44

 I turned 44 a couple weeks ago. 

I threw myself a party, we had pizza and sushi. I invited several friends and neighbors, both people who are already near and dear to my heart along with people I don't know well yet but want to. I went through my usual cycles of excitement at planning a party, a bit of anxiety about whether anyone would actually show up, the mild panic of prepping and trying to make sure everything was ready, wondering why my introverted ass decided to host a party, but ending with the warm tenderness of being surrounded by people who came to see me, to celebrate me, who care about me and wish me well, my heart brimming with gratitude at their warm hugs and the looks in their eyes as they told me how happy they are to see me looking so good. 

It was a particularly significant birthday, given that the differences between this year and last year. Last year, I spent the day after my birthday sitting in the infusion chair, getting my 3rd dose of life-saving poisons. This year, I spent the day after my birthday hosting a party and then going out dancing for the 4th night that week. It's a little hard to wrap my brain around, still. But I'm just so deeply grateful to be on this side of things. 

moving on? (update, 6 months after finishing chemo)

[I wrote this sometime in May but then forgot about it, finally posting it now]

Life after cancer continues to be a strange place to be, but I'm in a much better place than I was a couple months ago. My energy levels feel much more like that of normal people's. This feels like an odd thing to say, but it feels pretty fantastic to feel tired because of something I did, and where I can rest and I feel better afterwards, as opposed to chemo- or autoimmune-induced fatigue where you're just exhausted for no good reason and have zero control over making it any better. 

Over the past few months I've traveled to Austin and Portland (and have a trip to Maui scheduled in a few weeks!); I've gone to a few concerts, including on my own, and started going fusion and west coast swing dancing with Zach; I joined a gym and have been working out fairly regularly, including starting strength training. 

I have moments where I stop and marvel at the things I'm doing (out at a show, going on a hike with the dog, etc) and feel a wave of complicated emotions wash over me-- gratitude, amazement, grief, etc. There's still the occasional stab of terror at the thought of dealing with cancer again, of course. I feel keenly aware that nothing is guaranteed, which is part of what makes me feel extra appreciation for everything and has me embracing this "fuck yeah, carpe diem" attitude. I also feel some amount of survivor's guilt, including guilt at how I appear to (so far) be tolerating Tamoxifen better than a lot of people do... that's a strange little beast, right there. 

Kitty update: unfortunately things with Maya did not work out in our household. She and Nev never figured out how to get along, and it wasn't a good situation for either of them. Maya has now gone on to a new home where she's the sole kitty and is beloved and already seems very happy and comfortable there. All's well that ends well, I guess? It definitely brought up some complex feelings for me. For one thing there's the guilt at knowing I didn't exactly think things through rationally when I decided to get Maya, and feeling like I made a mistake that caused many of us some hardship. Then also, having her around for a few months and then having to get used to her absence, brought back grief about Sierra's passing, and just missing her a lot. 

We maybe will try again in a few months, maybe with a younger male kitten. Zach has a vision of a kitten and Cocoa Bean growing up together and being play buddies, which would be amazing, if it doesn't stress Nev out too much. We'll see. I don't want to make the same mistake and rush into anything again, so we'll take our time with this one. 

So, yeah. Overall, I'm actually doing pretty dang well. I'm happy, I'm grateful. Some things feel extra heavy. A lot of things feel pretty great. Life is weird. 

on (dis)comfort

I’ve spent a lot of time over the past 8-9 months thinking about dis/comfort. I’ve had to go through a lot of things that were decidedly uncomfortable. Some are pretty big discomforts, like mouth sores that left me eating nothing but applesauce and smoothies for a solid week, or feeling such bone crushing fatigue that getting out of bed was nearly unthinkable. And there are the more “frivolous” discomforts, like the first time I left my house with only a beanie covering my newly-bald head, feeling so self-conscious but knowing I had no choice but to swallow my vain discomfort and get on with life (or, really, no other choice felt acceptable).

