Mom

I miss my mother. It’s nearly constant. The more birthdays I celebrate, the closer I come to the age she was when we were closest. We spoke daily. About every little thing and nothing. I am so beyond grateful for the relationship I got to have with her. I realize daily how much she got to teach me without even knowing it. 

In no way do I intend for what follows to infer that I thought my mother was vain. I will admit that in my less wise days, I believed she was. I’ve come to understand her languages. It’s looking back on journals and memory that keeps me close to her today. It’s also bittersweet to ache for that dynamic now. 

She worried very much about appearances. We were poor for many years. She did her best to present her family on our best foot as much as she could. Her ability to make the best of an absolute shit show was a work of art. Especially now that I can see who she was with my more mature perspective. 

My mother was an endlessly faithful woman. Her faith wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t always logical, but she found her comfort and peace in it. It’s what gave her the will she had. Making sure her face was pretty. Her hair was colored and presentable. She loved getting her nails done. Because despite her monetary weaknesses, she felt rich as a mother. 

Putting on a good face is all I really know how to do. It’s the foundation of my coping skills. It’s how I figure out how to make the best with what I have. Like an archaeologist, I will dig and scrape until I find silver linings. Even if I have to create them by putting on some makeup, putting effort into this new hair, slipping into some comfortably cute clothes, and going to trivia. 

We had many conversations about my deconversion. It wasn’t one of the easier topics we were vulnerable with. We frustrated each other because I was becoming cynical to the very tool she used to get through crisis. I wonder how those parking lot chats would go with a basket of fries and coke today?

Her eyes always lit up when she saw babies in public. She was that woman who would coo over strangers’ babies at Walmart. Her face glowed when she got the joy of holding their tiny hands. Her love of babies and children was a constant thread in my life. Seeing those memories now, I see a much more fatigued woman. 

I see babies in public and get what she must have felt. Instant, reflexive smile. An instant mood lifter for me is the sound of babies laughing. Seeing my granddaughters just exist makes my cheeks hurt. 

I would love to ask different questions these days. Perhaps it’s my own subconscious yearning, but I feel more like her than I thought I would. I feel more of my mother’s versions of life’s pleasures. Her joy in the benign. I feel like I can understand some of her weights. Her very silent suffering. 

I miss my mother. As my body has morphed into a post menopausal condition, I feel she could relate to the disappointment. As multiple sclerosis stole her physical and mental function, I can remember now the dimming in her eyes as she lost pieces of herself. 

She’s frozen in time. 

She knows me through the veil. 

Her presence is felt when I need it most. When the persevering is hardest, I can hear her laughing and telling one of her theatrical jokes. 

Grief never ends. It just evolves. 

It's Time

I’ve needed to write this for a while. I’ve known since Christmas. Rewriting drafts of this blog has shown me just how conflicted I’ve been about it. Writing this makes it real. It’s the way I hold myself accountable. Once it’s in writing, I’m held to it.

My house is on the market. Pending the sale of it, I will be returning to Arizona.

Even typing it feels heavy.

There’s a mixed market here, so I’m truly praying the sale goes smoothly. Seeing the sign out front feels like watching a body decay in front of me. It’s grief. Another end of a season. A season I wasn’t ready to end.

I carry a soul-shaping gratitude for being able to enjoy living in Tennessee. There will be a proper ode crafted later. But for now, I’ll just say: I have been exactly where I’ve needed to be. The Tennessee humidity played a role in my healing.

I got the privilege of bonding with my kids in a way I wouldn’t have had I stayed in Arizona. Taking the leap and leading my family here has grown us as a unit. My kids are my favorite people on this earth. I got to bear witness to the first year of my daughter becoming a mother to twins.

Convictions were strong about ever returning to Arizona. I felt if I went back, something had gone horribly wrong. These past three years have adjusted that perspective.

I now come back, healed.

Things did go horribly wrong. I needed to be where I was to experience it. I’ve needed the home I bought to be where I fought for my life and won.

