No Regrets

Yesterday, I had a colonoscopy—definitely not my favorite procedure. Somewhere in the middle of it, my heart rate dropped so low that the medical team had to intervene with medication. I eventually stabilized, but I slept through the entire ordeal, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around me.

It’s funny how life works that way sometimes—we miss the very moments that could have frightened us most.

This Sunday, April 12th, I will celebrate 30 years as a breast cancer survivor. When I was diagnosed at 40, my world narrowed to one simple prayer: Lord, just let me live long enough to see my boys grow up. I wanted to watch them become men, find love, and hold their own children in their arms.

And He answered that prayer.

Now, at 70, I find myself in a place I never quite planned for. I’ve already lived beyond what once felt like my “expiration date.” Instead of striving for more years, I sometimes wrestle with a different fear altogether—the fear of what those extra years might require.

My husband and I don’t have long-term care insurance. If we ever need extended care, we would have to spend down everything we’ve worked for just to qualify for help. After walking alongside my parents in their final season, I’ve seen firsthand what that kind of care truly costs—not just financially, but emotionally and physically.

It changes you.

I’ll admit, with a half-smile, that I sometimes pray the Lord will take me quickly and peacefully—maybe under anesthesia or in some unexpected moment. It may sound a little morbid, but it comes from a sincere place. I never want to become a burden to the people I love most. Because I’ve seen what love in action looks like.

My brother, my sister, and I stood shoulder to shoulder, doing everything we could to give our parents the best care possible. It wasn’t easy, but it was an act of devotion we will never regret.

And that’s the thing about the end of life—you don’t want to arrive there with words left unspoken.

Three years ago, my mom looked at me and asked a question that caught me off guard:“Was I a good mom?”

I remember pausing, searching for the right words. Then I said, “No… you weren’t a good mom—you were the BEST mom.”

Her face softened into a smile I will never forget.

In her final weeks, I gently encouraged her to trust the nurses, to listen to my sister, Sherrie, and to let herself be cared for. There was a tenderness in those days, even in the midst of letting go.

Her last words to me were soft and slurred, but filled with familiarity—“Shurrr…”

Nothing can truly prepare you for those final moments. But I’ve come to realize something important: it’s not the ending that defines us—it’s the love we carry into it.

And when I look back, I don’t see fear or loss as much as I see blessing.

I see 30 extra years I was never promised. I see my boys grown, married, and raising families of their own. I see siblings who walked this road together with grace and strength. I see a mother who knew—before she left this world—just how deeply she was loved.

I carry no regrets.

Not one.

And when I count my blessings, I realize… they far outweigh my fears.