 
Through chemo I wore my illness on my proverbial sleeve. Some people are able to hide the fact that they’re going through cancer treatment, by cold capping or wearing wigs, etc. I couldn’t be bothered. Also, I don’t think I could have “passed” for a normal healthy person through those months. I looked clearly unwell for most of that time, in a way that went beyond just the hair (not) on my head… puffy eyelids and face, pale skin and gray lips from anemia… It took a solid two months after the end of chemo before I looked in the mirror and recognized the face looking back as my own (or my “normal” face, the face of someone who wasn’t actively sick and fighting against cancer and poison/medicine).

 
But even if I could have hidden my disease away, I don’t know that I would have wanted to. And this gets into the other aspect I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about… whose comfort do I want to prioritize? Yes, I felt self-conscious existing as someone who was obviously a cancer patient, feeling like a walking reminder of this ugly disease that is at best an unpleasant thing to think about and at worst a possible trigger to others who’ve been touched steamrolled by it. I grappled with that feeling a lot.

 
But I also realized that it felt important to remind myself that I had a right to exist in the world as I was, with what I was going through, without having to apologize for it or hide. I was putting my own comfort, the tiny bit I could get during a time when so much was uncomfortable, above other people’s potential discomfort at seeing A Sick Person. I’ve also often been an advocate for making the invisible visible and documenting all the different phases of life (not just the happy stuff), and in some ways it felt like an important act to not hide what I was going through and even post the occasional selfies with my bloated, pale, hairless face as a record of my experience (and almost as an act of defiance against cancer itself).

 

I am now navigating the world with hair that looks like I could have chosen to get cut this way, instead of being so clearly post-chemo growth, and a single breast. I’ve had some complicated feelings about being flat on one side, but I'll save going into that for another post. For now, I will say this: I thought I’d already learned some big lessons in body acceptance and body positivity before all this, but cancer really gave me a much more intensive crash course on the topic. And one of the things that it really drove home for me are that for any body-related insecurity I had two options: 

 1) to feel self-conscious, constantly worried about what other people thought of what I looked like, 

or 

 2) to say “fuck it” and embrace my right to exist in the world exactly as I am in any given moment. That other people’s discomfort (real or imagined) is not my responsibility. That I (and everyone else) get to unapologetically exist as I am, without shame.

moving on?

 I don't really know how to think about this current stage of cancer treatment. The really intense phases of active treatment-- chemo and surgery-- are done. As far as we can tell, the cancer is gone. Yet I'm still taking meds to treat it/prevent it coming back, and will be for years. It's not quite active treatment, or not the way chemo was, but maybe...passive treatment? It's still...something. It's a weird time (then again, everything about cancer has been weird). 

During chemo I was getting infusions of two chemotherapy drugs (taxotere+carboplatin) and two her2 targeted drugs (herceptin + perjeta). We think my cancer is all gone, but there's always the risk of stray cancer cells floating around my body, waiting to come back (some people call this state "schroedinger's cancer"), which is why I'm still continuing with more meds. I started back up with herceptin (by itself this time) a few weeks ago, and will keep those up every 3 weeks through about July. I didn't notice any side effects from my first herceptin-only infusion, and hopefully that'll keep up. I'm not a huge fan of returning to the infusion center again, but it's at least a much shorter, easier process than full chemo was.

Last week I also started my endocrine therapy, taking Tamoxifen which blocks breast tissue from absorbing estrogen. The plan is to take it for 5 years and then we'll reassess. If I'm tolerating it well I may continue taking it for another 5 years, or there may be new data that informs our decisions at that point. I've been a little nervous about taking this drug... many people have no side effects, or mild/tolerable ones. But I've also seen stats indicating that as many as half of the people who start it, stop before finishing their 5-10 year courses because the side effects are too severe and uncomfortable. It's a bizarre experience to be taking it and waiting to see how it affects me.  

