Day One, only 1097 more to go

I'm having some big feelings over a 150 mg pill. (And the 1 mg menopause maker pill called an "aromatase inhibitor".) 

Today is day one for my long term medications. The things I have to do now that active treatment is over. The things that will change my body chemistry and help stop reoccurrence. 

The pills that subsequently require *other* pills or supplements to handle side effects. 

This is my PSA that with some cancers, treatment never ends. I know I've harped on this before. I have to fall somewhere between grateful that they exist and skeptical about whether the risks outweigh the benefits. I just ask that if anyone wants to say, "it's better than being dead!" , you should probably keep that to yourself and reconsider the logic. 

For anyone curious about the science, I am taking a CDK 4/6 inhibitor called Verzenio. It's widely prescribed and was developed I believe to give to Stage 4 patients as a means to shrink tumors that can't be operated on. Or shouldn't be operated on - not all cancer surgery is a good idea, oddly enough. But more recently, Verzenio has been prescribed as a preventative measure for two years. Is this big pharma greed or does it work? Research is showing that it works... But also that big pharma is making bank. Of course I have conflicting feelings about it - knowing that the side effects WILL show up. I follow comments in medical support groups and have had several meetings with pharmacists - this is not an easily tolerated medication. Food restrictions, ongoing nausea and stomach problems, I've even read of people that had to avoid raw fruits/vegetables for the years they are taking these meds. So with the dietary advice I'm getting (and with it, the pressure that it's supposedly under my control whether cancer returns) - it's a big frustration for me. 

The other medication is to prevent my body from turning available aromatase into estrogen. That beautiful, terrible estrogen that makes our joints work and our brains work and many important organs work. Estrogen that is being suppressed in my ovaries but is still produced by body fat and other organs. I'm post menopausal but am also being drop kicked into the estrogen levels of an 80 year old woman. 

Hence the vitamin supplements and calcium and DEXA body scans to catch osteoporosis... I can't take Vitamin C or certain antioxidants and will continue to have a weakened immune system. That UTI that put me in the hospital during chemo? It's highly likely that I'll have more of those since estrogen, obviously, is very important for healthy bladder function. 

I'm trying to find a healthy mental outlook for this. The end date for these meds is so so so far away. Verzenio is two years and the AI is ten years. When I'm done with this medication - my kids will be 27, 25, 23, 16 and 14. Finian will be FOURTEEN and the older ones will be out and launched into the world. A full decade of my life. 

And yeah yeah, it's better than being dead! Counting years and wanting to be there for my kids has been a huge motivator - but it's a lot to mentally come to terms with. Somebody show me the healthy balance between wanting to stay informed and just blindly taking the pills and hoping for the best. 

And Just Like That... I am Free from Radiation!

I asked, and asked and asked again. "Are you sure I'm scheduled for 30 rounds?" 

I was skeptical and hopeful that the doctors suggestion that I could get away with 15 rounds, which is becoming the standard of care in other countries. But my patient portal said otherwise. 

We were shuffling into Roswell, me feeling a bit unmotivated at treatment #24. That's not a very exciting number... Oohh wee 24! Seven more to go! Start a parade! 

But once I was changed into the gown, the techs said encouragingly, "Almost done!"

"Yeah, I can't wait for next week!"

"No, your last day is tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, as in tomorrow???"

The tech said that when she looked at my schedule, she realized that I didn't need the last five targeted treatment. If I had gotten a lumpectomy, then they would have focused on the areas where my tumors had been... But since all breast tissue has been removed - I'm good at twenty five! 

I was filled with the biggest endorphin rush. Suddenly I felt like the world had opened up and I could sprint down the street. Only one more day!?!? I had SO MUCH TIME now. 

Granted, radiation has been a lot easier physically than everything else. I'm burnt and can't tell if the sore throat/cough that I have are general illness or intensified by my treatment. The burns may worsen before they improve, but at least I am done! 

We were well taken care of with the meal train and the plethora of lotions given to me. If I could give a shout out to my cancer related Facebook groups - I would. It's hard to imagine going through this without the advice of women that have endured it before you. 

I came home and happily worked in the sewing room to finish a Christmas quilt that has been in the works for most of 2023. 

Hear Me Out... Money Can Buy Happiness

As an adult, I sometimes hear the platitudes that were spoken to me as a child, and I think about how reductive or trite they were. 

"Life's not fair" 

"Monkey see, monkey do." 

"Money can't buy happiness." 

That last one, I think we should reconsider. 

Of course, money can't protect everyone from illness or tragedy or heartache. You can't find the love of your life via your bank account. Money can cloud our judgement and money can inspire jealousy. You can't purchase peace in your soul or empathy. 

BUT: money, and the access it provides to many wonderful things and services... That can make you happier! 

First of all, being poor is expensive. Think of the winter boot analogy that sometimes floats around on the Internet. If you're strapped for cash and can't afford quality boots/shoes - you buy something at maybe $30 to get you through a season. (Even that's being generous with prices since you basically can't find anything decent for less than $50). But.. if you had to buy a new pair every year because they didn't last... Let's say over a period of a decade, you're spending over $300. If you had been able to afford a high quality boot at the get go, you'd more likely spend around $150. 

When we first moved here to Buffalo, we were not rolling in cash. The training period for Gregory's new job lasted 4 months and was barely compensated. I wasn't working more than two days a week because (1) three little kids, (2) we were preparing to move and (3) no one has ever offered me free child care. 

That Christmas, my mother in law bought me a beautiful pair of Sorel winter boots. More than I'd been able to justify spending on such a thing. When I look at the Sorel website now - the most expensive boots I can find are around $190. I still use these boots, they don't look like they've been worn at all. They're amazingly warm and I know I'll use them for ten more years. 

Do you see where I'm going with this? Having money gives one the chance to buy one nice thing in the first place, instead of shelling out $$ year after year for what you can afford right now. 

There's also the hierarchy of needs. I first learned about this in my psychology 101 class in college. 

We need the basics covered before we can even begin to think about "luxury" items such as self-esteem, love and philosophy. If you're always searching for the next meal or stressing about the impending bills - I don't think that leaves much time to explore your artistic pursuits. 

In today's age - having credit, building credit, having wiggle room in your budget might seem like a sick joke. You don't get good interest rates on basically anything if you don't look good on paper. Your mortgage is higher, your car loan is worse. The quality of your car is probably worse because you couldn't afford the one that will last 15 years. You can't save for an emergency and end up paying more for normal services like the inevitable new tires or home repair. 