As I’m preparing to leave this home, I’m deeply aware of the changes my body is going through.

I am one of the lucky ones, according to labs and recovery. My long-term outlook is very optimistic. On paper, I’m in great shape. But there is a laundry list of things medicine can’t remedy.

After a bilateral mastectomy, breast reconstruction, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, and a recent bout with double pneumonia, I’m seeing now the real scars of breast cancer.

My vision has taken a huge hit. Seeing at night has become a major challenge. Thanks to age and chemo, I have early signs of cataracts. The very thing that might lessen these symptoms is the very thing that might bring the cancer back.

Neuropathy crept in when I thought I’d escaped it. I drop things because my fingers stop working. They cramp easily. Even opening a milk jug can be impossible. Playing the piano isn’t as easy anymore, but I still play. Noticing this change nicks an artery.

Insomnia is fun! No, not tired. Fatigued. Not depressed either. It’s bone-dry lethargy. I don’t sleep for more than maybe three hours at a time. Most days, I feel like I’m either just waking up or getting ready for bed. There are spurts of energy that I capitalize on. I’ve found that increasing my D3, K2, and B12 helps a lot. But it’s a battle.

I take daily medications, each with their own side effects. On top of healing from chemo (which is wild, because it’s almost been a year). It’s a process to get used to it all, and I keep my fingers crossed for more good days than bad. One med to keep the cancer away. One to keep my sanity in place. One to manage the inferno underwhelmingly referred to as "hot flashes."

My brain took a hit. My memory isn’t as sharp. I fumble words. Another nick to an artery. It’s not debilitating, but I feel the deficit. Some days, I stare off without realizing it. Like I’m still in active treatment. I’m learning how to compensate. But I worry about what’s permanent.

Through absolutely no one’s misstep or failure, I haven’t been able to plant strong enough roots in Tennessee to sustain the next few years of reclaiming my life.

The bonds with my people in Arizona have strengthened despite distance. Being closer to that familiarity feels like the sanctuary I need.

What once was a reason to leave Arizona has become exactly what I need: consistency and predictability.

I’ve never seen Arizona from this reformed perspective.

Technicolor Hormones

After a bilateral mastectomy removed the cancerous tumors and precancerous tissue. After four cycles of chemotherapy and bone marrow infusions to kill any other remaining cancerous cells and to kick start menopause. To improve my chances staying in remission, I need to subject my body to hormone suppression and hormone blockers. A couple weeks ago, my eyes had some flaring. In conjunction with increasingly blurry vision and extremely deprecated night vision, I felt it necessary to talk to my oncologist. She sent me to my ophthalmologist right away. Not only did my prescription change, I have cataracts and extremely dry eyes. This is my first tangible chemo scar since the hair loss. This also forced my oncologist to change direction with hormone treatment.   

These past few months of no treatment have been intense. I’m grateful for having the physical break so my mind and heart could start catching up. I am painstakingly processing a tremendous amount of information at every angle in life. It’s a lot. There are days I am hanging by a thread. Yet, I don’t cry. My brain feels like someone opened the window and the table full of my handwritten manuscript, blew everywhere. I’m sitting at the table and staring at my entire life in total disorder. 

When I first met her, my oncologist had an entire treatment plan. She respectfully and politely explained the common course of treatment for my markers. The courses of action were explained, and the physical side effects described. After our first meeting, I knew endocrine therapy would be the last stop, five years from now. 

I have carefully done my homework. I've spent a lot of time reading medical journals, dictionaries, and medical textbooks. Anytime it got too heavy or scary, I stopped. I tried to relax and not stress about the pending treatment, but all the while in the back of my mind was this giant elephant. 

When I was 18, I went on the trendy birth control shot, Depo Provera. I was on that regimen for a year. The sweet spot for long-term side effects. The only reason I ended use was because it turned out I was allergic to it. The reaction I had could have potentially killed me. I refused to take any kind of birth control after that.

