"These moments are my life, and I won’t let the unknown numbers marked on stones ahead dictate my life."

JEN PHILIPS' STORY

I measure my life in three-month increments now. Each stone ahead of me is marked with a number – my next scan, my next checkpoint. That’s how I move forward: one stone at a time.

I hadn’t been feeling well for a while and finally got an answer to why I’d been feeling so terrible: I had lung cancer. I was relieved and terrified at the same time. I felt the strangest feeling – everything all at once and nothing at all. My mind just left my body for a minute.

Before my diagnosis, I could see years ahead. Now I see a few months. The stone I’m standing on is solid, but the ones beyond my lantern’s light fade into mist. It’s scary to plan anything past the next number, the next scan date, because I never know if the news will be good or bad.

I’m still the same person I was before, but cancer has forever changed me. I still, as much as possible, prioritize the joy I get from traveling, whether hiking in Banff or roaming the streets of Thailand. But I also don’t take the little things for granted anymore: the books I’ve read stacking up on my nightstand, my dog Rory’s greeting each morning – these moments fill the spaces between the numbers. These moments are my life, and I won’t let the unknown numbers marked on stones ahead dictate my life.

At this point, what I struggle with most is knowing that the people I love have to watch me walk this path and can’t carry me across. My mom passed away from breast cancer a year and a half ago, and I understand now what she must have felt – becoming dependent and having loved ones suffer alongside her.

But throughout my illness, it’s comforting to remember that I’m not on this path alone. My partner walks beside me. Young lung cancer survivors I’ve met light their own lanterns in the distance. We’re all moving forward together, stone by stone, date by date, holding our lights steadily as we step toward whatever comes next.