Add something fun like a cancer diagnosis and I'll tell you 1000% that money can make you happier. Money can buy supplements, acupuncture, high quality food, all of the medical supplies not considered essential by insurance, time off from work, therapy, access to exercise, body products that aren't laden with hormones. Money can give you time to heal and time with your loved ones - especially if travel is involved. A job with adequate insurance (because that IS part of the compensation package) can buy your prescription that would cost $14,000 a month out of pocket. Money can give you options. Money can buy books and stupid things like doll house miniatures because they bring you stupid joy! 

Money has bought my children lessons to explore dance, scouting, camping, swimming, biking, gardening, basketball, musical theatre, art and science. Money has provided us visits to the botanical gardens, planetariums, amusement parks, national parks, art galleries and the pumpkin patch. Just being able to comfortably afford celebrating holidays and birthdays is happiness. 

I should also point out that we value the value of money around here. We coupon, we argue increases in our insurance rates and subscriptions. I will look at the thrift store before I buy something new. We don't say no to off-brand anything. I also love to "earn" my money, if that makes sense. I enjoy working and don't think I'd be happier if I didn't need it. But I'd also be happier if my compensation allowed me to have more money in my bank account! 

I hope my children understand that we've provided their basics so that they can explore the items higher up on the hierarchy of needs. To pursue happiness, education and their artistic expression - built upon the knowledge that they have food and a safe home. 

Money, when allocated fairly, can build safe neighborhoods. Money can help a woman escape an abusive relationship. Money can help that single teenage mom go to school and "better herself". Money can buy nice clothes to wear to that interview for the job that will finally pay you enough to live beyond paycheck to paycheck. Money can provide a kid with Internet access, so they have a more level playing field in this life. Money can get you a personal chef or physical therapy. 

Money can also make you happy when you have enough to share it! When you think of someone like Elon Musk or Donald Trump - you can see that money is wasted on some that are miserable through and through. But isn't greed really the problem, and not the money? Isn't it the entitlement and lack of empathy? 

Money can't buy kindness, really. 

A story of malfunctioning radiation machines and hair growth

Hi. I have to say that time is moving much faster now during radiation (and Halloween and Thanksgiving and all the school things) than it did during chemo. It felt much harder to knock out 8 sessions of chemotherapy than it does going everyday for radiation. But I'm also like a hardened cancer criminal now ... And this is an endurance race. 

I completed round #20 of radiation today. There have been a few hiccups with the machine either breaking before I get there or while I'm on the table, stretched out like a bug on an entomology display. The past two days they've had to reschedule my appointments... Which again makes me wonder how anyone continues to work during treatment. God bless the good bosses out there. (I have also been blessed with the most understanding employers as I take time off, never any pressure to do more than I can.) 

Several times I've been mid treatment and there's either a component of the machine that isn't working or the main computer needs to be rebooted. When someone tells you to lay completely still ... And then that time just goes on and on... First my nose itches. Then my foot. Then I have a twitch in my eye. Then a wedgie. Then a cramp in my arm. You can imagine where this is going. I'm getting a true lesson in *stillness* and focus. 

As for side effects, my skin is turning variant shades of red and purple. My skin is also tightening - the best way to explain it is that my skin has lost flexibility. If I move or stretch too far, my side and chest tend to say, "Umm no. That's not gonna work." It's more irritation than pain - and if I can get through this without blistering or breaking the skin, I'm going to consider it a success. 

In the coming months, I'll be hyper aware of signs of lymphedema, lung issues and pain in my esophagus. Issues with shoulder pain and permanent skin changes are always a possibility. Isn't modern medicine fun? It's my fault for asking (and researching) all of the possible problems... But it's served me well to be more informed than not. 

I included a recent picture of my hair, which is actually from over two weeks ago and I have more growing! It's soft and becoming a little unruly... I haven't woken up to bedhead in over 7 months, so it's kind of exciting! This will be a whole learning process on how to move from short hair to longer hair gracefully. Tips and barber recommendations are welcome. 

Where radiation and MAGA hats meet

I completed day 10 of radiation... I wish the doctor had never suggested that I might be a candidate for 15-25 rounds, because now the grand total of 30 seems so very, very far away! 

Everyone has been checking in - asking questions about whether I have any pain or irritation yet. The answer is: not yet!! I've been applying lotion several times a day as a preventative measure. Although I think radiation effects people in different ways, regardless of what one does to mitigate the damage. Some burn, some do not. My mother in law bought me a lotion from France that has excellent reviews... It smells nice and I consider my applications to be little moments of self care. They also can't hurt helping my scars from surgery. 

And whether it helps or not, I've been drinking alkaline water and trying to stay hydrated. 

Now what is radiation like? I didn't know what it entailed before lying down in the machine myself and it may also be very different in regards to what body part is being targeted. 

I have four little freckle tattoos that were placed a few weeks before this started. They measure your body and make these marks easy to find, as I can imagine that would waste so much time finding those spots again and again for daily treatment. The techs always say "19.5" when I lay down on the table and adjust me to line up under a red laser cross hatch. I still don't know when the actual radiation is being released from the machine because there's noise and rotation and little metal pieces opening, closing and moving. 

Imagine a frog on a dissection tray - that's how I feel on the table. I place my arms above my head (that's still a difficult movement for me, but it's improving) and turn my head away from my right side. They tape a sensor to my stomach, used to gauge how deep a breath I've taken every time they speak from the other room, "Take a breath... Hold... Breathe". If I cough or move or expand my lungs while the radiation is flowing, it will trigger an error and turn off. This is reassuring to me that they are trying their best to avoid damage to my lungs. 

The whole process takes about ten minutes. I take many deep breaths and hold them... Feeling like I did when I was little, holding my breath under water at the pool; keeping track of the seconds with my father's Casio glow in the dark digital watch. I hold my breath and count, feeling that low grade burn in my lungs. The machine has three main parts, they swirl around like you are about to launch into space. 

Every day I try to visualize something different and hope that these radioactive waves are finding any sneaky bastard micro metasteses that are hiding. I may or may not imagine that these cancer cells are wearing red MAGA hats and we're eliminating their awfulness one by one. I visualized that they were invited to a drag queen story hour and came to the realization that it's just one human reading to little humans and as they saw the positivity, removed their MAGA hats and threw them in the garbage. Wouldn't that be amazing? Just a little bit of progress? 

Anyways, these vignettes in my brain help me during the process. My wishful energy for the world and my body to heal. What would you visualize? Laying on a kayak in the ocean? Floating in space? Picking cancer cells off with a gun at laser tag? 

About that rope... it snapped.

Two things: I joined an online writing group in hopes of stretching my skills and our recent prompt was "Write as if you are a rope about to break .." 