When I was 24, I was diagnosed with PCOS. This was my first introduction to endocrine treatments. I was prescribed a series of Clomid to help with trying to get pregnant. It didn't work. I gained 20 pounds, had chronic migraines, dealt with some depression, and a few other minor irritations. I wasn't on it long enough to really see major impacts, but it was enough to entertain for the situation. Through natural methods, I was able to have three more children.

Not long after I had Ben, we had to medically manipulate my hormones again. This time because I had an influx of ovarian cysts populate in my uterus. Over the course of the year after he was born, I didn't have an active and intense period for about two months. Ten months of a period. The doctor wanted to put me on birth control to help regulate. We had a significant debate.

Through compromise, I agreed to entertain an IUD with a low dose of progesterone. We elected to use Mirena. Vainly, I was vehemently against the mere idea of gaining weight. Dealing with the side effects from the Mirena were weighed against the side effects of my cyst filled uterus. He asked me to give him 6 weeks with the IUD to evaluate. We scheduled the IUD placement and the follow-up visit. Six weeks later, we were taking it out. I gained 15 pounds and there was no change.

Ultimately, I opted for a non-surgical procedure to take care of the problem. I didn't want to undergo any type of hysterectomy, so the uterine ablation made the most sense. The ablation would give me relief from the cysts for at least 5 years (there's a theme with that timeframe). If the situation returned, I would be faced with the decision for partial hysterectomy. Today, I still have my uterus!

Needless to say, I don't have a strong track record with hormone manipulation. When breast cancer showed up and pathology indicated my breast cancer loves hormones, the irony was not lost on me. To keep the cancer from growing again, the treatment plan calls for killing estrogen and progesterone production in my body. With my body's history of not playing nice with endocrine therapy, I am extremely uncomfortable.

If you aren't familiar with the way your hormones impact your day to day, I strongly encourage you to get that way. Not only does estrogen get produced in your ovaries (ladies), but it is also created in your adrenal glands and fat! My ignorance thought it was all coming from one spot! While the chemo did the job of starting menopause, the hormone suppression/blockers will take care of the rest of the localities. It's said that menopause takes five years. The plan is to block hormones and suppress hormones for that duration.

Side effects of doing this are:
Nausea, bone loss, headaches, weight gain/loss, mood swings, hot flashes, brain fog, sleep disruption, joint pain, cramping, brain function, cataracts, eye damage, skin changes, loss of libido, dry everything, blah, blah, blah, blah.

By the time I was sitting in front of my oncologist again, I had a lot of opinions and questions. We discussed my cataracts, and she identified that one of the drugs she planned on using would exacerbate that condition. Thus, she scheduled the Lupron (hormone suppressant) injection. The Lupron has more severe long-term impacts. Bone density loss, heart issues, severe depression, and metabolic syndrome. We talked about those. I expressed heavily the dependency I have on brain function and if doing this treatment plan would deprecate that, we would need to talk about other options. This led us to discuss the compromise.

I asked how quickly I would start to see/feel side effects after I started the injection. Since I would know how it would make me feel within a couple of weeks, that would give me enough time to decide continuing the therapy or not. The length of time I would need to take the daily pill would still be the five years. Depending on what my levels looks like in my bloodwork, I could potentially not need the hormone suppression. Before surgery and chemotherapy, I was already premenopausal. I left that appointment with an injection date scheduled and the oral medication ordered.

Lab results came back AFTER I got my first hormone suppression injection and indicate that I am in fact POST MENOPAUSE! The oncologist called me last night and let me know that I won't need to keep doing the injections. She's going to have me do one, possibly two more injections and then I'll start the daily medication on the first of January.

At this point, everything I’m doing is to add as many years as possible to my life without fighting cancer again. The trade I have had to make is shitty. Doing the endocrine therapy will improve my time without cancer by about 15%. I’m following their direction to achieve the same goals! I’m now in the next phase of seeing how I tolerate things. It’s my hope that this will be minimally impactful. The pile of daily symptoms I’m now accepting as part of my new normal will evolve and I’m coming to terms with it.

