Archive | August 2025

Radiation Sessions: Getting the Authorities Involved

Aug26

Radiation sessions for this crazy party are officially complete. I like to think they made an example out of this group—showing the others that we’re not putting up with any nonsense.

In case you missed: I think of every lesion and tumor as a party. The party in my hip got a bit out of hand and needed the authorities to come in and get it back under control.

The rad tech asked me if I was excited to be done. I told her, “I don’t get excited anymore because there’s always something else.” That’s the reality—this is my life now. And honestly, I’m glad she doesn’t understand that. Hopefully, she never will.

As I walked out of the dressing room, rocking the ever-fashionable patterned house dress, I noticed a woman sitting there. She had clearly been through chemo and was finishing her radiation. But what struck me most was the fear on her face.

Being me, I sat down and asked, “What are you in for?”

“Breast cancer,” she said. Stage 2.

She told me how it feels like it will never end, how she’s starting meds next week, and how heavy the fear sits on her. I could feel it radiating off her—stress, anxiety, uncertainty. And I remembered exactly what that felt like in the beginning. When everything is new. Unknown. Terrifying.

I listened. I empathized. And I tried, in whatever small way, to reassure her. Maybe my outlook helped her feel just a little less alone in that moment.

Later, as I got into my car, I noticed her still sitting in hers. I walked over, gave her my number, and told her if she ever needs someone to vent to, I’m here.

I feel so deeply for the newer cancer people. It’s such a frightening start—you can’t help but think your life is over, that death is waiting just around the corner. But with time, with knowledge, with experience… the fear softens. The unknown becomes manageable. And slowly, you start to breathe again. But it never goes away…ever.

Yes, this is my reality: the parties keep coming. But I’ve learned how to walk in, take a seat, and own the damn room—even when the authorities have to step in.

Extra Padding: Flaw or Built-In Protection?

Aug21

I’ve been down on myself about weight lately. Then I fell, bruised my hip, and realized—thank goodness I landed on a “padded” spot.

That got me thinking. As women age, our bones thin, become fragile, and breaks from osteoporosis or osteopenia become a real risk. Maybe that “extra padding” isn’t a flaw. Maybe it’s armor.

Think about pregnancy. Weight gain is natural—not just for the baby, but to protect the mother’s body too. It’s the same principle later in life.

So what if the extra padding isn’t something to fight? What if it’s your body’s way of keeping you safe?

What do you think—protection or problem? Change my mind.

Yay, Radiation!

Aug16

It’s been nine years since I last had the pleasure of being zapped. Back then, after chemo and surgery, I endured 33 sessions of radiation to my left chest. It didn’t hurt, but the fatigue was overwhelming. And boy did it tear up the skin on my chest.

Fast forward to today: I just completed the first of five sessions. This time it’s stronger radiation, and it’s aimed directly at the bone. If you’ve ever experienced bone pain, you know—it’s no joke.

What Radiation Looks Like Now

Here’s the routine: I lie on a custom mold they made of me during the prep session. It’s surprisingly comfortable, designed to contour my body so I stay perfectly still. The team lines me up, takes a quick CT scan to ensure accuracy, and then delivers the zap. The setup takes longer than the treatment itself, which lasts only 5–10 minutes.

But here’s the difference: radiation for stage IV doesn’t just cause fatigue—it knocks you out much faster. The body treats it like an attack, triggering inflammation and stirring up all the other lesions. Suddenly, everything is on high alert, and my whole system feels like it’s in battle mode.

Thankfully, oxycodone helps take the edge off, because I honestly can’t imagine what this would feel like without it.

The Plan Ahead

For now, I get to rest for a couple of days and (hopefully) regain some energy. Next week, I’ll go in Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with the final session scheduled for the following Tuesday. The treatment itself doesn’t hurt, but the aftermath—the deep bone pain and crushing fatigue—certainly does.

The doctors say the pain and exhaustion could linger for up to four weeks. After that, more scans will tell us whether the radiation did its job. In the meantime, I balance rest with gentle movement to keep the blood flowing.

The Bell That isn’t Mine

In many treatment centers, there’s a bell patients ring when they’ve completed active treatment. It symbolizes the end of a difficult chapter and the start of a new one. But for those of us living with stage IV, there is no “end of treatment.” The bell isn’t meant for us.

Today, I rang it anyway. I told the receptionist that I would never get to ring the bell officially. The receptionist clapped and told me I could ring it anytime I want. That small moment stuck with me—because why shouldn’t I celebrate my milestones, even if my path looks different?

