By: Veronica Barber-Moore
Surgery lasted a little over two hours. When I woke up, I learned they had removed the mass from my colon and performed a colon reconstruction so that I could continue normal bodily functions.
I was grateful — grateful for breath, grateful for time, grateful that my body still had a chance to work the way it was designed to.
But then came the words no one ever wants to hear. Stage 3 colon cancer.
Those words changed everything. They confirmed that the cancer had begun to spread and determined the path of my treatment.
My doctor explained how staging works — how the size of the mass and how deeply it penetrates the intestinal lining — determine the severity.
Mine had entered the third layer. Not the worst, but far from the best. Enough to demand a serious fight.
A chemotherapy pump slowly released medication into my body. That pump was brutal. It wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was a constant reminder that cancer was inside me and that I was in a battle I couldn’t take a break from.
Chemo drains you in ways you can’t fully explain. Your immune system is stripped down. Foods you once loved become risks. Germs become threats.
I was told to stop getting my nails and toes done — something so small, yet it felt like another piece of normal life being taken away. I had to limit my interactions with people because even a simple cold could turn into something dangerous.
Thankfully, I didn’t need radiation. That was one blessing in the middle of a storm.
Still, those months were some of the hardest of my life — the exhaustion, the nausea, the fear, the isolation. The way your body changes. The way your mind changes. The way you learn to push through even when you feel like you have nothing left to give.
But I made it through. Chemo left its marks — high blood pressure, nerve damage, reminders that healing doesn’t always mean returning to who you were before. But it also left me with something else: strength I didn’t know I had.
And now, as of 2026, I am ten years in remission. Ten years of gratitude. Ten years of second chances. Ten years of learning to live again.
But I’ll be honest — I still get scared before every check‑up. Survivorship is a blessing, but it comes with shadows. You learn to live with both.
My life has continued, and I move through the world as a cancer survivor — not defined by what happened to me, but undeniably shaped by it.
I carry the scars, the lessons, the fear, the faith, and the victory. And I carry the truth that I am still here.
