In a taupe reclining chair, I sit and wait for my 12th round of drugs. My eyes, which occasionally fill up with happy tears, peer over a face mask that covers virtually everything, including my smile.

It’s my last day of chemo.

I can’t believe I can say that now. I didn’t know what the light at the end of this tumultuous tunnel would look like. I didn’t know what it would really feel like crossing that finish line. And like many of you, I sure as hell didn’t expect to be met with the possibility of another life-threatening disease. But at least it’s the end of this particular Odyssey. One that was with filled woe, self-discovery, faith and triumph. And now I can live to fight another day.

I did it. We did it. Without the waves of support I received throughout this entire process, I would not have remained afloat.

When I first started out, I was a timid toddler taking my first steps across a rugged terrain. Unsettled and afraid, I embarked on a wild journey, but my friends and family gave me the confidence I needed to not only continue but finish strong.

I can still remember every feeling that boiled inside me from that day, the day of my diagnosis. It was the worst news I had ever received.

“It came back as lymphoma.” My doctor said, his words, like humidity, hung heavy in the air.

Sometimes, I play it on repeat, isolating that harrowing moment in my mind. I can get lost in it. I’ve never had such a disorienting, visceral fear come over me.

And listen, I know our time here on earth is not infinite, but right then and there it felt as though it had completely stopped and an expiration date had been stamped. I guess that’s what I look back on: How petrified I was. And now when I do, it’s like I’m looking at a different person, a friend who was being emotionally shattered. And I just want to hug her and tell her everything will be all right.

Very similar to what so many of us are experiencing today, I had more questions than answers. This Coronavirus and its ripple effects has created a level of unprecedented and collective uncertainty that is f*&!ng scary. We’re venturing into a new frontier, and as someone who has been doing just that for last six months, I can tell you that we will get through this. But we have to do believe it and we all have to do our part.

And on that note, can I just say, for those, who are not taking it seriously, you should be. Your insensitivity, laissezfaire approach, and indifference by going out or downplaying it, is making this crisis last longer; putting more people at risk and out of jobs; and depleting our already limited hospital resources including its understaffed, overtired and dedicated staff. It’s really just a big F.U. to the rest of us. But, as always, I digress.

A few days ago, my aunt sent me a beautiful message. Among her words, it said, “I’m sure you learned a lot. Like, how strong you are, the faith you didn’t know you had, and how many people love you even though they never told you.”

She was right.

I’ve said it before, I have really never considered myself a strong person. Can I get over-the-top pissed off, Hulk out, and employ an irrational and psychotic strength when provoked? Sure. I mean, who can’t. But there’s a reason those online quizzes never said my Disney character was Hercules. We are, however, all strong when we have to be, when we have something worth living and fighting for.

And, yes, my relationship with a God experienced a revival. I’ve always believed in Him, but the prayers and overall one-way conversations had become sporadic, at best. That diagnosis sent me into a tailspin of cataclysmic doubt. It was a terror that covered me from head to toe like compost, but from that fertilizer blossomed a newfound faith.

The abstract concept of a dogmatic belief is so intangible yet it can prove to be an anchor in times of chaos. Prayer kept me focused, grounded and overall calm. Sure, when you go through something like this, it can be confining and very isolating. I really don’t talk about it much, unless it is through my writing. Sometimes, I want to be more excited than I am that this is all over. I know the people around me are, but I also feel like I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. For, dare I say, reoccurrence. But when I mentally flail about like that, it’s the meditative prayer that reels me in.

So if you’re a person that believes in a higher power, lean on it. It will provide you solace, patience and peace, especially if and when you begin to Hulk out or flail about desperately, too. Talk about your fears, ask for strength, beseech that this pandemic will be contained, implore that our loved ones and healthcare workers will be protected, and always add what you’re grateful for, because life is all about finding those silver linings even among the darkest of clouds.

When I checked in for my last treatment I was told that due to the virus, certain precautionary measures were taken, and I had to go in alone. I was alone when I received my diagnosis, so somehow it all came full circle. There’s almost a solemn beauty in that.

I will say, however, that both Maura and Crystal arrived 10 minutes before I was done. Maura, who was my Rodney-Dangerfield-like, comedic relief chemo partner, started out on the same day as I did. Crystal, the young mother of 6, had begun her treatment a few weeks before us. They were both getting fluids, and together, they gave me a proper sendoff when I was done. Complete with air hugs, air high fives, air kisses, cheers, applause and a ton of well-wishes.

And really, I can’t say that I have ever been alone throughout this journey.

To my friends and family scattered all throughout the country and globe, I thank you for your care packages, for the financial support, for the advice, the motivation, for the food, and for your love. I could fill a little black book with all your names.

So, yes, Tía Pocos, I’ve learned a lot. Especially, how many people do love me, and it’s humbled me. I’ll forever be grateful to each and every one, and they’ll forever be in my prayers.

In closing, let me say this to my momma. You have been the pillar keeping me upright, my oar steering me through these murky waters and my beacon guiding me home. Being a mom, I can only now know the love and lengths a mother would go to for her child, but your lengths still astound me. There’s a reason your middle name is Luz. For when there is darkness … “You are my light, my sun, my moon and all my stars.”

Now What?

• I get my remaining booster shots for the rest of the week.
• I return in six weeks for a port flush
• Double breast ultrasound in April
• Full body scan should be in May, and every three months afterward
• And I’ll continue to perfect the art of social distancing, although if you know my son, Julian, you know that comes with its own risks of insanity. The kid doesn’t ever stop talking. Ever.

Good luck to you all and please stay safe.