My mother said her attitude towards my cancer is to look ahead rather than behind. I generally share that same approach, but I recently spent some time reflecting on the 2 years that have passed since I was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer on Dec. 28, 2016.

Overall, my treatment has gone well – the brain tumors were quickly irradiated and show no signs of recurring. The tumor in my lungs has been reduced from about 3 in. by 3 in. to 1 in. by 1 in. There have been a few hiccups along the way, but overall my treatment has been pretty painless and with few side effects. That makes me very lucky, but my cancer is rare and presents its own unusual challenges. My friend Michael described it like “having this man-eating wolf in my house, and I’ve got him locked in the other room, for now. Even though he’s definitely trying to tear through the door to get to me, the door’s holding for now.”

Normal chemotherapy treatment plans usually last between 4 and 6 months. But, after two years, I still take medication every morning that attacks my specific type of cancer, and there’s still no end in sight. After 2 years, I am still very much “in treatment” which most people seem to forget, especially since I don’t post about my condition unless there’s some specific reason. I still go for a CT scan every 3 months and an MRI every 4 months. Because I’m on a drug that was only recently approved by the FDA, I still go in for blood work and an exam every month or sometimes more frequently as well. My latest CT scans showed a slight reduction in the lung tumor, and the latest MRI showed no new brain lesions.

In fact, shortly after Thanksgiving, I joked with my doctor that I was a frequent flyer because I had 4 appointments in the span of 2 weeks. The only perk is free parking – unfortunately, the hospital doesn’t have a reward point program or loyalty card. I go to a young adult cancer support group, and I certainly felt, on occasion, a little jealous of other survivors there who were on biannual or annual checkups. The constant rhythm of appointments, scans and blood draws is numbing and runs the risk of making me feel too complacent. Although the MRI screeches loudly and constantly, I am so inured to it that I find it hypnotic and doze off inside. I really don’t have much to complain about if my biggest gripe is that I have too many doctor’s appointments.

On the other hand, I wonder if sometimes I’m not forgetting the gravity of my condition. I am extremely lucky because I live a relatively normal life, aside from non-voluntary sobriety. In addition, my treatment has been effective, albeit with a few bumps along the way. I am afraid that sometimes I might forget the precariousness and lethality of my position. After 2 years, despite all the good news, my dad said he still gets anxious before each scan. I usually don’t get too anxious, although I was a little concerned about what the first CT scan would show after starting the most recent version of my medication. However, generally I feel like there’s no point in worrying because it won’t have any effect on the results. My therapist called that “radical acceptance,” and I won a CrossFit award for being “Cool under Fire.” I feel like it’s those two latter options rather than naivety or complacence.

Conversely, it’s hard to forgot that I have a deadly disease, since I take my medication every morning. In addition, the medical appointments sometimes crowd my calendar (I’m lucky to have an employer who is very flexible). Furthermore, I always try to make the most of every day, since awareness of my own mortality is never absent for very long. It seems I don’t need an app to remind of that. I hadn’t ever thought of this habit as mindfulness, but I suppose it is.

In the future, things could become easier or more difficult. Either way, there’s no point in worrying about it now. Instead, I’ll get on with living and trying to strike a balance between being mindful of my own mortality without becoming numb to the risk.