I am so happy that the Lupron is going to be short-lived. That one had me the most distressed. Fingers are crossed tightly that the side effects from the daily pill aren’t too much to handle. But in all honesty, I am intimidated by the way this body is going to feel without estrogen. Learning the role estrogen plays has only increased my sadness and trepidation. The grieving continues. The acceptance continues.

The table has the pages of my life all over it and out of order. The story is still there. I’m putting it all back together, but the plot has shifted. The days will keep challenging me and forcing me to figure things out. I will. I always do. The next few months will give me new information to introduce to the chaos! I need a vacation.

Part Three: I Can Do Hard Things

My strength comes from necessity. At every point I have chosen the combative path instead of relenting. This hasn’t always resulted in optimal outcomes, but I believe I have learned each bout. As long as I can remember, I have been somewhat tenacious. That’s not a brag. I have a load of experience in how this has actively worked against progress. But even when you exercise wrong, you still build muscle.

I’m not sure which stage of treatment I was in where I recognized out loud that I was doing the damn thing. I was able to immediately recognize the dissociation I was actively engaged in. It felt like I was watching myself cope through all of this. As those layers of understanding became more refined, I recognized the dance I was having with reason and emotion. I was performing for my final evaluation.

As plans to support going forward with surgery and subsequent treatment came together so smoothly, I was nervous. I got scared that something very bad was going to happen because of how easy things were going. Stepping a few steps back, I was able to have the perspective to recognize I was doing what I have learned to do. It was coming together with ease because I was prepared to handle it.

I’ve spent so many years faking it until I make it, I lost sight of recognizing it when I got to the making part. It’s not until now that I see it. Feeling any sense of security was scary. Shit, any sense of security still terrifies me. I am skeptical of any rationality I can conclude in my own head. Making as many decisions as I just did without a partner has really validated my independence. My daughter was my perfect voice of reason and listened whenever I needed it. As overwhelming as it all was, it all made sense.

This is another instance of not taking away any shine from past moments of clarity. I keep seeing the upgrades in how I see things. Finally, believing my own bullshit that I can handle hard things feels incredibly mature. This is the most organized my chaos has ever been. The bigger picture of self-awareness has really healed the peace breast cancer held hostage. It’s my deepest hope that I continue to embrace all these changes.

When my emotions unloaded their essays of sentiment after my last surgery, I sat for hours dumbstruck by reality. I was nervous I wasn’t going to recover quickly from this surgery because I was now post-chemotherapy. When I was up and moving within two days, I felt the relief of capability. I was doing it and it wasn’t beating me. This sucks, but I don’t feel ganged up on anymore.

Knowing what I have coming by way of treatment is going to leave these evolutionary shifts open-ended. Because of the way these past 10 months have progressed and the village I have, there will be hard days I know I’ll be able to endure. There are more very hard things coming. The only way to get more out of my life is to live it. I’m not done growing from this diagnosis. I’m grateful for the confidence (false or authentic) to feel capable. As I continue to protect my perspectives and use these newly enhanced coping skills, I am hoping to further improve my inner peace.

Please note: what I write comes from hours of reflection and thought. I meditate and journal my way through these experiences. What I present to you is a summary of sometimes very painful education. I would hate for anyone to read these things and interpret them in a way that demeans your own experience and processes. I hope you’re able to find relatability in a way that helps. Airing out my processes is part of how I cope. I’m very much a walking disaster!

Part Two: Understanding Acceptance (Emma’s Version)

Themes rang like bells throughout the year. Being an intimate partner with Grief, acceptance is no stranger. Each time I have come to terms with loss, I learn a deeper meaning. I have absolutely experienced grieving my identity. This time I had no one I could redirect blame. This time it felt very different. It continues to amaze me how this universe insists on specific lessons. In addition to feeling wildly inconvenienced by cancer, I immediately began wondering what the purpose of this was. At this stage of my journey, I believe acceptance is the center.