Monday was my first radiation treatment and I was scheduled to follow up with my oncologist before radiation - to talk about my blood estrogen levels and whether I'd get the shot to suppress my ovaries. 

We checked in at 9:45.... Waiting waiting.... 10, 10:15, 10:30, 10:35.... They've called literally every other patient back and my radiation is supposed to start at 11:15. I'm pretty sure this is how all radiation departments work - but they want you there on time, in the gown, ready to go. Plus my anxiety was THIS BIG, feeling a bit out of my element with yet another unknown. 

I was getting fired up and I gave my dumb little patient stickers back to reception and said I'm not staying - I don't understand why you've let everyone else in ahead of us. I have a radiation appt! 

First she argued that my appt was only at 10:30 (it's 10:40 at this point) and I reminded her that my appt calendar had us check in at 9:45. This is what time we got there after rushing to get our two littlest ones to school. Then she tried to say I still had a little time to get to radiation, as if I want to run to the other side of the hospital, nervous for my first treatment. 

I think my rope just snapped. Why is it acceptable for them to just change appt times, add extra days that we need to take time off of work, and have us sitting around waiting for hours!?!? I don't know how patients do this that are primary wage earners or have small, small children or rely on others for rides. What a f$&king mess.

My "rope" has been hanging on since February. Stretched one way through chemo, stretched through the long days of blood draws (and my needle anxiety with the damn port), then the oncologist, then back upstairs to a chemo chair - knowing that the side effects would hit full force a few days later. My rope stretches with my children and the worry that I'm dropping the ball times five. My rope frayed after what I thought would be a less invasive surgery turned into a mastectomy. My rope was pulled down for another surgery a month later. My rope has gone through spring, summer, fall and into winter with one treatment plan after another. 

 My rope wasn't made of stainless steel - it's made of fibers that need protection from the elements. My rope hangs with the weight of my family, my obligations, my love for this life. My rope frays with these extra hiccups- every extra appointment and every extra frustration. My rope is stretched between the expectations of "enjoy every moment" and "give yourself time to recharge". I can't do both all of the time. 

So as I was low-key raging at a reception desk, where I think they've become accustomed to late appointments and patients held captive by the care they need... I could feel a major strand of my rope break. I don't feel like being a nice patient all of the time, regardless of whether I am directing my anxiety in the right direction or not. 

Almost a week later and I've gotten through the first 5 rounds of radiation. Happy that my side effects didn't start day one, but also feeling like the train is about to hit me. 

I also did make up that appointment with my oncology team - they rescheduled it for me. I went into that office with more needle anxiety (it does not improve with time, honestly seems to get worse) about the potential shot to shut down my ovaries. Because my cancer was fed by hormones, the long term care plan is to get me fully into menopause. Which brings a host of unpleasant long term side effects to my body. Osteoporosis, muscle pain, joint pain, hot flashes, mental fog, etc etc freaking etc. My age is not my friend in this department, because even though chemo pushed me closer to menopause and I did experience a drop in estrogen and hot flashes... There's a very viable chance that my poor ovaries will start doing their job again. For now, my estradiol levels (estrogen in my blood) is *right* on the cusp. So if they stay where they are, I can avoid the monthly shot (into my stomach 🤮) and only take the other two unpleasant medications. 

My rope, it stretches! It strains with every unknown turn and disappointment. But it also relaxes with each horizon I meet and become familiar with. It endures. And it is strengthened by everyone that is helping to weave new strings. 

Pink isn't ALL Bad

You don't know until you know... And now I know what it's like to be on the other side of awareness during October. Or Pinktober. Breast Cancer awareness month. 

Via my multiple Facebook groups for women facing cancer, the resounding sentiment is that this month is difficult. A reminder for those that are survivors or thrivers. Or confusion over what this awareness is supposed to mean or actually accomplish. Some women are just happy that talking about it may lead another to finally get that mammogram. Some are triggered and some wish we had higher expectations for charities or companies just taking advantage of the chance to sell a pink T-shirt. 

I don't like the pink NFL jerseys and I don't like the targeted ads selling me cute catchphrases about being a FREAKING WARRIOR. I want to see more money given to patients and their families, for help with medical bills and the costs of treatment. I want less trite slogans and more attention paid to aftercare. I want the FDA to pay more attention to dangerous food additives and to remove black box labels from estrogen therapy. I want more medical studies for women. We are doing a lot of this treatment wrong for young survivors that are trying to maintain a high quality of life. 

The aim of "awareness" is so vague and unquantifiable, when breast cancer is the second most diagnosed cancer. We're aware. I believe it's a nasty loophole for certain charities to collect a lot of money and not really do much with it. We could raise awareness every second of every day - but if we're still pumping our food and skin products full of parabens (which mimic hormones), we're just talking to talk. 

I am thankful that my ailments come with an automatic club membership. There is comradery, understanding and a plethora of resources as a patient. My disease is "seen" and many, many other people can't say that if they have something rare or untreatable. It's not lost on me that I will most likely live many many more years only because of the many many women before me, and the research knowledge gained by time and modern medicine. 

I had a beautiful bright spot in the month where I'm rolling my eyes at pinkwashed advertisements. My friend, more specifically her daughter, invited me to her volleyball game. Of course I would always want to go but this was the first time she had asked me to come to a game. My brain said... Hey wait a second, it's October, you're in the middle of treatment for breast cancer and usually there's a Pink out or pink jersey game....

 And it was. My dear, sweet Girl Scout that I've known since she was in elementary school gave me flowers and a balloon during her game. Tears were brimming on eyelids all around and I was brought back into the reality of why Pinktober might actually be more therapeutic than I thought. I forget how others are watching my actions, behaviors and words about cancer and the realities of treatment. I forget that sometimes we just need a pathway or ritual to mark a moment in time to acknowledge an ongoing endeavor. 

October is now my birthday month and stark reality month! All together! I am counting my years and think about how I hope to keep celebrating this birthday month for ummm, lots of decades into the future. Reminder that there's thousands of people out there fighting breast cancer and thousands that had it long ago and thousands that need a moment to remember and honor people that were taken by the disease. 

** I know I've blabbed a lot about charities that I dislike, but I'm finding many organizations that provide real solutions to cancer patients and their families. The National Breast Cancer Foundation is a good one! They send this Hope kit if you request one and you can also donate to help. ***

But do I have to miss dance class?

As the months go along, and I continue to take step after step to kill cancer cells and rebuild my body... My biggest question is beginning to revolve around whether I can continue to go to dance class. 

