It was the day before New Year’s Eve. I had been puttering around our house all day, making sure everything was ready for my son Anthony’s college friends, who would arrive later that afternoon for a traditional New Year’s weekend of football games and black-eyed peas. I wanted to make sure these kids felt welcome, and was happy to see my Christmas decorations were still sparkling, filling every nook and cranny of our home with holiday cheer.
On the surface, it looked like a normal day in the Christmas season for the Marshalls. But below the surface, there was an uneasy vibe in the air. Something troubled my spirit as I went from room to room to room, making sure towels were out, the beds were made, and the politicians were on board with my plans. As I listened to my colleague on the other end of my cellphone, part of me was on high alert for the sound of our house phone ringing. I was impatient to talk to a man I’d met only two weeks before but who had suddenly become one of the most important people in my life. Finally, he called. There was some chitchat, and then Dr. Tyner said the words that still echo in my head today.
“I’m looking at your pathology report now, Cynthia, and I have news. It’s bad and it’s significant.” There were a lot of other words that followed, about a malignant tumor and lymph nodes and the urgency of scheduling more appointments.
This excerpt from my book, You’ve Been Chosen, describes my day and “the call” I received 15 years ago today. Ironically, I just sat beside my husband, Kenny, as he began yet another round of chemo.
I look around this Chemo Clubhouse, praying for these fighters. I’m remembering my own cancer journey, which began with unbearable back pain on Black Friday, a colonoscopy on December 14 (the day before my 51st birthday), surgery right before Christmas, and the “out-of-body experience” phone call the day before New Year’s Eve. The 2010 holiday season was one to remember.
As I reflect on December 30, 2010, and the days, weeks, months, and years that followed, I am mindful of the wonderful things I learned during 12 rounds of chemotherapy. After this list, I will explain each of its items in turn below. I hope you will take at least one of these into 2026.
- Take friends on the road.
- Appreciate the journey.
- Take nothing for granted.
- Make a grand entrance.
- Adjust the pain points.
- Celebrate halftime.
- Get straws, gloves, and fuzzy socks.
- Rethink what’s possible.
- Focus on the finish line.
- It’s gonna be okay.
- Learn from the journey.
- Be grateful.
Now on the surface, some of these make no sense. While I hope you will read the book for context, allow me to summarize what I learned during six months of fighting a colon cancer battle that we won.
- Take friends on the road. I didn’t fight alone. My family, friends, and co-workers showed up for me in remarkable ways. They thought about and did things that I was too weak to think about or handle. Round up the posse and ask for help.
- Appreciate the journey. Every day was a gift. The road traveled was often brutal, but I was alive to take steps. I experienced the best in people. I learned a lot about me, cancer, and the awesomeness of God. Cherish the good, great, bad, and ugly aspects of the ride.
- Take nothing for granted. Suddenly, EVERYTHING mattered, including taste buds and the ability to swallow and touch cold objects, energy, and time with family. Enjoy life’s everyday blessings.
- Make a grand entrance. Even on my weakest days, I donned my chemo pearls, dressed for the infusion activity, and entered the clubhouse (chemo infusion suite) with a great attitude. I knew what was about to happen, but I controlled the entrance. Don’t prematurely worry about the exit.
- Adjust the pain points. The mean Oxaliplatin cancer drug had to be eliminated a few times from my cancer cocktail due to its brutal side effects. A necessary white blood cell booster shot sent me over the edge more than once. Several modifications were made to help me deal with nausea, fatigue, and bone pain. There was no glory trying to power my way through it. Set aside the facade and adjust.
- Celebrate halftime. I didn’t wait until the battle was over, I rejoiced and claimed victory early. I celebrated small wins during what I affectionately called my midlife crisis. Completing Round 6 of 12 was a win worth celebrating. I also took extra precautions at halftime to make sure I was equipped to finish the race. Acknowledge progress.
- Get straws, gloves, and fuzzy socks. I needed these things to deal with neuropathy. I was not embarrassed. I still wear fuzzy socks. Accommodations help. Do whatever it takes to be comfortable.
- Rethink what’s possible. Throughout my journey and my life, I beat the odds on many occasions. From enduring harsh side effects to returning to work early, I had to constantly reimagine the possibilities. Nelson Mandela once said, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.” Tell yourself you can do it.
- Focus on the finish line. I had a plan for the race and I stuck to it. My vision was obstructed at times by negative lab results, chemo brain, and fatigue. I had to dig deep to regroup and focus on the desired outcome. Keep your eyes on the prize.
- It’s gonna be okay. My son, Ken Anthony, wrote a song with this title to remind me that it would ultimately be okay. I used the phrase for self-talk during the roughest of days. Speak life into your situation.
- Learn from the journey. I consider myself a continuous learner. However, I never thought I’d end up with a cancer diagnosis as the teacher for some unforgettable lessons. One of these lessons is the importance of prevention and early detection. Handle your medical business.
- Be grateful. No explanation is needed. It’s been exactly 15 years since I got the call. I’m still here. 🙌🏾 And Kenny is in remission undergoing chemotherapy maintenance. GRATEFUL! My word for 2026 is GRATEFUL!
Happy New Year, beautiful people!
