11 Years with Breast Cancer: Someone Forgot to Send the Break-Up Text.

  Chemo Tuesday: Part 3 (Now featuring Monday. Because of course it does.) Zoe and I continued our bonding. From Bal Harbour to chemo hell. This week’s adventure began with Zoe behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat, and Apple Maps doing its best to launch us into an early grave. I also forgot to take my Wellbutrin and Concerta, so my brain was hosting a full-blown rave while my nervous system white-knuckled its way into Chestnut Hill. But we made it. 9:30 a.m. labs. Should’ve stayed in bed. Classic routine: If the lab tech doesn’t get it on the first try, it’s automatically my fault. Today’s tech missed the port on the first go, then gave me the full lecture—because I flinched when the needle pierced my actual skin.   Shocking, I know. My bad for reacting like a human. Second try, same hole, no flinch—because pain is a great teacher—and wow, it magically worked.  Must’ve still been my fault though, right? She wrapped it all up with: “You’re a very i...

Cycle 3 Tuesday: The One Where I Pretend I’m Not Going As I head into Cycle 3 , it’s time to wrap up the 21-day chaos of Cycle 2— complete with surprise sushi sabotage, Reglan success stories (at half-speed), and Zoe’s supernatural ability to get sunburned while fully clothed and shaded. Here’s the updated play-by-play of how it all went down… because of course it did. What I Get to Look Forward to Starting Tuesday. . . Week 1 – The Descent Day 1 (Tuesday): Chemo hits, metal mouth shows up early. Water tastes like poison, food starts losing joy. Made the mistake of eating veggies. I’ll stick to bland meals and try to stay hydrated. Day 2 (Wednesday): Metal mouth intensifies. Nausea is sneaky but manageable. Reglan’s still pulling its weight. Day 3 (Thursday): Final day of steroids. Nausea is still there, Reglan keeps me upright—barely, and turns me into a zombie.  Not even sure who’s in control. I'm bracing for the post-steroid slump. Day 4 (Friday): Steroi...

Wings, Wine, WIG NIGHT—A Three-Week Celebration of the Good Days Last night was Wings, Wine, WIG NIGHT , and let me tell you, this concept has legs. I’ve decided it’s not just a one-off event —this needs to happen every three weeks , with a new theme each time. Because wigs? Not sustainable. Good days? Absolutely worth celebrating. For those of you who weren’t there , don’t worry—I’m not pulling a how dare you . It was actually really nice and intimate , which meant I actually got to catch up with people instead of working the room like it was my wedding reception. So, no one ever has to feel pressure to come. If you’re reading this, you’re already showing up. And if you do decide to come to the next one, just know: there’s no pressure to stay a certain amount of time. Last night was 4 to 6 PM , and I liked that. Will it stay at that time? Who knows. Might go earlier, might shift it around. But bottom line? This is just a bonus event for me to get out, have fun, and celebrate...

I Did It. I Actually Did It. For the first time, I wore the $4,000 wig . The wig that has been sitting there, staring at me, daring me to put it on. The wig that costs more than some people’s mortgage . The wig I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to wear without feeling like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s life . I wore it. I drove to Gloucester, met Charlotte at the Beauport for a quick lunch before my bone density scan at Addison Gilbert and I continued to wear it right into the hospital!   And for a brief moment, I caught my reflection and thought, Okay. I see her. Was it a perfect moment of reclaiming my identity? No. But it was something . And right now, something is enough . A Self Reflection Moment: IT’S NOT ABOUT THE HAIR Let me start by saying I’m fine. Being bald , watching my baby birdie comb-over vanish, and dealing with the scalp pain that comes with each chemo session—it all passes . But losing my hair? That was a top ten moment .   On...

First Trimester, College Hangovers, That Damn Cement Mixer, and the Mad Dog 2020 Experience We’ve officially entered the time travel phase of chemo, where my body has decided to relive all my worst moments at once. We’ve got: 🤮 First-trimester nausea from when I was pregnant with Zoe —except this time, there’s no baby at the end, just me actually XXXX like it’s my full-time job. 😴 College brain fog so thick I might accidentally sleep through a Pilates session. 🥴 And, of course, the Cement Mixer Shot feeling —where my whole body has curdled into something that should never be consumed. The Mad Dog 2020 Phase of Chemo Right now, chemo feels like Mad Dog 2020 in liquid form —cheap, nasty, and hitting way harder than it should. You don’t drink Mad Dog because you want to ; you drink it because you made poor life choices and now have to live with them. That’s exactly where I am. The taste? Awful. (See: metal mouth.) The aftereffects? Questionable...