Tag Archive | breast cancer

More Real Talk about Cancer and Shit

Jan27

The Flares

I’ve been dealing with cancer for ten years.
Metastatic cancer for a little over three.

I’m finally starting to understand what’s happening when my body reacts the way it does. And when I say body, I mean all of it — physical, mental, and emotional. You don’t get to separate those things when you’re living with cancer.

I can be fine. Everything can be good. I have my head on straight. I’m doing the things I’m “supposed” to be doing — walking, stretching, light strength work, trying not to stress, just being okay.

And then out of nowhere, it all goes to shit.

The flare-ups start, and they are brutal.

Complete mental shutdown. Emotional overload. Pain that is unreal. And all I want is to be left alone. Do I know when it’s coming? Nope. Can I plan for it? Nope. It just happens.

It’s taken me three years to even begin to understand this.

When you are first diagnosed with Stage IV your brain is stuck on one thing: Oh my God, I’m going to die.
Then come the labs, medications, infusions, scans, and radiation. Okay — we’re doing something. Good.

But after a while, you get really tired of being stuck with needles, scanned, zapped, and pumped full of meds. The side effects pile up. And when bloodwork looks “good,” tumor markers are stable, treatment seems to be working, and there’s no progression, everyone else backs off.

Here’s the part no one wants to talk about:
Just because they back off doesn’t mean everything is suddenly fine.

I’m still exhausted.
I’m still in pain.
I’m still so fatigued some days that I can’t get out of bed.

I don’t want to engage with people because most of what they say is going to piss me off. I don’t need “be strong,” “you’ve got this,” or “it’s only temporary” bullshit. None of that helps. There are no magic words.

And I am beyond tired of trying to make everyone else feel more comfortable with my cancer. I’m tired of explaining. I’m tired of consoling people. I’m just tired.

We Are Not the Same

Yes, aging comes with pain. Arthritis. Stiff joints. Less energy. Brain fog. Memory issues.

Now take all of that and add this:

Pain that feels like you’re being stabbed in your bones and organs. Tumors rubbing against things they shouldn’t be. A constant feeling like you’re wearing lead from head to toe. Trouble getting up, walking, sitting, lying down — not because you’re stiff, but because you don’t have the strength.

And no matter how much you sleep, rest, or try whatever magical thing someone swears will “give you energy,” you don’t recharge. You never feel rested. You never feel refreshed.

It completely sucks.

The Call That Broke Me

All of this is a setup for today — and yes, this is a bit of a bitch session.

When I hit a bad flare, I do what I always do: I try to make a plan. I messaged my oncologist’s office and explained exactly what was going on.

I got a call back from my favorite clinical nurse (heavy sarcasm here). She asked whether it might be the flu or something viral and suggested I get tested. Apparently, because my test results look “fine,” this couldn’t possibly be cancer-related. I was fuming and felt completely dismissed and unseen.

I had just seen my primary care doctor the week before. I don’t have the flu. I don’t have anything viral.

She kept calling it “soreness.”
I corrected her: No. It feels like I’m being stabbed in every tumor. If you know me, you know the exact tone that was said in!

The fatigue? Basically dismissed — because there’s “nothing they can do.”

Fine.

Side note: this is the same nurse who, during a previous appointment, muttered “me too” under her breath when I said I was tired of all of this. If you work in oncology and have lost your compassion, find another job.

So I Did What I Had To Do

After I calmed down, I asked myself what I actually needed to do. I went to my online support people — because they get it. I explained what was happening, and they reminded me of things I already had access to but had forgotten. They lifted me so I could get myself together.

That’s when I made my plan.

And honestly? This should be standard for every Stage IV patient.
But it isn’t.

Early-stage patients get support because there’s still hope of “getting back to normal.” Stage IV patients? We get very few fucks.

Setting Up Your Stage IV Support

Here’s the reality: no one is going to advocate for you except you. Which is ridiculous, because we are still people and deserve some quality of life.

