Ten years.

For more than ten years, every MRI has come with the same expectation: finding something. A new tumor. A growing tumor. A reason to schedule another surgery.

MRI follow-up appointments have almost always meant planning the next surgery, figuring out when I can take time off work, and asking, “How much longer can we wait?”

Living with VHL means living with uncertainty. It doesn’t guarantee cancer, but it does mean carrying a higher risk and knowing that every scan could change everything.

My first malignant tumor was discovered at the age of 16 and I haven’t had much of a break since.

Today, for the first time in a very long time, it was different.

For the first time that I can remember, I read the words:

“No enhancing solid renal mass identified.”

Let’s just say I double-checked, triple-checked, and then checked one more time to make sure the report really said that.

I haven’t talked with my doctor yet, but I know this is good news. I know VHL doesn’t disappear because it is literally my genes.

But today, there is no active kidney cancer for me to fight.

Maybe this means years without surgery. Maybe it means this chapter stays quiet for a long time. Nobody knows for sure.

What I do know is that after years of procedures, recoveries, hospital stays, and learning not to take a healthy day for granted, this feels like a gift.

Especially after my most recent surgery, which led to weeks in the hospital with post-op complications. It was, without question, the hardest recovery I’ve been through.

That’s part of why this news feels so meaningful. I went through one of the toughest chapters of my life, and now it feels like my body is finally giving me a chance to catch my breath.

A chance to enjoy my family and friends. A chance to marry the love of my life. A chance to simply be present.

For the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the next surgery.

I feel healthy. I feel hopeful. I feel light.

So today I’m choosing to celebrate.

I briefly debated ordering a giant cake that said “Cancer Free.”

Then I thought of having to explain that request to the bakery.

A bike ride in 75-degree weather felt more like me.

Moving the body that has carried me through every setback and every surgery. Appreciating the strength of a body that has endured more than I ever thought it could.

For now and hopefully a long time, the scans are clear.

And that’s the best news I’ve received in a very long time.