Obviously I still care about staying alive and free from disease. I still research the best diets and supplements. I still Google unpleasant things like "images of radiation sarcoma". I am tired and wonder daily if any symptom I feel is an infection or reaction to my breast expanders. 

But. It's that time of year when I want to be back in tap class!

I've held it together for the most part - facing chemotherapy and surgeries, all with overwhelming support. I was able to tell my coworkers that I had cancer without crying like a baby. I continue to be able to talk about my medical status, without embarrassment. 

The time I did lose my shit? When I had to tell my dance teacher this past March that I wasn't going to be able to dance in the recital. 

I figure I had to break down somewhere, and in the comfort of a dance studio is where I did it. I remember holding it together during class as we walked out our formations and my teacher put her finishing touches on the routine. I'm always amazed by anyone that can choreograph - and our teacher had just coordinated the movements of more than thirty women in our adult tap class. The dance was finalized, I had my spot... And I knew I wasn't going to be able to follow through. 

I asked my teacher after class if we could talk and ... I cried like a baby. I bursted out "I have breast cancer" and of course, the overwhelming feelings were fear and sadness. But I also felt guilty that I was fucking it up! We were arranged in "windows" and lines and a missing person messes it up. After all that work, I have this stupid diagnosis. 

My teacher was understanding. We'd had other people in the class out with knee injuries or pregnancy or whatever else happens to adult women! But if I'm being honest, THIS - my sacred hour on Wednesday night - was what hit me the hardest. 

I love dance. I'm not fantastic - but I love it. I have the fondest memories (that have only gotten more fonder ((is that a word)) as I've gotten older) of my time in dance growing up. That was my team sport. 

And it's my current team sport. I cannot express the good hearts of the women I'm surrounded with at the dance studio. They are supportive and welcoming and hella fun! They've followed up with me as I sat out of the dance recital and brought over meals, fresh fruit, care packages and beautiful plants. They wrote a shout out to me in the recital program that made me ugly cry. They are an incredible group of women. 

Having to step away (even if it was temporary) hurt like hell. 

I went back in September... Only to tap and not lyrical, since my recent surgery restricts my arm movement and strength. And when I found out I needed another surgery after going back to class - my first thought was not "damn it, more anesthesia" but "damn it, I have to miss dance class". 

Expanders, You Say?

!! Warning: this post contains a picture of medical bandages, some of my exposed skin and drains. Don't proceed if you're grossed out by such things. !!

When I told most people that I was headed back into surgery in September, the response was generally, "What? I thought you just had surgery..."

Well, yes, yes I did... but there's more to do. 

Breast cancer is a curious and frustrating thing to treat because most patients end up treating two things at once - of course you are taking the steps to minimize/remove/diminish the cancer but also attempting to rebuild your body. At this point in time, I am NED - No Evidence of Disease. (I'll talk more later about how that's a more appropriate term than "cancer free").* All remaining DCIS cancer and areas around my tumors were removed with my bilateral mastectomy and lymph node removal. 

However, due to the area of the body that was affected... I am working towards reconstruction. Even though I said goodbye to my breasts, I was not ready to go completely flat. I can choose to get implants or implants with fat grafting or something called a DIEP flap. I was making decisions left and right and honestly could only mentally handle preparing for the surgery, not life long implications just yet. 

So now I have these things called expanders. Basically tupperware underneath my skin that is gradually filled with saline to mimic the shape of your old breasts or the future implants. Their main purpose now is to hold space and prevent my skin from shriveling away to nothing during radiation. They aren't very comfortable but are getting better every day. 

And why must I still do radiation if I'm free of disease? Because my cancer was in the lymph nodes... trying to get everywhere else in my body. Radiation, and my future hormone blockers, are all modern day attempts to reduce reoccurence. 

This is a picture of me, wearing the Bair Hugger before surgery. It attaches to a tube which blows warm air under your gown, to keep you nice and toasty as you wait impatiently to go into the surgical suite. 

My biggest annoyance with going into surgery again was (1) the mfing drains and (2) dealing with anethesia again. I was very, very sick the first night coming home. I couldnt eat or drink , but was able to take anti-nausea meds and some CBD oil. I had the kind of sleep that one has during the stomach flu... where you're hovering below consciousness, literally feeling like you're holding back the vomit every second. 

The drains were put in different spots, as I'd really only had about a week drain free from the mastectomy. Luckily, one was placed on my stomach instead of my side - so I was able to sleep more comfortably. Those drains are just gross and inconvenient.

But now they're gone! 

I had the added robotics of these vaccuum sealed bandages. I carried around battery packs attached to bandages that offered constant suction. Really smart for reducing infection risks and avoiding surgical glues & stitches.

My scars look WAY better than one would imagine. I also think there's a huge misconception about what the body looks like after a mastectomy, as if there are huge scabs and incisions. I have relatively small "omega" shaped incisions that have already faded to a very light color. 

This is photographic evidence of how f@cking annoying recovery can be. And I can only imagine if you're squeamish or don't have a partner willing to help look at gaping holes in your skin! 

So, I've gone through another hurdle - while life continues to speed by with kids in school, daily reading, daily pick ups, permission slips, dance class and general need to eat food. Tomorrow is my meeting with the radiation department to figure out the logistics of the last big step of active treatment. 

*I have recently learned that it's not quite appropriate to say "cancer free" when it comes to my type of cancer, and probably others. The risk of reoccurrence is high. And removing my breasts didn't really change long term statistics... one can have breast cancer return without having breasts! Fun, right !?! So that's why I did chemo (to attempt to kill all of those unidentifiable cancer cells floating around). Some doctors don't like to promise their patients that they are officially cancer-free, because damn, you just can't guarantee it.*

Mr. Finian goes to Pre-K

Anyone that knows Finian knows that he can be... a lot. He has big, big feelings. He lets you know about these big feelings - and it's usually your fault. 

He has been so happy this summer with outdoor time, smashing things with hammers, searching for bugs, swimming in the pool (yelling "1, 2, 3 applesauce and jumping in) and learning how to ride a bike without training wheels. 

Finian is our COVID quarantine child. He was shy of a year when we locked down and I stopped leaving the house for work. It's hard to know whether it's his personality or the circumstances - but it's fair to say he's been the most challenging. Lots of separation anxiety when he was in the nursery at the school where I teach. Lots of stranger danger. Lots of general mayhem!!! He has very little patience for us as parents and like I said, his feelings are big. 

Big feelings can also be positive, though. We always thought he was a touch angry before he could talk - simply because he really wanted to express himself. He cries deeply when his feelings are hurt and often needs to mend with a hug before he can carry on. He wants personal connection for every minute of the day. 