From day one, the speed at which I accepted the new nuances of being a cancer patient determined how quickly I was able to find any fragments of peace. This approach isn’t totally different than what I would usually do in crisis. What was different this time was each layer of acceptance was embracing my total deconstruction. I have spent a tremendous amount of time in the warmth of depression disguised as defeat. Every doctor’s visit introduced new elements of truth beyond my control to change.

As anger held control for a bit, I numbly signed paperwork. The tangible evidence of reality stared me in the face. The severity thickening as I drove away from my boys. The weakness in my stability to play with my granddaughters. The unpredictability of reliance frustrated me as my daughter and son-in-law prepared for big changes of their own. My passive dependence on my daughter. Her presence was instrumental in showing me the way to accepting things healthily. Seeing the evolution of our relationship allowed me to understand the big picture. I got knocked down from my tower quickly.

I have accepted the truth in the way self-control has fed my self-awareness. In no way does this equate to mastery. But it feels really interesting to understand the reasons why I’m this way. It’s interesting in the way that I don’t feel my previous feelings of confidence have become invalid. I have learned to accept that some of the coping skills I use are rooted in trauma. This doesn’t make them any less powerful. Understanding where they come from makes me feel a finer visual on why I am triggered. I feel like understanding why I do things makes it easier for me to recognize how to remove triggers more effectively. If not permanently.

I understand the role I play in my own growth. I am learning that simply surviving a crisis doesn’t equate to growth. Everything hard I have gone through before this, pales in comparison to the difficulty level. Accepting the root cause of Emma has opened new neural pathways. This helps me identify areas I can improve with more structure instead of anxiety inducing criticality. There hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t felt compelled to write something in my journal. I’m taking note of constant discovery.

There are months yet for me to live through before I will feel like I have fully accepted my new body.  Just because my brain has found the way to get through this doesn’t mean it’s going to be a cake walk. This is absolutely kicking my face inside out. The way accepting the reality of a bilateral mastectomy meant embracing body dysmorphia. The sooner I accepted chemotherapy was happening, the sooner I was able to accept my bald head. I get to choose how long I want to stay angry, sad, or anything non-progressive. It’s up to me when I want to see what it feels like when I’ve accepted it. This is a daily effort right now.

Accepting the entirety of what cancer has taken from me is a lesson in patience. The details of this are revealed in very weird ways. The usual ways to be physically validated have been removed from the list of acceptable forms. I am having a very real struggle with feeling pretty. This is just one feature of my insecurity. It’s going to take time. Being insecure isn’t new. I’ve spent years hating something about myself. My ego is extremely weak these days.

I need to accept the new version of my role as a mother. This will only take time, too. This cancer took the air out of a balloon I spent years inflating. The carelessness in my complacency left me in a state of shock over the absence of my children far more piercing than the cancer diagnosis. I am still learning how to be a long-distance parent. There will be mistakes learning this one. There is comfort in how things have gone so far. It’s not perfect, but it’s working.

If you would have told my younger self that I would battle cancer as a single mother, I would have wondered what I did in my life! At the start, that sentiment was absolutely going through my mind. There was a lot of crying in loneliness. The support and love I receive through calls, texts, cards, gifts, visits, etc. is a lifeline. As I advanced through treatment, it was the exactly perfect amount I needed. The acceptance of needing to be alone has been a really beautiful experience. Having the openness in my heart during this year has made so many things manageable. I am now able to recognize the need my spirit had for the quiet time. I was provided with the perfect amount of support in all its forms.

I would have preferred getting to this kind of understanding didn’t require such upheaval, but I’ve reached a point of accepting the truth in obtaining wisdom requires breakdowns of versions. I feel like my operating system has just gotten a giant upgrade with new levels and features. It’s up to me with how quickly I move through these coming phases.