One of the stranger aspects of processing this whole "I had cancer" thing (still getting used to using that past tense), is figuring out how to even frame the story in my head. There's a part of me that tries to minimize it.... Like, yes, I had cancer, I went through chemo, it was kinda horrific, my breast was amputated, BUT I was only ever stage 1, my cancer was always highly curable. I wasn't really in danger of like, dying, right? My case was so much less severe than so many other people's. I have the luxury of putting cancer treatment behind me eventually, and objectively speaking I have good odds to not have to go through any of this again. It was just a thing, I got through it, and now I'm ok. No biggie. Right?

And then another part of my brain is like HOLY FUCK, I had FUCKING CANCER. And it could still COME BACK?!?!? What the fuck do I even DO with that information?? I don't know that I'll ever fully wrap my head around all this. 

Fun fact: depending on what studies you look at, what factors are accounted for, etc, my risk of recurrence over the next 5-20+ years seems to be somewhere between 5% and 25+%. Those numbers could certainly look a whole lot worse, but they're still far from comforting. Especially when my brain plays funny games like "well you already had the statistically unlikely thing happen, what's to stop that from happening again?" Also, whether rational or not, while I don't think cancer is going to kill me in the short term, I have much less of an expectation of living till old age. That doesn't necessarily feel scary to say, it just kinda feels like a pragmatic take? There's the risk of my cancer coming back, plus the increased risk of other things (other kinds of cancers, cardiac issues, etc) that are increased somewhat by the meds I'm taking to keep the breast cancer away. 

Anyway. So, yeah. It's a weird time. Sometimes I feel close to back to "normal," and other times I very much do not. I feel so much better than I did a few months ago, but I'm also still tired and in some sort of pain/discomfort a lot of the time (my joints feel like they aged 30 years all of a sudden). There are still weird chemo side effects that are lingering, months afterwards. I'm trying to be patient with myself about it all, knowing that this sort of healing takes a long time and is often non-linear. 

and then I randomly brought home a new cat

 So we have a new kitty, her name is Maya and she's goooorrgeeeoussssssssss. 

I've had the equivalent of baby fever but for getting a cat, for months. Fairly intensely. Part of it has been legitimately missing having a multi-cat household. It's been over two years since Sierra passed away, and then we got our dog Cocoa and he took up a lot of time/space/attention. But he's now almost 2 years old, and I've really missed the feline energy (especially since Nev tends to be more aloof these days anyway). 

(Also, I think I really wanted more cuddly animal comfort and entertainment during the hard months of chemo)

I at least knew better than to bring home a new animal while in the actual middle of chemo. So what did I do instead? I waited till I was just barely over a month past my mastectomy, and a few days after my mom (and all her assistance) had flown back home again, to bring home this little darling. What can I say, I saw her photo on a rehoming group on facebook and couldn't quite help myself. In my defense I think when you've had cancer you're maybe allowed some irrational impulse decisions. 

In my dreamy-eyed state I had very optimistic expectations for how easily she would adjust to life in her new household. She had been calm, confident, and very outgoing when I met her in her previous home, I figured she'd enjoy the novelty and more playmates here. I set up a room for her to be in separate from the rest of the house, brought her home, let her out of her carrier, and watched her promptly slink under the dresser. That much was expected. 

What I hadn't anticipated, was her proceeding to spend 95% of her entire first week hiding out under that dresser or in the closet. As the days dragged on and she continued to seem to nervous, I started to worry. She was warming up to me, but ran and hid if she even heard anyone else. Was she too stressed out in our household? Was I doing enough to help her adjust? Meanwhile, I was also adjusting to getting back into "normal" life. With my mom returning back home, I picked back up on a lot of the household tasks and responsibilities she'd shouldered during my recovery. In some ways I've been very glad to return to a more normal routine and be able to do the things. But also, it's been... a little overwhelming, and exhausting. I had read so many others talk about this aspect of cancer recovery, and was still somehow surprised by being faced with it. And I'd chosen to add on to it the complex task of helping a scared kitty adjust to a house with more people and animals than she'd been used to for her previous 4 years of living. 