All of these things made us feel really apprehensive about preschool. We imagined tearful tantrums in the parking lot and constant dread about the next school day. Part of it was my own making because I signed him up (excitedly) for the full day program. A lot of our friends said, "oh man, how's he going to do?!?" 

I am happy to report that now, in our third week of school, he's doing wonderfully. His teacher is fantastic and engaging - it takes a special skill of distraction to get those nervous 4 year olds in the door. We have had a few mornings where Finian says, "I'm nervous" or "it's going to be a long day". I've also bribed him with the promises of bubble gum and the Dollar store after school. I'm at that point of parenting where I don't care if that's the right approach - it's what works. 

The best part has been some pretty epic stories about school. Straight up lies. 😂 First, he had a friend named Drip Dropp (which is an awesome hip hop name) - but now if we ask about Drip... he gets mad that we mention it. Because DUH, that wasn't real. He also supposedly has a friend named Jake in his class that can also drive. And someone named Grim... who I think is really Graham. 

My friend Sharon can bear witness to the true Finian when he is let out of school at 2:35. First, he was nice and said hello. Then asked if I had watermelon gum. (I did not.) He then threw his backpack on the ground, said "I'm not leaving. Go get me gum." I was able to drag him to the car where Sharon was waiting. Somehow, magically, in sync with the universe, she had watermelon gum!!! And he was happy again until he got annoyed with us for "making him smile". 

So, we can't really win for long - but we're winning in the school department for now. 

And we're really in his best season. This little guy loves Halloween and we're making the rounds to every retail establishment to press buttons, look at creepy spiders and buy costume accessories. 

The Before, The After and Now

It's been a little over two weeks since my double mastectomy and I'm feeling ok. The day of surgery -  I was nearly hyperventilating as we checked in at our arrival time, I didn't think the "after" would be anything close to ok. I was in full mourning mode and couldn't believe this was real life. Couldn't believe I was willingly walking into a hospital and signing papers that said yes, I'd like my breasts removed. 

I think I said this about chemotherapy before - that the high volume of people being treated is a little shocking. SO so busy. And the same can be said for the surgical wing at Roswell Cancer center. My surgeon, I believe, had at least three big procedures and I was the last of the day. We saw her talking to the family of a woman getting a lumpectomy and then sat with our nerves firing for the next couple of hours. They call you back to get you changed into a gown, talk to a nurse, pee in a cup (to make sure you're not pregnant!) And then lie there, listening to rows of people talking with their families and their doctors. 

It's a bit much to sit there for a few extra hours, waiting with dread. Looking at the familiar shape of my body under clothes... Not really knowing how to officially say goodbye. 

(Because we're nosy and because we had no choice for privacy - we listened intently as the woman one curtain over was talking with her sons about recovery. She wanted to know if she could have her nightly beer and to eat the leftovers of her anchovy pizza. Gregory may or may not have called her Grouchella... Which gave us some levity in such a depressing situation. I do hope that woman was able to get her beer, at least maybe a day later.) 

Unfortunately for them but fortunately for me, I have several friends that have gone through this surgery or one like it. I asked lots of questions about how they prepared mentally and how they said goodbye to a part of themselves. These women had such good advice and are on the horizon, over this terrible hurdle and that gives me hope. I wrote two letters to my breasts - one that I kept and one that I burned in our firepit. I talked to them about the approximate 30 years we've been together and how I'm sorry they had to be sacrificed for the greater good. I said thank you for the years of service they provided as I breastfed 5 children. Thank you for all of those hours spent cradling my children close to me. 

I was tearful as we waited for my turn to be wheeled into the surgical room and be put out of consciousness. My surgeon drew a photo of where my incisions would be and made sure I was content with my decision to remove both breasts. I believe Gregory had the harder day, sitting there, waiting for updates.

My surgery went as well as possible. They removed all breast tissue and only 3 lymph nodes. They do an immediate test for evidence of cancer and there was none in my sentinal nodes - so my surgeon only took ones that looked suspect. My later pathology confirmed that there was no remaining cancer so I can breathe a sigh of relief. 

My surgeon gave these updates to Gregory around 5 pm but I didn't get transferred to a room until about 9 pm. My memory is very hazy, but I do know I was crying A LOT coming out of anesthesia. The nurse was handing me tissue after tissue and every time she said, "We'll get you upstairs and to see your husband"... I would break down again and say "...sob...my husband...sob". I was like a little kid who just wanted to see someone familiar. 

As for recovery: the pain is not as bad as one would expect. The most annoying part of the process is the drains put in to help alleviate pressure. They sting and are very uncomfortable. I'm sure the swelling and risk of seromas were worse before the common practice of putting in drains... But it sure as hell isn't pleasant having open wounds on your chest with drainage tubes that you end up wearing in the world's worst fanny pack. (They are pictured below.) 

About five days after surgery, the bulb at the end of one of my drains was no longer holding suction and I could hear the whistling sound nurses had warned us about. I must have dislodged it during sleep because (1) I was sleeping like C-3PO and (2) I haven't slept successfully on my back in about a million years. We went into the weekend clinic where one of the surgeons was able to ummm, push it back in (🤮) and give me another stitch to help hold it in place. 

The drain on my left side was removed last week and I should get the last one removed at my next appointment on the 11th. I thought it would be horrible to have it removed - but they basically pull it out with your exhale of breath and the site closes up as a scab. 

I've been using these pink microbead pillows to stay comfortable as I can feel my nerve endings working again. Most of my chest area is numb, which sucks for the future, but is helpful in recovering from major trauma. My muscles are tight and while I'll work this out with some physical therapy, it's unknown how this will feel going forward. Most of my right underarm is completely numb and while my skin feels like it's chafing, it's not - I think that's just a side effect of my skin trying to heal itself. 

Here I am, with a new shape to my body, tingling nerves and about a quarter inch of hair on my head - trying to face a new reality. I honestly feel better than I expected. What's done is done - I can't turn the decision over and over in my head because it's, well, over. I did it. I'm still me. 

My chest certainly doesn't look the same, with some long dark scars - but it's still my skin. If you can imagine two deflated balloons... Well, that's me right now. All of this skin has been saved to give me options for reconstruction later. Unfortunately I have to look at a work-in-progress for maybe the next six months - but I trust my medical team when they say this is the best course. I still need radiation which causes big changes to your skin. They can't "fix" me and risk my skin changing or devices like implants or expanders being damaged or rejected by my body. Everything needs to heal before I can move into my next surgery. 

I'm sure I'll write another post about my research into what I think I'll do next. Some surgeries are quicker than others and while I'm still healing, I am not in the best place to make good decisions about the next time I want to be cut open. It's still hard to see the accurate "after", that comes after all of the bruises and scars fade. All I have is now, where every day - I get a little bit more movement, a little more distance from the emotional pain and I can still write this blog and express my feelings. 

