in seven years I won’t open that little, amber pill bottle,  shake out that little, white pill into the cap, and wish I didn’t have to swallow.

Ah, tomorrow. That’s a day for celebration.