I have tried six different ways to start this update, from the sarcastic to the sentimental to the spiritual, and none of them are working. So I shall write it straight, from my old days at The Observer (shoutout to the basement of Notre Dame’s SDH):
ROCHESTER, MN (Nov 1, 2023, 10:42 p.m. CT) - Laura Kelly Fanucci
There is no more cancer in my body.
This afternoon, a grinning doctor stepped into the room where I was waiting, shivering in the skimpy cotton robe they give you in the Breast Cancer Clinic1, and told me: nothing. As in:
We See Nothing. There Is Nothing There. You Have Nothing Left.
After yet another mammogram, and yet another ultrasound, and yet another lying-on-the-table-staring-at-the-ceiling-whilst-my-fate-rests-in-a-radiologist’s-hands (eyes?), I expected today to bring…nothing new. Just hoop-jumping, the start of many pre-surgery appointments at Mayo over the next month.
News #1 I Forgot To Mention:
I am getting surgery on Nov. 30th! Everyone’s favorite outpatient procedure! Forgot to mention the date, but the slice-n-dice is now officially on the calendar. THIS MONTH. Whew.
Now, where were we?
Expecting nothing life-changing. Staring up at a fake waterfall poster pinned to the ceiling in Imaging Room 2B, Second Floor South, Gonda Building. Ticking boxes to get the surgery I need. Thinking about lunch and the next appointment.
When suddenly an angel with wild white hair—or perhaps we’d call her a saint with silver curls, fitting for today’s feast?—stepped into the room and said with a smile: “Your imaging is 100% clear. You have nothing left.”
I laughed, I cried, I whooped like a fool, I asked her are you serious? and are you sure? She laughed, she showed me the proof on screen, she said I love days like this and this is my favorite part of the job.
I didn’t know what else to ask or say, so I thanked her twenty times and she said You did the hard work, not me! Then the ultrasound tech, whom I had unsuccessfully tried to befriend in the hopes of getting a sneak preview2, peeked her head around the curtain and told me that as soon as she left the room, she ran down the hallway and caught her co-worker to tell her you won’t believe the case I just saw.
Which made me cry even more.
The next half hour was a blur: happy-crying all the way to the dressing room, throwing that stupid robe in a corner because I never have to get another mammogram,3 snapping a selfie to send to my family, meeting my bestie in the lobby, blubbering like fools to the bewildered waiting room, calling my husband, crying some more, realizing I missed a call from school that one of the kids was sick,4 realizing there was nothing I could do from 120 miles away anyhow, deciding to go to brunch to celebrate, shouting things like I DON’T HAVE ANY MORE CANCER! and I FEEL ALIVE! on biting cold corners in downtown Rochester, enjoying the most delicious food of perhaps my entire life for lunch because everything tastes better without your own body trying to kill you.
(Then of course I felt overwhelmed at how many people got the opposite news in the same place today, etc., but decided that since my roller coaster will dip to the bottom again, too, I better throw my arms up and whoop with joy with the sun in my eyes whenever I can, because golden moments like these are why we fight to keep living.)
So here I am tonight: cancer-free (until proven otherwise; impending MRI & biopsy, I’m narrowing my eyes at you), chemo in the rearview, copious amounts of candy in our child-filled house. Dare I say, on the feast of All Saints, on the eve of All Souls, that today was holy ground, thin space, Kairos I will keep close till the end of my days.
News #2 I Forgot To Mention:
Yesterday was my last chemo! White blood cell counts were barely good enough to get the ol’ poison pumped into my veins BUT close enough is close enough.5 So Oct. 31, 2023, will officially go down in the books, not only as the day this *$#@ beloved state sent the second snowiest Halloween in more than 30 years, but also my last infusion of this chemo round.6 Did I dress for the occasion? I wanted to go as the Ghost of Chemo Past—classic white sheet, holiday wreath atop bald head, draped with IV lines and pill bottles—but I decided that might be…slightly much for my fellow patients. This is a Compassion Brigade, after all.
In close, I want to thank you for being you (and ok, me for being me). For all of your prayers. For all of your love. For all of your support and hope and food and gifts and funny memes and sweet notes and warm blankets and good vibes—every ounce of everything that got me here. Hard days are far from over, but today was a good one.
Herein lies my sole complaint about the majestic monolith that is Mayo: their mammogram robes are BAFFLING. I have now “enjoyed” these flesh-smashing appointments in many different health care systems, and Mayo’s strange “left-right-left” wrap-around tunic with 3 armholes (yes, you read that right) and half-dangling opening with nary a belt to close is nothing short of stupid. Please confirm if you have ever mammogramed at Mayo. No one asked, so I’m happy to answer: Best Mammogram Wear by Health Care Clinic, Minnesota. 1) Allina Piper Breast Center (luxurious waffled cotton, spa-like soft white robe, tell your friends); 2) Fairview M-Health (green & purple paisley print, nothing fancy but it ties); 3) Mayo Clinic (boring medical blue; apron-like industrial cotton; weirdest wrap contortion; flaps freely in the breeze).
I try not to be a duplicitous person. But when I’m getting an ultrasound, for any happy [past pregnancies] or unhappy [current cancer] reason, you better believe I am setting out to befriend the ultrasound tech and politely pump them for information I’m not supposed to have. Drop a few well-placed medical terms, try to show I know my stuff, crack just enough jokes to set them at ease that I’m a Cool Patient, and then try to get them to slip and tell me what’s what. I’m not saying I’m proud of this, but I’m also saying it has worked.
Small perk of my forthcoming amputation.
Verily, I say to thee: are not most of the least of these “sick” the day after All Hallows’ Eve? Turns out he was fine per the follow-up email from the school nurse, so maybe don’t rush to answer the dreaded call from the school number next time? Follow me for more sub-par parenting advice; smash the link in bio.
This is the “Cs get degrees” of cancer treatment.
She’s a good one, that Mary, Undoer of Knots!!! This is Incredibly joyful news Laura, and can’t think of a better person to bear witness to God’s goodness and healing graces! He knew He could trust you with this heavy cross, that you would keep it real and allow others into your journey, and that you would sing His (and His Mother’s) praises when NOTHING came. Continued prayers for your upcoming surgery. In the words of St. Joan of Arc (who you remind me of so much in courage and fortitude) “I’m not afraid, for God is with me. I was born for this!” Yes you were and you have NOTHING to fear!! Rejoicing with you today!!
THIS. NEWS.
Reading your words felt like taking a sip of your "golden moment" ✨💛 Thank you for sharing this journey from all angles so we can mourn and marvel with you.
Woohoo!