Mother of the Year

 When I have a less than stellar moment of parenting, I always hear the lyrics to "Little Girls" from Annie circling in my head. Miss Hannigan sings, "...I'm an ordinary woman, with feelings...So how come I'm mother of the year?" (Serious Annie fans, I hope you are also singing along right now!) I might as well be wearing silk pajamas, ten dangly necklaces and letting my frizzed out bedhead hair catch the string hanging from a solitary lightbulb. Because sometimes I feel no better than dear Miss Hannigan.

 If you are super-judgey and living under the pretense that you are an awesome parent 110% of the time, feel free to read no further and continue on with your amazing life. 

 Whilst on our vacation in Minnesota - we were in the early preparations of bedtime, a process that can sometimes last for hours. I was down in the basement with Ayla and Jackson. Teeth were brushed, nails were clipped and general messiness was being wiped away. We came back upstairs and I asked, "Where is Elliot?"

 Then: DING DONG, the doorbell rang.

 Where was Elliot, indeed?

 Only walking across the street, pushing an empty stroller, sporting a bloody toe. And a poopy diaper. Not to mention he was the happiest toddler in the world.

 A kind neighbor saw him strolling along and thought we might want him back.

 Elliot managed to slip past three older cousins, two aunts and one uncle. He let himself out the back kitchen door, down the deck stairs, around the house and was apparently ready to explore the neighborhood. Cue music: "... Someday I'll land in the nuthouse, with all the nuts and the squirrels!"

 Luckily, it wasn't dark yet and Elliot hadn't made it further away from the house. Luckily, I still have custody for God's sake! I am lucky for a thousand and one reasons and don't think for a second that I don't realize this could have been a much scarier situation.

This is where I would like to keep this guy all day long!

 I share this story to hopefully lower the bar of expectations for parents of young children. They are insanely curious and always two steps ahead of us! Don't beat yourself up if you sometimes look at your life and wonder if you would be better suited as an evil ward of an orphanage, stirring gin in your bathtub.

Why a Boudoir Photo Session Is Good for the Soul

 In the midst of recovering from surgery and making appointments and trying to fulfill summer wishes for a family of 7... I realized it's been six months since my initial diagnosis. I know chemo felt like a lifetime, but has it really been six months? The hardest (or most helpful, honestly) part of life is that it just keeps MOVING. Kids have deadlines for school. We are fundraising for dance. We are trying to travel as normal and not miss *everything* just because my treatments are one hit after another. 

I think back to how I felt in those first weeks and how fearful I was of (1) straight up dying and (2) that my body was going to be completely ruined. I was ready to have major surgery to "solve" my cancer problem. So tearfully, I googled boudoir photographers in the area. Might seem stupid or vain to some - but I wanted photographic evidence of who I was in February 2023. Little did I know that I'd get chemotherapy first and then the surgery I was so trying to avoid. 

First, let me give all of the credit to Elizabeth Snyder photography. I knew she was the one I needed when she returned my initial inquiry with a call stating that she also has had cancer and a bilateral mastectomy. Who else could understand my concerns more? I drove to her house in early March ready for a full makeup and hair session, several outfit changes and the mental preparation to take photos in my underwear! During that time, any drive in the car involved tears and I cried the entire way there, wondering if I was going to look like the wreck I felt inside. 

She made me feel so comfortable and safe and beautiful. It was more than an emotional oasis. Even in the most normal circumstances - I recommend everyone take the time for themselves. I haven't taken photos of just myself since senior year 1998! 

Elizabeth's mission is to empower women and her expertise was very impressive. She took hundreds of photos - so when it came time to choose which images I wanted for my photo book, it was tough. My timeline with her is so oddly connected to steps along this cancer treatment. I chose the photos after chemo was completed - looking at myself with all that hair! Feels like yesterday and a million years ago. I picked up my photo book on the day my doctor confirmed that a mastectomy was the final surgical recommendation. How strange to look at my pictures, where I look normal and healthy, when I was about to basically shred my self image to pieces. 

I could write an entire post about how I'm feeling post-mastectomy. The emotional connection I had to my natural body; the mental gymnastics I am doing to witness what I see in the mirror now - knowing I can't go back, but the future does have options. I will write that post... but for now, I'm just expressing gratitude that my body IS resilient and I took the time/money to memorialize how I looked (and felt) at a very serious crossroads in my life. 

 

The Kindness Factor

 My experiences with mammography has been short lived, but intense. Over the past six months I have had five mammograms and two breast MRIs. The mammogram area at Roswell Park is like a depressing spa. They try to make your wait time minimal and usher you into two types of waiting areas. First is a locker room where you change into a gown and wait to be called. A TV is usually blaring some sort of daytime talk show and women are pleasant to one another. I talked about the Barbie movie and paper dolls with a sweet woman. Then you are called back to either get your mammogram or biopsy, you are either squished or poked and then wait in another area for radiology to check on the images. 

At the end of July, when I was in full SCANXIETY mode, I was sitting in this second waiting room because the radiologist wanted to get a more detailed image. Every woman is either sitting or standing in their blue robes, some make eye contact and some are in their own world. I talked with another woman about how she thought radiation was the worst part of her treatment, the scary stories of skin peeling off or burning. We share half smiles and I wonder about each persons' story. Are they five years out of treatment? Have they just gotten a diagnosis? Are they only at the cancer center because they are high risk? 

 I don't know if it's my headscarf that draws people to talk to me, or reach out - but I've been stopped by more strangers recently than while I was actively in chemotherapy treatment. While I was sitting, ignorant of the next news I was going to be thrown into, a woman walked by me and stopped. She put her hand on my shoulder, kind of from behind my back. 

"It will be OK."

Because she was still touching me, it was hard to turn around and face her completely. But she continued to tell me, "It's going to be okay. I saw you in the waiting room and I'm praying for you."

"I promise, it will be ok."

Then she said, "I hope you don't mind that I talked to you" and I muttered something like, "Of course, I appreciate it." Then she was on her way. I hadn't seen her in the waiting room or come out of any of the offices - she really could have been a mirage. But her kindness broke me for the day. It wasn't until a stranger started to comfort me that I started to cry. All of the worry, the anticipation, the underlying current of misery. The thoughts of mortality, of all I cannot control. 

Sometimes the bad news gets me. I got through the news of my diagnosis until the word "Chemo" was stated. I got through most of my first appointment at Roswell until they talked about putting the port in my chest. I got through chemo without crying until the halfway point. I am generally holding it together... that is, until someone is kind. I've cried more over nice packages sent to my house than anything else. 

