12/1/2010 in DC: Alex and I with Senator Birch Bayh, after I had the honor of presenting an award to him for co-sponsoring the Bayh-Dole Act, which passed in 1980 and paved the way for new and better treatments to reach the public, including the one that saved my life. If telling my story gives one person hope or encourages donations to cancer research or nudges scientists to work harder and faster or puts a human face on legislation that affects cancer patients, then I will tell it so long as anyone is willing to listen.

photo by Renee Quinn

Readers: The events in these installments, the condensed version of my book, began in 2002. To catch up from the beginning, these chronicles start here.

In the months following treatment, many people who knew what Alex and I went through said to us, “We don’t know how you did it.” We did it because cancer is what life handed to us. We had no choice in the matter. But we did find inner reserves we never knew we had and grew stronger for having found them.

And as horrible as cancer is, it showed us the very best of humanity and the true meaning of compassion. The love and support of friends and family helped us through the emotional upheavals and the daily challenges. Perfect strangers reached out to lift us up as we stumbled along the way. And we were always sustained by Dr. Kaminski and his colleagues at the University of Michigan Comprehensive Cancer Center.

In the beginning, Alex and I had worried about entrusting my life to a complete stranger, but Dr. Kaminski had wasted no time showing us that we could trust him to treat my future as if it were his very own. By never, ever — not once — giving up on me, he showed us not only how to believe in him, but also how to believe in ourselves even when we had little strength to do so. And because he and his colleagues never let cancer define me as a human being, they helped me to see that cancer is part of my history but it does not make me who I am.

Indeed, Alex and I eventually found that we were still the same people we were before cancer invaded our lives, but we began to look at life through a different lens and it revealed a different view of the world. Cancer raised our consciousness to the suffering of others, and staring at my death gave us a heightened appreciation for life. It challenged us to live fully the life that we have and forced us to pay attention to the present moment, which is all we really have and all that really matters.

A year after treatment, a clear CT scan and perfect bloodwork confirmed that I had achieved complete remission. Alex and I were thrilled and relieved, and I think we finally exhaled after taking deep breaths and holding them for a very long time. At last, it seemed, our happily-ever-after life could resume.

But cancer is never really over. Medical tests will punctuate our lives forever, reminding us of what was and what might be again, but I don’t dwell on that possibility for long. Instead, I have learned to accept that life itself is a terminal condition and that it’s not a question of when and how I’ll die, but how well I live while I’m alive.

Today, more than eight years after treatment, I remain healthy and Alex and I are busy living. There was a time — in the throes of illness — that I couldn’t wait to run away from cancer, never to look back. But coming close to death and being rescued in the nick of time leaves a lasting sense of wonder that I lived at all and a lasting sense of gratitude to scientists who work tirelessly to find new and better treatments, to clinical trial participants, and to everyone who supports cancer research. It also leaves a lasting sense of appreciation for the many people who helped us through the most difficult time in our life.

And with that, comes a sense of responsibility and desire to clear the path for those who follow in my footsteps. While telling my story sometimes resurrects old wounds, the meaning of remission, for me, has become “re-missioning,” or re-purposing, my life, and if my story can help others, then mission accomplished.

And so the tale of our physical experience with cancer concludes. Beginning in January, new installments will begin in which I’ll narrate the many lessons that cancer taught. Until then, I thank each of you for riding this roller coaster with me. I hope that these chronicles have given you some insight into the experience of illness and hope that healing is possible.

Finally, I wish each of you joy, love and laughter during this holiday season and in the coming year.

Coming in January: A series of lessons learned.

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chronicles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or Twitter or email her.