Part One: Perspective

At this stage in life, I am much faster at getting over the ‘why me’ phase of a crisis. With the cancer diagnosis, my guttural laughter and maniacal voice screaming, “Of course I have cancer,” drowned most of the would-be pity party. My brain so quickly went into business mode. Years of experience stepped up and took lead. I didn’t have time for cancer. I had even less time for sadness. I left novels worth of emotions wanting for months. It doesn’t seem like a long span of time, but for two months I was intensely involved in each second of my world. The vice grip of that many major muscle movements in my life compressing my soul is still slowly loosening. When I finally was able to exhale after ten months of pressure and changes, the first things I noticed was how much my view of my world was altered.

One by one, I watched my coping mechanisms dwindle into obscurity. They were pulled away from my hands as I screamed like a toddler. Within a few weeks of diagnosis, I discovered that my usual tools used to survive catastrophe were no longer effective or I couldn’t do it because of the cancer or therapy. This forced me into an awakening I wasn’t prepared for. Honestly, I have been somewhat arrogant in thinking I have things enough figured out that I can handle anything. My arrogance hadn’t considered removal of these skills I’ve spent years cultivating. Here I was in a battle with Goliath armed only with my substance.

I felt blind for months. Honestly, the vision is blurry even today. Since everything I was comfortable in was removed, I have had to look at everything differently. I felt stripped. Metaphorically and physically. The haze came in the second I felt a surgeon’s marker on my skin. My body was no longer mine. My soul hovered over my body and watched in disbelief. When my body was done being mauled, my soul rejoined. No longer disconnected, but now everything is strange. Familiar like distant cousins.

I’ve written about the curiosity I have with getting to know the version of myself after cancer treatment. Living in those exact moments as I write this, feels a way I could not have even come close to have predicted. The discovery of who I really am, has been fascinating, exhausting, thorough, and dense with humility. One of the first new perspectives I have gained is experience in being both caretaker and patient. I want to hold my younger self tightly. I feel more connected to the memories I have with my father. They’ve evolved.

One of my favorite coping mechanisms is my instant ability to make the best of a situation. The gift of trauma. Flipping into business mode saves my emotional sanity. This is the root of my independence. The beating, breathing core of how I maneuver.  When those elements became harder and harder to manufacture, the depression came creeping out like a wolf to sleeping sheep. Vulnerability invaded like a vicious wave. Fight or flight kicked in and I reclused. I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. I pushed through emotional torment alone and terrified.

The aftermath of such positing has revealed consequence by introducing me to a new version of me. It didn’t kill me. It has been hard to evaluate so much information about myself. With so much time in bed with my thoughts I didn’t have much of a choice. These days the norms I used to enjoy don’t quite scratch the itch anymore.

There were many surprises when it comes to how I found comfort. My bed was my cozy spot. The cuddle space with my kiddos. Crawling into the fluffy bedding has been where I got to feel best at the end of a long day. That space has been corrupted now. It slowly became a confinement and lost its luster. Many times, I found myself wandering around my house just looking for something to replace that feeling. How do you explain that to someone?  I was constantly worried that I was complaining too much. This just heightened my independence to figure out new ways to self soothe. Even if it meant weeks suffering.

I felt like I was fumbling through the entire process. Everything felt so disjointed and awkward. Typical of me to seek the center of attention, these were not conditions I felt comfortable having eyes on me. Not knowing what to do is awful by itself, let alone doing it with an audience. My boys were used to seeing me have all the answers and plans. Being unable to sustain that expectation, I hid. At the peak of this frustration, the boys were with me, so I created places to hide. There were many days I felt toxic to be around.

The boys displayed so much grace when I was disappointing in delivering activities that required more than I could muster. I beat the hell out of myself when I couldn’t do so much as go for a walk with them. Coping through crisis by going on little adventures with the boys wasn’t an option. We had to find new ways to enjoy time together cooped up. We had struggle moments, but we survived. Idle time introduced me to better communication with my kids. Cancer put a different perspective on my relationship with them. They see me more than I realized they did. I also see them with so much more intention in removing my biases. I feel like I see them better than I ever have.