So I’ve decided to start a charm bracelet. One charm for every procedure I’ve had over the last ten years, and new ones for whatever lies ahead. My own way of marking the journey.

Moving Forward

This weekend, my focus is simple: rest, restore, and gather strength for the next round. Radiation may be tough, but I’m tougher—and I’m finding my own ways to honor the path I’m on.

When the Hand-Holding Stops: Stage IV and the Vanishing Act of Cancer Care

Aug13

When you’re first diagnosed with cancer, the world seems to spring into motion.

Suddenly, you have a nurse navigator. Appointments are made for you. Your phone rings with check-ins. Social workers appear with clipboards full of resources. The medical team seems to hold your hand every step of the way, from scheduling to scans, with a tone of urgency and compassion that makes you feel like the center of the universe — because you are. You have cancer. And everyone is ready to fight.

But if you live long enough to make it to Stage IV?

The hand-holding stops.

And it’s honestly kind of shocking.

Stage IV: Still Cancer, Somehow Treated Like Less

Let me be clear: Stage IV cancer is not an upgrade. It’s not a different game. It’s the same disease, just farther along. It comes with more complexity, more side effects, more emotions, more coordination — not less.

And yet, once you hit that label — metastatic, incurable, palliative — you become invisible to the very system that once felt like a lifeline.

No more navigator.

No more automatic scheduling. (Except with the Medical Oncologist, they are good about making sure you have your next appointment before you leave)

No more urgency.

No more empathy on tap.

Instead, you’re expected to be a pro at this.

You’ve had cancer before, right? You know how this goes.

So figure it out. Make your own appointments. Call back if you don’t hear anything. Coordinate between specialists. Wait in silence while doctors go on vacation.

And while you’re at it, try not to panic about the words “the lesions are growing.”

It’s Not Just Poor Communication — It’s Emotional Neglect

The emotional whiplash of going from “you’re in a fight and we’re all in it with you” to “we’ll call you… maybe” is real. And cruel.

At Stage IV, we are living with a terminal illness. That means every delay matters. Every appointment not made is time we don’t get back. Every brush-off or dropped ball adds to our fear and frustration.

We’re not new to cancer, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still need help — if anything, we need more.

The System Isn’t Built for Survivors — and That’s the Problem

The cancer care system is designed to walk people through a beginning-middle-end journey. Get in, get treated, get cured. If that doesn’t happen — if your cancer spreads, comes back, or never goes away — the system just… kind of drops you.

There’s no roadmap. No guidance. No hand to hold.

You’re not “curable,” so you’re not the focus.

But what they forget is: You’re still living. Still feeling. Still here.

And deserving of care that reflects that.

What We Need

We don’t need sympathy. We need structure.

We don’t need platitudes. We need people who call us back.

We don’t need miracle cures sent by well-meaning friends.

We need systems that treat us like we matter — even when we can’t be “fixed.”

Stage IV patients deserve the same dignity, coordination, and compassion as anyone newly diagnosed. Maybe more.

Because we’re not just “managing cancer.”

We’re managing life, death, emotions, relationships, fatigue, insurance, fear — and still trying to be human through all of it.

If you’re in the Stage IV club — and I’m so sorry if you are — just know:

You’re not wrong for feeling abandoned.

You’re not crazy for needing more help.

And you’re not alone.

We may have to fight harder to be heard. But our voices matter.

Especially now.

Yay more scans

Aug4

White blood cell counts are still low. I go in tomorrow to check if they’ve come up enough to restart one of my medications.

I had an MRI today. My tumor markers have gone up and the pain has increased, so this scan was for radiology to map out where they’ll target radiation. Since my last CT just a month ago, it looks like Maleficent is trying to expand her dance floor.

The lesions have spread further into my spine and more areas of my pelvis. The good news is that they’re still not in any soft tissue.

Radiation is supposed to start Wednesday on one spot, but now that it’s spread, we’ll see if the plan changes. I’m guessing they’ll push the two sessions I was supposed to have this week to the end of the schedule and start fresh on Monday. Thankfully it’s just five rounds, but I’ve heard they’re pretty intense.

The goal is to reduce the pain and hopefully stun the tumor enough to slow it down for a while.

I’d love for them to zap all of the spots—but unfortunately, that’s not how it works. We have to wait until all the lesions start to grow again before they switch up the meds or pull another trick from their sleeve.