Whoever that stranger was, she found a way to burrow into my deep fears. Will any of this be okay? We certainly don't know that for sure. But I know that time will continue to unfold and I'll continue to work through every hurdle and setback and new information. 

All of this circles around the ideas of strength or bravery or "warrior" status. I am only trying to hold it together for the sake of sanity and for the sake of my family. I will be honest that most cancer patients do not enjoy this metaphor that we are fighting on a journey or that we are SO STRONG. I personally hate crying and feeling sad and will try any sort of mental rationale to tell myself why whatever fresh hell I'm in the middle of will sort itself out. I've been through a lot of garbage situations in my life and I think the concept of "strength" is a coping mechanism. I don't know how to not be calm or resolute because the alternative just feels like throwing more fuel into the chaos fire. 

That is, until someone goes out of their way to be kind. A kind word, an authentic show of compassion, acknowledgement of my fears. Then I'm a bit of mess. So just a warning: Please bring Kleenex if you are going to be nice to me. 

The Beach Week that Giveth & Giveth

"It was as if my eyes were a camera and I was photographing the moment, knowing that I would keep that photograph forever."

Holden Beach Week 2023 - time holds still. 

The Good News, Explained

Yes I'm finished with chemo and all scans have shown that my tumors are "essentially resolved". 

No, I haven't beaten cancer. I completed step one out of about six and every bit of good news has come with not-so-awesome news. 

On my last day of chemotherapy - one of the doctors felt the need to remind me that hormone blocking therapy AND a chemo pill would definitely be in my future. I don't know if they mean to stress people out or temper expectations or if they just sometimes put their medical foot in their medical mouth. I've researched the shit out of breast cancer, so I knew this already. But do you have to remind me, like on my bell ringing day?!? 

Anyways, on the day of my most recent mammogram - the radiologist broke the news that my tumors had shrunk down to nothing AND that there were still suspicious areas to biopsy... All in about 30 seconds. Good news and not-so-awesome news. 

I know that any medical diagnosis is full of twists and turns, and while I appreciate everyone's curiosity - I can't predict what steps are next and how long they will take. I'm still unsure exactly what my surgery will entail and they cannot predict the length of radiation until pathology from surgery comes back. So it's just decision after decision, and changing my expectations. 

My surgeon seemed to be the best at explaining my scans and giving us a moment to celebrate and express relief that chemotherapy was very effective. 

This information was really clarifying to me - it shows how doctors rate the effectiveness of chemotherapy. They had warned me a few times that estrogen-receptive cancer does not always respond well. And that was my biggest fear going in - I just wanted chemo to work. I am a 5! 

No invasive cancer cells are present. BUT, and this brought me down until I understood it... I still have "ductal carcinoma in situ". There were several calcifications and a 1 cm mass that needed to be biopsied. I had that procedure last week and it was extremely nerve wracking. If anyone wants to talk in detail about stereotactic biopsy - I can now add that to my cancer resume. 

That was me, not looking so cute, as the radiologist said "I tried to use enough lidocaine, tell me if it starts to pinch". This is while a 9 gauge needle is deep in my breast. 😱

So while I do have cancer "in situ", it doesn't respond to chemo because it's not yet invasive. The cell makeup is different. It's still in there and it's been added to list of items/areas that need to be removed during surgery. 

A lot of advice is given to stay away from Google... But it's been helpful for me to keep gathering data. Even if it's scary. The medical reports make much more sense. I had a scary grade 3 tumor and will need years of hormone therapy. I Google symptoms and read comments from women in cancer support groups, and sometimes I need to put the phone down and slow my heart rate. But it's still better than just winging it. I want to have the potential questions in my head before meeting with doctors. It makes me a better patient. 

Before all of this, my knowledge of cancer was pretty much non existent. I thought that the end of chemo or the end of radiation marked a type of victory. It really doesn't. I will forever be unsure of whether this will come back - I am going to treat my body like a ticking time bomb and will have to manage my symptoms and hormones as if this was a chronic illness. I share this because I hope we can all become better informed and be better support to anyone with a cancer diagnosis. A lot of the work goes on *after* treatment. 

I'm going to take this temporary win and keep Googling and keep making the best decisions I can. 

The Building Filled With Emotions

My experiences with hospitals before 2023 were mostly positive. I had a very unpleasant six months with gallstones and gallbladder removal in 2016, but in the end - the hospital solved my problems. Most of my stays have involved giving birth and I got to leave with the reward of a healthy newborn each time. I don't feel creeped out in medical environments, it doesn't conjure negative feelings. 

But Roswell Cancer Center is a different place. 

The emotions are palpable. Every person here is either hearing the worst news or best news or waiting for results or visiting someone they love deeply. Anger, fear, elation, anxiety, disbelief, weariness, uncertainty, devotion, hope, restlessness, frustration and curiosity. I know I've felt them all. 

In the first dark weeks of finding out I had cancer, not understanding the pathology results and not knowing yet if it was in different parts of my body - I felt a lot of self pity. But once you're checking into the chemotherapy reception and it's apparent that so many other people are going through the same treatment - self pity turns into solidarity. This is just something that happens. Sometimes I saw couples that were both wearing patient wristbands and I found something to be grateful for. 

Where there is a lot of uncertainty, there's also a lot of love. My heart breaks for every couple holding hands as they walk into the hospital. We saw the sweetest duo of a grandfather and his granddaughter on the chemo floor. You can see the fear, but also the determination to at least TRY and beat these rapidly multiplying cells in the body. 

The kindness of the staff - the radiologist revealing the results of a scan, the oncologist listening to side effects, the nurse asking if I'm ok as my stress tears come out and I'm sniffling during the MRI. The nurse who listened to my complaint about Benadryl making my legs restless and she took the time to administer it slowly. The overnight nursing assistant who brought me blankets. The thousands of interactions going on at any given moment. 

If you believe that energy hangs in the air, or inhabits a space - especially when it's intense; then you have probably felt this in places like hospitals, churches or even schools. For my own intense feelings that I brought into the building, multiply that by a few hundred. 

I said a meta prayer in every waiting room, for all of the friends and family who traveled together to face the beast . This stressful, unrelenting beast. 

Chemo #8 - The One Where I Ring A Bell

Chemotherapy put our lives on pause. It was hard to think about what would happen afterwards, in the middle and each day - although the last four treatments of Taxol were far less abusive to my body. 

Every time we stepped into the hospital on chemo day and they'd take my blood sample to make sure I was healthy enough for treatment - I'd pray that we could just stay on schedule. Anything difficult is easier to endure when you have an end date. 

