I was diagnosed with breast cancer on January 27. Since then, I have had:

Two mammograms

Two ultrasounds

One MRI

One biopsy

One PET scan

Two surgeries

One four-day hospitalization for an infection

Four chemotherapy infusions

Twenty-one radiation treatments

Untold gallons of blood drawn

Countless appointments with countless physicians

And a partridge in a pear tree.

And it’s all coming to an end.

As of today, I only have seven radiation appointments left. I meet with my medical oncologist next week to get an idea of my long-term plan, I need to schedule an appointment with my breast surgeon for a follow-up and mammogram, and I have to start thinking about what I’m going to do about reconstruction. But my calendar is no longer filled to bursting with doctor appointments.

Now what?

I have been closely monitored by doctors for the better part of the year. I don’t think a week has gone by since D-Day (“diagnosis day”) in January that I haven’t seen a doctor, talked to a doctor or made an appointment with a doctor.

Now that treatment is coming to a close, I won’t have that safety net anymore. And it terrifies me.

There was a point – who knows when – when I went from being a person without cancer to being a person with cancer. There was one moment, probably one second, where the balance shifted and the scales tipped and I became a cancer victim, patient, survivor. It wasn’t on the day of my diagnosis. It was at some unknown moment in time before that.

Was I having a good day on that day? Was it a good moment? Was it a moment when I was basking in my family, perhaps someone’s birthday, and we were all in love with each other and hopped up on birthday cake and togetherness? Or was it a moment where I was yelling at the kids to find their sneakers so loudly that the neighbors’ kids started looking for their shoes?

Did I feel it? Once the threshold of 40 is crossed, there are lots of little aches and pains. Did I feel a little pinch in my breast one day, when healthy cells began to be pushed out of the way to make room for the tumor? Did I feel a little more tired that day? A little extra fatigue in the already exhausting life of a mom of three?

Will it happen again? There are all sorts of scary statistics about secondary cancers and recurrence and survival rates. And there is no possible way to know whether it will happen again.

Seeing doctors all the time has kept the fear of the cancer coming back at bay. Being pumped full of poison, radiated and medicated has given me a sense of security. As long as I’m following the doctors’ instructions, the cancer can’t come back. The treatments are keeping the beast inside me down. The cancer is the monster under the bed and the doctors are my nightlight. If I lose my nightlight, how long before the monster comes for me?

I try not to dwell on the possibilities. I come from hearty peasant stock, and I wa t to choose to believe that I am just as likely to live to 90 as I am to die before 50.

I visited a dear friend and her brand new baby the other night. Holding her newborn, I was reminded of coming home with my babies for the first time, wondering how in the world the folks at the hospital trusted my husband and me to take care of these babies. We didn’t know what we were doing. We didn’t have any experience. We weren’t qualified.

I feel something similar being almost done with treatment. I don’t know what I’m doing as a cancer patient who has completed treatment. I don’t have any experience. I’m not qualified.

We’ve managed, despite our lack of parenting experience at the outset, to fall into a groove and figure out how to be parents. The kids are happy, healthy and whole.

I can only hope to have the same experience with my new status as a cancer patient who has finished treatment.