I started to wonder if maybe I had rushed things and made a mistake. And yet, I felt like she kinda belonged here. The other day I walked into her room, and she immediately ran out to greet me and ask for pets. That melted my heart into a neat little puddle. She has since turned a corner, seeming much more comfortable and brave. She likes me a lot and has even curled up in my lap several times. She no longer runs and hides at the first sight or sound of any other members of my household. She's even had a few encounters with Cocoa (separated by a gate) where she kinda hisses at him but stands her ground and doesn't run off to hide (Cocoa, meanwhile, stands still, his tail wagging at 60mph, really, really wanting to play with this new friend but he knows, through his experiences with Nev, to give her some space). 

Nev seems unbothered and only mildly curious about this new inhabitant. I'm in no rush, wanting to give everyone plenty of time to get used to each other. Maya is still mostly confined to her separate room, and we'll slowly start letting her venture out more and have more interactions with Nev and Cocoa. I think she will be a sweet and fun addition to our household dynamics once she's used to everyone and everything. I'm looking forward to that. 

when a sidewalk access cover looks like something from a studio ghibli film

how I found out I had breast cancer

I vividly remember the exact moment when I started to worry about the lump I'd found in my right breast. It wasn't, oddly, the moment I first found it, a couple weeks before, while sitting on my sister's futon in Maui watching tv surrounded by her cats. (At that time I wasn't even convinced I'd really found anything worth noticing, and told myself I'd call my doctor if I still felt it in a few days or a week) 

It wasn't even when I went in for a breast exam and the nurse practitioner recommended getting imaging done. She seemed a little out of her depth and it seemed standard to get it checked out, whatever this was. 

The next day I was driving when I got a phone call. I saw the number pop up with the "healthcare" label, and I knew it must be Kaiser calling to schedule my the mammogram and ultrasound, and immediately pulled off into the nearest parking lot to answer it so I could safely look at my calendar. We settled on a date and time (for about a week from then) and it was as I ended the call that suddenly the dread and anxiety dawned on me. Shit, ok. I had something worrisome enough to get imaging done. And, I was either getting better at finding the lump, or it was getting bigger (or both), because it felt more noticeable each time I checked to see if it was still there. 

(I drive by this parking lot all the time, and think of this moment every time I pass by it)

I hadn't mentioned the lump to anybody yet. I didn't want to tell anyone, because that would mean it was Something To Tell. Plus, I didn't want to worry people in the very likely event it turned out to be nothing. 

But... I also realized I kinda needed to tell someone. 

Now, something I'm learning about the ways my emotions sometimes work is that, for better or worse, I can do a decent job of just kinda putting my worries/fear/anxiety/etc into a box and setting it aside when I need to. I don't know that this is healthy (particularly when I don't realize I'm doing it)... however it certainly is useful, especially when I have people I'm taking care of, for whom I need to stay calm and collected. During that week or so between the scheduling call and imaging appointment, I still felt relatively calm, at least on the surface... but I could feel this tension and worry below the surface, not really prepared to deal with it but knowing I would need to eventually. And I think I realized I needed at least someone to provide some support, to not be alone with this feeling. 

I had plans to visit a couple of dear friends, and as soon as I made the decision to tell them about this, I could feel the damn beginning to burst. I managed to hold it together just long enough to get out the words, "So a couple weeks ago I found a lump..." and then promptly I burst into tears. Bless their souls, they held me and let me talk and cry and get it all out and were the exact kind of support I needed right then. They did a lot of that over the coming months, and I'm eternally grateful for that space and support. 

Confession: at this point I wasn't even really thinking about the C-word (at least not consciously...see above about putting my fears in a box to not deal with them). Sure, I knew that was a possibility, but I also knew that the vast majority of lumps that get imaged and even biopsied are benign, and it seemed really, really unlikely and not worth (consciously) considering. What I kept thinking about instead was the desmoid tumor I dealt with a little over 10 years ago. That wasn't technically cancer, but it was an aggressive growth so needed to be cut out, and ensuring good margins meant cutting out a decent chunk of my ab muscles leaving a noticeable concave spot. So I kept thinking about that happening to my boob, which wasn't terribly ample to begin with, and having a big scar, and just feeling scared and overwhelmed about possibly needing surgery and recovery, and of my breast being deformed as a result. 