I don't know when the tradition to ring the bell at the end of treatment began, but I was unsure whether I wanted to do it or not. The bell at Roswell is in the main lobby, off in the corner. We'd never heard or seen anyone use it and it almost looked like a prop instead of something to really use. 

But, I rang that bell. In the lobby, it echoes up the four levels into the atrium. It's loud and clear. My in-laws were there and brought our kids - a moment for all of us to celebrate the end of this weird, weird time. I had been tearing up all day thinking about how victorious it was going to feel. I was holding it together until everyone in the lobby clapped and cheered for me - who knows how many of those people had gone through the same experience. I think they should also add a neon sign that blinks "F#$K CANCER!" 

Turns out I'm Veruca Salt

I don't exactly want a goose that lays golden eggs or a bean feast or to cheat my way into Willy Wonka's factory - but I am a Veruca. I want a lot of things now and I always want more. 

Part of what I keep thinking about is my age... I feel incredibly young to be dealing with this diagnosis. I know I'm not when you consider pediatric cancer and the reality that I've lost several friends when they were only in their 20s. I've had twice as much as life, twice as many experiences. But it's not enough! I'm not done. I want more!!! I want to lock it all up in my pocket, it's my bar of chocolate!

I've been reading several books by Kate Bowler - a woman whose life was also disrupted by cancer at the age of 35. (And here I am complaining about being young at 42!). I find her so comforting because she's HONEST. Her book "Everything Happens" is what I needed to read as I was grappling with the why of cancer. Why me, why now, why the f$#k honestly. She is a religious scholar and has spent much of her career dissecting the idea of the prosperity gospel. A lot of churches preach these ideals - that if you obey God, you'll have wealth, health and happiness. That you can "earn" it all... just keep titheing, praying and behaving the way your pastor tells you to. I've had people tell me that my treatments won't be as effective if I don't give the glory to Jesus first. (Eyeroll.) 

The title of the book is a rebuttal to the platitude "everything happens FOR A REASON." I don't think it does. I think we can take power in our reaction to anything that happens to us, but I don't believe for a second that there's a reason for every shit thing that happens to us. I don't want to downplay an idea that brings comfort to so many people - that God has a specific plan for us. If that works for you, wonderful. We are all navigating this confusing, overwhelming experience. But sometimes things just happen. For me, it has saved me a lot of heartache and wonder to just accept that cancer has happened to me and there's no rhyme or reason. 

But anyways, Kate Bowler also had a very young child at the time of her diagnosis. And her fears spoke to me - the thought that she wouldn't see him grow up. I'm doing the math in my head all of the time - if my treatments work, and I live another 20 years... at least my kids won't be traumatized by losing a parent when they are young. If I only live another 5 years - that's a very different scenario. All the time I now potentially have ahead of me seems borrowed. In her book, Kate talked about sitting in her son's room and swapping out his clothes from one size to the next. Probably the most quintessential MOM thing to do. And when you are questioning your mortality - there's nothing I want more than to be sorting Finian's 4T clothes and buying his winter wardrobe in the next size up. I want to be there for all of it. 

I selfishly want more. I want to see my kids grow up, into middle age. I want to be there with my husband - to live longer than I have already experienced! I keep envisioning myself as a little old lady - who sends birthday cards with cash and works in the garden and knits baby blankets. I want to travel. I want to keep teaching kids how to sew. I want to go to dance class and watch my kids at school concerts. I want every graduation; I want every milestone. I want camping trips and afternoons at the beach. It will honestly never be enough. I'll never be satisfied. Who could be? At what point do we say - well, I've had enough time with the people I love? 

I do know that the time we're given is an amazing gift. I'm realizing that my connections to others IS the purpose. Or at least my purpose. So maybe I'm not a complete Veruca. 

Chemo #7 - The One Where I'm Still Bald & Summer Has Begun

The most recent chemo infusion on Monday was relatively uneventful. This was chemo #7 - only one more to go! Each week I'm terrified that it's somehow going to be delayed, interrupted or cancelled and I'll have to change my END DATE on the calendar. I want nothing more than to check this off on July 3rd and never see the 4th floor of Roswell Cancer Center ever again. 

My sister in law drove from Boston to help watch the kids on Monday, and to help prepare meals and generally let me sit on the couch. Or outside by the pool where I subsequently got a headscarf tan line! That's a first and probably not the last for the summer. I don't know if you can tell in the picture - but there's a clear line of tan vs not tan bald head. I also have a fine downy baby goose-like fuzz from the hair that never fully fell out. As I like to joke with the kids, "I'm still bald!". Some people say their hair starts to grow back during the last weeks of Taxol chemotherapy, but we will see. For now, I'm navigating the high temperatures, sun and sunscreen. 

The month of June is a lot for us. It's an emotional roller coaster of end of school year activities. I tear up with nearly every announcement of field days, graduation activities (even though I don't have a kid in the fight this year), choral concerts, final exams, SATs and prom. We did all of this and more in the first weeks of June. For the most part, the kids did an excellent job getting themselves where they needed to be and putting their best efforts into getting good grades. And Miss Delphine finished Kindergarten, which is wild to me. 

A lot of people ask how the kids are managing with my cancer diagnosis - and my answer is still unsure. I mean, we have teenagers in the house... so the level of "caring" is hard to gauge. Do they ask me how I'm feeling sometimes? Yep. Did they tell their friends or teachers about what's going on at home? Maybe not until they absolutely had to. Or maybe everyone was just too busy moving forward to fall apart. (I might be a model for that kind of behavior.) We never openly panicked about my diagnosis and while sometimes I wish the kids would step up with their help around the house, I can't blame them for taking it all in stride. We aren't acting helpless or melodramatic about my treatment, so why should they? One step at a time, and maybe freak out in tiny increments over the unknowns.

Next steps: We've planned a little travel in between the end of chemo (still fingers crossed that the last treatment goes as planned). We are traveling to my other sister in laws' civil ceremony in California since the trip to France to see the full-fledged wedding ceremony was not in the cards for us this year. After that, on July 22nd and 24th, I will have my next set of scans - a breast MRI and another mammogram - to determine how successful chemotherapy has been. The good news is that I already cannot feel the tumors that sent me to the doctor in the first place, so I know they've shrunk. Then I will meet with my surgeon to talk about the next steps. I feel like I've put in the "hard work" with chemo and can hope that surgery will be minimal and my recovery time quick. 

I'm very much looking forward to ringing the bell to signify the end of chemo and getting off this feel good/feel crappy/feel tired rollercoaster.