The Last Walk Down the Hall: Reflections Before Entering Cancer Survivorship

After more than a decade of appointments, scans and whispered prayers in hospital hallways, I’m preparing for something I once only dreamed about, my final visit to the cancer treatment center. What I didn’t expect was how emotional, complicated and deeply spiritual this goodbye would feel.

Next week, I will walk through those familiar glass doors for what will likely be the very last time.

I’ve been walking into that building for 11 years.

Eleven years of appointment cards tucked into my purse. Eleven years of bloodwork, scans and long waits in vinyl chairs under fluorescent lights. Eleven years of holding my breath until someone in scrubs smiled and said the words, “Everything looks good.”

Somehow, a place I never wanted to visit became familiar. Almost safe.

I know exactly where to park. I know which entrance is quickest. I know how the elevator sounds when it dings on my floor. I even recognize the scent of the hallway, a mixture of antiseptic, coffee and something uniquely “hospital.”

For more than a decade, this place has been my lifeline.

It’s where I cried.
Where I prayed.
Where I learned to trust God in ways I never had before.

So why does walking away feel so complicated?

At my appointment last year, my provider casually mentioned, “Next time we see you, we’ll move you into the survivorship program.”

Survivorship.

The word caught me off guard.

I remember thinking, “Haven’t I already survived?”

Most patients with breast cancer are considered in remission at five years. My scans have been clear. My bloodwork has shown no evidence of disease for a long time. Yet here I was, still tethered to oncology, still returning year after year.

Part of me wondered if they were staying on guard, watching for cancer to sneak back up on me.

But if I’m honest, I was the one still on guard.

Cancer may leave your body, but it lingers in your mind.

For years, every ache made me nervous. Every headache, every sore muscle, every unfamiliar twinge sent my thoughts racing.

Is it back? Lord, please, not again.

It’s a terrible way to live, constantly bracing for bad news. It steals joy from perfectly healthy days. It keeps you from fully resting.

Learning to trust my body again took time. Learning to trust God with my future took even longer.

There were nights I lay awake bargaining with Him. Mornings I opened my Bible with trembling hands. Days when the only prayer I could manage was, “Lord, just help me make it through today.”

And He did.

Over and over again, He did.

Now here I am, finally standing at the edge of what feels like freedom, and instead of pure celebration, I feel something more complicated.

Excitement, yes.

But also, tenderness. Hesitation. Even a little grief.

Because this last visit feels like more than an appointment.

It feels like a goodbye to a chapter where God met me in some of the deepest valleys of my life.

When I walk down that long hallway next week, I’ll pass the waiting room filled with people still in the thick of their fight. I’ll see tired eyes, headscarves, worried spouses holding hands.

I remember being one of them.

So, part of me wonders, how do I walk in as a survivor without seeming insensitive? How do I smile without feeling like I’m celebrating something others are still praying for?

I want to hold my head high with an “I beat cancer” smile.

But I don’t want my joy to feel like someone else’s heartbreak.

That’s the strange thing about survivorship. It comes wrapped in gratitude and sometimes a touch of survivor’s guilt.

Is it OK to feel overjoyed when the nurse practitioner says, “You’re doing great, we’re moving you into survivorship now”?

After everything I’ve endured, is it OK to celebrate?

I think it is.

Not proudly. Not loudly.

But gratefully.

Because hope walks those hallways too.

Maybe someone sitting there will look up, see a woman 11 years out, healthy, steady, smiling, and think, “If God did it for her, maybe He’ll do it for me too.”

Maybe my quiet joy could be someone else’s encouragement.

From what I understand, a survivorship program isn’t a dismissal or a “get out of jail free” card. It’s simply a transition. Fewer oncology visits. More routine care. A long-term wellness plan. A gentle shift from constant monitoring to intentional living.

It’s the medical world’s way of saying, “Go live your life.”

And maybe it’s God’s way of saying the same thing.

For 11 years, cancer has helped set my calendar.

Now it doesn’t get to anymore.

There’s something beautifully freeing about that, and something scary, too. Like taking the training wheels off after you’ve grown used to their support.

But maybe this isn’t an ending at all.

Maybe it’s a graduation.

I can’t help but smile at the thought that after all this time, there won’t be a trophy waiting for me. No badge. No certificate of accomplishment.

Just a simple sentence: “You’re doing great.”

And honestly? That’s enough.

Because a healthy, ordinary, beautifully boring life is the greatest gift I could receive.

So next week, I’ll walk in quietly. I’ll register. I’ll roll up my sleeve for bloodwork. I’ll sit in that waiting room with compassion and prayer for those still fighting.

And when they tell me it’s time to move forward, I’ll smile.

Not because I escaped something others didn’t.

But because God carried me through every single step.

As I walk out those doors one last time, I won’t just be leaving a treatment center — I’ll be stepping into a new season of trust. The same God who held me through diagnosis, treatment and fear will walk beside me in freedom too, and that assurance is the greatest survivorship of all.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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