Is it weird that I was worried about vanity instead of, like, properly fearing for my life? Was that my brain protecting me, not letting me go go there and face the actual scary shit? I don't know. But that's where I was at.  

When I went in for my mammogram, they had these like one room dressing room stalls where they had me change into the cloth gown, and had me wait inbetween things. I did my mammogram, which was normal enough (as far as I could tell, it was my second ever), then I went into the room to wait a bit. Then they took me to a small dark room to do the ultrasound. 

They checked the spot with the lump, and then they spent a lot of time looking at something in my armpit which confused me because that's not where my lump was, but I didn't ask about it. Eventually a doctor came in and said that they wanted to do a biopsy of the lump, and of one of my lymph nodes. I asked if I needed to make an appointment for the biopsy, and she said, "No, we're going to do it now, today." 

I still didn't know to be scared. I thought that was maybe standard practice. 

I went back into the little waiting/changing room and sat there for a long time, I don't know how long it really was but probably close to an hour, maybe more, just sitting there in my gown, mindlessly browsing on my phone, while they scrambled to find someone who could perform a biopsy on me because it was, apparently to them (but unbeknown to me), that urgent. They did keep coming back to check on me and reassure me that the biopsy was "just to be safe."  I believed them. 

Finally they led me to yet another room and had me lie down, and injected me with the numbing shots which hurt like hell for about 30 seconds and then blessedly didn't feel like anything at all after that. The same nurse had been with me for all the things that morning and she was very sweet. The doctor explained what he was doing and why and went through all the things, and at the end he asked if I had any questions. I almost said no, but then I built up the courage to ask the question I'd been refusing to freak out about... "So, is it common to take a sample from the lymph node, as well? Is this a bad sign?" 

The doctor paused and looked at me and said, "It's not uncommon, but I'm going to be straight with you. The lump and your node both look pretty suspicious. I think you should be prepared for it not to be good news." 

Well, fuck. 

The very sweet nurse handed me a tissue. 

I thanked him for his honesty. I appreciated it, really. I'd rather just know the hard thing and move on to figuring out how to deal with it. He put some steri-strips on the biopsy sites (which ended up bleeding through and onto my bra, lovely), I dried my eyes, thanked them for everything, got dressed, and made it back to my car before I sobbed, finally opening up to the reality that I Might Have Cancer. 

I think it was after that that I went home and started googling everything I could find about breast cancer (which is usually not advised, but honestly information calms me so it mostly helped...? I also wanted to know what they were talking about when they called with biopsy results). I also finally told Zach. Before that point, I'd wanted to keep this worry separate from my normal daily bubble as much as I could. But suddenly, the probabilities were different than what I'd believed that morning, and if this biopsy came back positive he and I had a lot to prepare for and deal with. 

Here's a funny thing about the story, and part of why I appreciated the biopsy doctor's candor. After that biopsy I was about 80% convinced I had cancer, and that it was in my lymph nodes, which isn't awful but makes for a trickier prognosis. So when I got the call a couple days later confirming that yes, I had cancer, BUT!!! my lymph node was clear, it honest to god felt like a relief. The worst was confirmed, except it was slightly better news than I'd been expecting. Expectations make such a difference sometimes. 

I first felt the lump sometime in late-ish June. The imaging and biopsy happened on July 10. I got the call just two days later, July 12.  I met with my surgeon and oncologist just over a week after that, to talk about tests and results and chemo and surgery and what decisions we would make when. I had an MRI, another biopsy, port install, so much bloodwork, and then started chemo on Aug 1, just under three weeks from the day I got the call with my diagnosis. Looking back, it all happened at lightning speed... At the time, of course, the whole process felt like it took an eternity, waiting for each piece of new information and trying to figure out just how bad this was going to be. I'm grateful for the speed and efficiency of the whole process, and how every doctor, nurse, and tech I encountered were all kind and helpful and patient with my questions. They helped make a shitty time a bit more manageable. 

seeing the world through a lens

 One of my favorite things about a photography habit is the way it changes how I view the world. When I'm regularly taking photos, my eye naturally looks for interesting details and compositions to shoot. This sounds sappy, but it makes me appreciate the small beauties as I move about the world. It also becomes this great feedback loop, where the more times I notice something pretty/cute/unusual/whatever and stop to take a photo of it, and like that photo, the more I'll notice those things, and so on. 

