In 2006, four years after treatment, Dr. Kaminski and I beam at my continuing remission.

photo by Alex de Parry

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

Following treatment, I gradually began to understand what Dr. Kaminski’s words had meant during our first meeting all those months earlier. Figuratively, he had said, “Cancer is a winding, obstacle-laden road but we are here to guide you. Here, take our hands. We will firmly hold yours and lead you, as best we can, to recovery.” I had taken the many hands that had reached out to me and gratefully held on for dear life.

Indeed, my medical team had led me to physical recovery, and it was time to let go so that they could hold the hands of others who needed them more than I did. And so I found myself traveling a different road — the one to emotional recovery — and it was just as winding and obstacle-laden as the road to physical recovery. Worse, I was now traveling alone with no hands to hold, no hands to lead me — or so I thought at first. I would soon find many new hands extended to me: hands of those who had gone before me and who would help me clear the path.

For months following treatment, Alex and I consciously and furiously fought off gremlins of doubt that cancer left in its wake. As hard as I fought to jump back into my old life, several months passed before I realized that my old life was long gone and that I couldn’t move forward while I was looking backward. As I gradually turned to look ahead, I glimpsed large remnants of my old life rearranged and emerging into a new life. Cancer, you see, sends you on a different path. It strips away everything but what is most important and leaves you learning how to let go of what is unimportant and how to hold on to what is.

But that’s easier said than done. Tripped by fears and doubts about recurrence, I often stumbled along the path to recovery. My self had to learn to live in the same body that had just tried to kill me. How could I trust it not to pull that stunt again? And how could I learn with live with so much uncertainty?

I had many heart-to-hearts with myself. I asked myself if my future — or anyone’s — comes with a guarantee. No, it doesn’t. If I worried about undergoing horrible future treatments, would worrying change the outcome? No. Would worrying today about things I can’t control tomorrow make me miserable? Yes. And if I were miserable, wouldn’t everyone around me be miserable, too? Yes. Did I want that? No.

At last I concluded that the only certainty in life is uncertainty and that fear of future uncertainties could easily rob me of present joys, and so when fears crept in, I consciously, sometimes furiously, fought to push them aside. I got busy at work. Called a friend. Took a walk. Listened to whatever music made me happy at the time. Baked a cake and gave it away. Called Alex just to say, “I love you.” Sometimes through gritted teeth — when I would much rather have had a pity party — I did whatever it took to banish my fears and doubts, and sometimes the effort was far more difficult than it had been during treatment. But the price of giving up was far too high.

Did it work? Eventually, yes. Learning to live with uncertainty is no different than acquiring any other skill. It times effort. It takes patience. It takes time. And a theme song doesn’t hurt. I had several, but Elton John's "I'm Still Standing" never failed to remind me that I was, indeed, still standing,

Next Friday, Dec. 17: Finding and living life after lymphoma

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.