I wonder now how much of this is relatable with my father. I imagine he did have similar internal battles going on that he felt much better isolating in and not sharing in them. I hope he saw me doing my best and didn’t fault my ignorance. This is all in my own head, but being so like him, I can’t help but feel that he did mental gymnastics just like me. Going from the one who took care of everything to near total dependence had to of taken a severe toll on him. While his cancer story is completely different than mine, I’m certain we would exchange a great deal of solidarity.

Things are simpler now. Simple in understanding, not simple in nature. Putting the world back into focus is taking me some time, but this is an exercise in patience not acceptance. I see the world with far less scrutiny. My opinions have altered so substantially that I can’t really be bothered with mundane. Small talk doesn’t interest me in the slightest. It feels interesting to find patterns in behavior. I see them quicker. This has made me somewhat petulant. I’m working on that.

I have found fascination in the relationship I’ve gained in survivorship. This one I’m only just now getting acquainted. If I’ve learned anything about myself this year, it’s my need to settle into acceptance as efficiently as possible. I feel empowered to be able to say I beat cancer. It’s mixed intricately with humility in ways I’m discovering daily. In the pursuit of being understood, survivorship puts me in a very specific box. It’s made introduction back into social settings a challenge.

Now I’m the girl at the party with cancer. Cancer is becoming a part of my identity. I’m figuring out how to have a healthy relationship with this reality. It’s going to take time for this to be part of my story instead of The Story. The teeter totter of living with a cancer diagnosis is a tether right now. I’m learning to accept this reality and thread it through my life instead. This is way easier said than done. People are lovely and I have been met with nothing but generosity and love. Without them, I would be telling a very different story right now. Finding comfort in being understood has become trickier than ever before.

Perception is reality. Never have these words been truer. My coping skill of finding the best in things got a major level up. It was deconstructed and instead of letting the emotions replace reality with delusion, I have found a new control in shaping what I permit to influence my view. My emotions and logic have found harmony. My coping skills are returning to me all grown up. The journey continues to be extremely independent and therefore making it a challenge to be supported. I don’t know what I need. I’m working through this new view on life and translating what I once knew into what is real now. I haven’t lost who I was before cancer. I am however, not the same.

“You never know what a person is going through, regardless of how much money they make or however great a life you think they're living.” – Terrell Owens

 

October 2024

Survivor. I’m a survivor. Never did I expect to be a Pink Survivor. Ever get so many things in your brain at once that the only solution is silence? For months the silence has been violent. It has been very frustrating to come to terms with this new me. A river of fast flowing emotions has eroded new perspectives. Some decent and some cynical. At the beginning of this, I was most afraid of who I was going to be left with when it was over. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m now at the end and I’m so overwhelmed with it all that I can’t exactly find the words to describe how I’m doing now. The silence is numbing.

I’ve been waiting for some magnificent exclamation to notate the conclusion of this episode of Cancer. My doctors seem to be more thrilled about this than I am. I’m overwhelmed and can’t seem to find the actual point. Spoiler alert, there wasn’t one. I guess that’s why I’m unable to locate any celebratory emotions. I’m still looking at this situation like WTF? It still blows my mind to pieces to say out loud, “I had cancer.”

During these months of solitude, thinking is something I have had ample time to pursue. I’ve conversed with fellow survivors, read medical journals, watched vlogs, interacted with others going through the same thing at the same time, and a myriad of other vehicles of thought. One message that hung around is her perspective on her approach. She said, “I don’t have to, I get to.” Instantly I understood the mantra. There is absolutely a choice in whether one fights cancer. That is such a shiny way to attack chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries, etc. I’ve written about my own tendencies to find the silver lining in all things.