The past few years I kinda stopped taking pictures. I'm not really sure why. It turns out that same feedback loop works the other way, too (at least for me)... I stopped taking pictures regularly, and it started feeling harder to "see" pictures I wanted to take. It's like a muscle that weakens with disuse. 

I've spent a lot of the last six months stuck at home, thanks to cancer treatment. One piece of advice I kept hearing was to exercise through chemo as much as possible, to help the body recover. This felt laughable to me when so much of the time just walking from my room into the kitchen felt kinda like the equivalent of running a marathon. However, the days I did feel up for going on even a 10 minute walk around the block, felt kinda glorious... just getting out of the house. I made a point to go for a walk on the days when I felt up for it. Walking has also been my main form of exercise while recovering from my mastectomy, aiming for a solid 20+ minutes walk most days. 

On those walks I've usually had my phone in my pocket. And, I started finding myself pausing here and there to snap a photo. I've felt particularly drawn to spotting plants growing in unusual places (through a fence, in a crack of the sidewalk), feeling inspired by their ability to grow and flourish despite the challenging environment. 

I have always both loved and felt a little frustrated by my phone cameras. Though in their defense, what they lack in ability to control settings they definitely make up for in convenience and ease of use. And that's gotten even better with apps, using apps like Focos or VSCO to play with depth of field and filters. 

It feels really good to get back into a photography habit... and, particularly, to notice that side effect coming back, of noticing the way I'm seeing things be different and feeling more inspired. 

in praise of solo travel

 Last spring I took myself on a solo weekend trip to Washington, DC. It was sort of on a whim... Zach, the boys, and I had been in DC in 2019 and touring the museums with them was great, but the boys have less stamina for that than I do (even when cool dinosaur bones are involved), and I wanted to go back. I realized I had never taken a trip completely by myself, for myself-- not to visit family or friends, or for an event/conference, but just because I wanted to go someplace and where I got to decide my own itinerary. 

The trip was everything I hoped it would be. My airbnb was adorable, in the cutest of neighborhoods, with great options for walking and getting around easily. I ate great food. The weather was perfect. I got to decide exactly what I wanted to, when I wanted to do it. I spent a whole day at the Museum of Natural History (the first solid half of it just geeking out over the Hall of Fossils, not having to worry that anyone else was bored or wanting to do something else). I visited the museum of Native American history, and several of the art museums. I spent time thinking and journaling and processing some things I hadn't given myself space for before then. I felt inspired in ways I hadn't in years. It honestly felt healing and soul-nourishing. 

A few weeks after I got back, my sister reached out asking if I wanted to house-and cat-sit in Maui while she and her girlfriend were out of town (she was having trouble finding anyone who had the time and availability, and was asking increasingly wider circles of people). I felt guilty even considering it... I'd just taken a fun solo trip, could I really go away again, for five days just a month later? It felt selfish,. But thankfully Zach and a few others gave me a swift but gentle kick in the pants and permission to accept the offer, since I would be helping her out after all. I was even able to use miles to buy my plane tickets. It's like it was meant to be. 

So I went, and I spent several glorious days enjoying more great food (including the best breakfast sandwich I've ever had), beautiful weather and locations, and hanging out with sweet cuddly kitties. It was a really, really great trip. 

I know it's a huge privilege to get to go on these vacations. I think part of what felt significant and healing about these trips was simply the fact that I said yes to them and (mostly) managed to quiet the voice that told me to feel guilty about them. As a caregiver it's often been hard to prioritize myself, and especially for things that can feel like frivolous "wants."  