My life was exactly where I wanted it. The boys were just beginning their spring season on baseball teams. I was ecstatic to spend those three-four months at the ball fields with my kiddos and getting to make more friends for them and for us. Work was going full throttle, but in a mostly good way. I had just really settled into our house. My life was showing every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears. Crisis cares not for timing or convenience. Today, the boys are staying with their dad full time, work has slowed down so I can heal, and my house is full of evidence that more than just myself live here. In the matter of one doctor’s appointment, everything was gone. By the end of March, I slept alone in my house without truly knowing what the conditions were going to be when the kids came back.

My heart broke when I had to send the boys away. I have zero regrets of that decision. There is no way I could have successfully completed the treatment I have and maintained the levels of parenthood they need. There isn’t a time of the day that I am not weighted down by immense guilt. I know I did the right thing. It’s a real challenge to tell yourself to think a different way when the past 25 years of my life has revolved around the kiddos. Now that I have time to be selfish, I feel bad about doing anything without them. I feel guilty for missing every detail of their day right now. This one is going to continue to pain me for a while yet.

Guilt. Let’s talk about that a little bit. I feel guilty for not having a harder time dealing with cancer. The nightmares that I’ve known dear friends and family have gone through, I feel awful sharing anything about my lack of real nightmares. I tolerated chemotherapy very well. Was I tired and weak? Yes. Honestly, that’s the extent of most of it. The preparations I went through anticipating the side effects leave me feeling embarrassed at this point. I have unopened packages of supplies that I never needed. I’m beyond grateful that it wasn't harder. Please don’t mistake this as arrogance. The guilt has found a way to minimize my experience. Like, I don’t feel appropriate complaining about anything because so many have had it wildly worse.

For years I have had the ideology that idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Being unengaged in something productive has truly intimidated me into action. While I have had many days and weeks where I have done nothing, the guilt is its most vigilant. If I have time to be this “lazy,” I have time to be doing something to better myself or my situation. Well, here’s the shit of cancer treatment: there is a LOT of idle time. It’s been hurry up and wait since February. Since my last infusion, I have been battling frustration with wanting and ability being at odds. I have plans. But I’m just not quite able to commit yet. I’m still healing. Yet, I feel guilty for needing a day or three to be spent laying down and resting. It’s rude.

Today I am done with the hurrying up. Surgeries have successfully been completed. I have my new pair of boobs that I’m waiting patiently to heal. The surgery on Tuesday last week was quick and I have been recovering very well. I went to my post op appointment today and they’re very happy with how the healing is looking so far. The swelling is still significant and I’m uncomfortable, but I’m way better than I was with those god-awful expanders in. The liposuction they did for shaping and contouring my new boobies was a surprise! But someone recently told me there’s not much you complain about in this life. Extra liposuction isn’t one of them.

My hair is growing back and it’s super soft. I was hoping that my hair would come back all white. So far, it looks like it’ll be the same color it was before. The texture is the next adventure I’m waiting for. These days I’m just tickled that I can shape the hair with pomade!  I’m more and more comfortable not wearing a cap anymore. Just in time for beanie season!

I’ve lost all the weight I gained during chemo. It was about 15 pounds from the steroids. Right before this past surgery, I was actually wearing jeans again! I should be able to get back into fitted clothes again by next month. I plan on getting into the gym again. Gotta get this body looking better to match my new boobs!

This first Breast Cancer Awareness month as a survivor, I get to tell you you’re capable. It’s hard. Life is. It’s unfair and uncalculated. Cancer is unique to each of us. Yours is not mine. Mine is not yours. What worked for me may not work for you. What was easy for me, may not be for you. What I know for certain is cancer will level you. Cancer took away a giant piece of my peace. What cancer didn’t take away was my life. I get to keep living albeit under new conditions. What my next challenge is figuring out how to incorporate those conditions into what peace feels like now.

If you’ve been putting off a mammogram, schedule it. Now. If I hadn’t caught this early, this story would be very different.