Life is strange, and sometimes you get weird twists. About a month after getting back from Maui, as I sat in a room with two doctors explaining my breast cancer and discussing options for chemo and surgery, realizing the ways my life was going to be completely turned upside down for the next months or years, I felt very, very glad that I took advantage of those opportunities for fun and leisure when they came my way. 

hello, old friend

It's been over four years since my last blog post, and close to 10 years since I blogged with any regularity. That's...a long time. I've missed it. There are many reasons why I stopped writing, some of which I can blame on things like the death of Google Reader (I'll always mourn you), and life changes that meant that the sorts of things I'd be driven to write about were no longer topics I felt comfortable talking about publicly (eg. kids getting older and suddenly those parenting stories feel like more of a violation of their privacy and autonomy). 

Then last summer I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and there have been so many things about dealing with this diagnosis that have surprised me that I feel a drive to a) write about it as a way to process my emotions and experiences, and b) do so publicly to share my perspective in case that's useful to anyone else. I've often believed in making the invisible visible, it's a big part of why I wrote so honestly about parenting when my kids were little, and I'm feeling a similar impulse now. I've always appreciated reading other people's honest stories. It inspires me to put out into the world more of what I want to see. 

(I've also been taking pictures a bit more again, and may share those here as well in addition to instagram)

Over the past 6 months I posted updates about my cancer treatment on a Caring Bridge site, which was useful for that time but I think now I'll port those posts over here for the sake of continuity. Going back to "old school blogging" (it pained me a little to type that) feels a bit quaint and outdated, but I've got such a soft spot for it and, regardless of how many people read this, I like having this written record here. 

Ding Dong the Cancer's Gone (as far as we can tell)

Cancer update: as far as we can tell, I don’t have any anymore 🙌🏻 squeewooooot!

I had my mastectomy just over a week ago. I’m healing well, resting lots, getting a bit of walking and movement in here and there, got my drain out today!!! Having a bit of pain/discomfort but a lot less than what I’d feared. Very grateful.

Pathology report came back and showed I had a complete response AKA there was no cancer left in my boob, the chemo killed it all! Which is awesome. The hell of chemo was worth it. Statistically this means my chances of recurrence are that much lower.

Since I had a mastectomy + clear lymph nodes + complete response, I don’t need radiation (yay!). I still have more treatments ahead of me… I’ll keep doing infusions every 3 weeks, though of only Herceptin from now on which should have few if any side effects. I’ll meet with my oncologist in about a month to talk about hormone therapy (which may have more side effects but I’m trying to stay optimistic). Also, surgery left me with limited range of motion in my right arm (expected), so I’ll soon start PT to get that back.

But, the hardest parts of active treatment (chemo + surgery) are behind me. I’m proud of myself for getting through it, and I never, ever want to go through that again. I’m slooooowly starting to feel a tiny bit more like myself… I have fuzzy hair starting to grow on my head, and teensy baby eyelashes peeking out on my lids. Energy levels come and go but slowly improving. I’m eager/anxious to get back to some semblance of “normal” (or a new normal, after all this) and also a little overwhelmed by how much it will likely take to get there. But, hey, one step at a time.

Hello, 2024

I'm filling this first day of the year with activities I want to do more of in 2024-- a short walk with the dog; taking myself out to breakfast + journaling; a hike with pretty views, taking pictures along the way. This afternoon will probably involve some quiet reading on the couch and probably a nap, because a 3 mile hike might have been a bit ambitious (considering that very recently, a walk to the end of the block felt like my equivalent of running a marathon). Though I'm damn proud of myself for having done it.

It's a strange day with a lot of strange feelings. My surgery is tomorrow, and I can't really put my feelings about that into words other than to say that the whole thing feels just... utterly bizarre. I feel such deep gratitude about just being up for doing the things I did this morning, after months of feeling so shitty and having no energy. And yet there's also a part of me that is so sad that such simple activities like going for a walk and out to breakfast feel like milestone accomplishments. It's a far cry from the me of 6+ months ago.

 Many things can be true at the same time. I'm holding space for the grief I feel about all this, while also allowing myself to celebrate the legitimate milestones on this path to recovery and figuring out my new normal. Here's to a lot of grace and patience in the year ahead.