This is what should be in place:

  1. Once you have an oncologist, they handle the tests, scans, meds, radiation — all the cancer stuff.
  2. Ask for a referral to a therapist and a social worker.
  3. Ask for a referral to palliative care.
  4. Make sure your primary care doctor is looped in, along with any other specialists.
  5. If you need connection or encouragement, find a local group or an online one — whatever feels safest to you.

You are a human being. You deserve support. You deserve to feel safe.

Who Does What (Because It Matters)

Your oncologist focuses on cancer — bloodwork, tumor markers, scans, treatments. That’s it. Ask about anything outside of that and you’ll likely be told to talk to someone else.

A therapist is where you talk about how this is actually affecting you — mentally and emotionally. They help manage anxiety, depression, mood, and medications that allow you to think clearly enough to tolerate this longer.

A social worker helps with emotional support, navigating resources, financial assistance, family support, and coordinating care across teams.

Palliative care focuses on your physical, mental, emotional, social, and spiritual well-being. It is not end-of-life care. It’s about quality of life — pain, fatigue, symptoms — and thinking outside the box.

There’s overlap between social workers and palliative care professionals, but they don’t do the same things. Their focus and scope are different, and both are necessary.

One Last Thing

There are options.
They just don’t always tell you about them.

Sometimes they mention them right after saying “It’s progressed to Stage IV,” when your brain shuts down and you don’t hear another word.

I’m not in healthcare. I’m not giving advice. I’m sharing what I’ve lived and learned over the last decade.

If you have medical questions, talk to your care team.
If you’re feeling dismissed, exhausted, angry, or lost — you’re not wrong.

And you’re not alone.

What Metastatic Breast Cancer Really Means: Beyond the Pink Ribbons

Sep22

When people hear the words “breast cancer,” most think of pink ribbons, survivors ringing bells, and five-year remission celebrations. That’s part of the story—but it isn’t the whole story.

There’s another side of breast cancer that doesn’t get talked about enough: metastatic breast cancer (MBC), also known as stage 4. This is the kind I live with. And it’s very different from the pink ribbon version you usually see.

What Stage 4 Really Means

Metastatic breast cancer happens when cancer cells spread beyond the breast and lymph nodes to other parts of the body—most commonly the bones, lungs, liver, or brain. At this point, it’s no longer considered curable. Treatments focus on controlling the disease, managing symptoms, and giving patients as much time—and quality of life—as possible.

That’s the blunt truth: there’s no “end of treatment” for metastatic breast cancer. There’s no ringing the bell and moving on. This is a lifetime diagnosis.

The Myths vs. Reality

Myth 1: You only get stage 4 if you didn’t catch it early.

Reality: Metastatic breast cancer can happen even if you were diagnosed at stage 0, I, II, or III, went through treatment, and were considered “cancer-free or NED, no evidence of disease.” Sometimes cells lie dormant for years before resurfacing.

Myth 2: With enough positivity or strength, you can beat it.

Reality: Positivity can help your outlook, but it’s not a cure. MBC isn’t about “fighting harder”—it’s about living with an illness that medicine hasn’t yet figured out how to stop permanently.

Myth 3: Stage 4 means you’re immediately on your deathbed.

Reality: While MBC is terminal, patients often live years—sometimes many years—on treatment. Advances in medicine mean that some people can manage it more like a chronic illness, though it’s still unpredictable and relentless.

Why Awareness Matters

Pink ribbons raise billions for breast cancer research and awareness—but only a small percentage of that goes toward metastatic breast cancer research. And yet, MBC is the only stage of breast cancer that kills.

Awareness matters because:

We need more research. Treatments are improving, but there’s still no cure. Patients need support. Our journeys look very different from early-stage survivors. We don’t get to “move on.” Caregivers need recognition. They’re living this life alongside us, often silently.

When people understand what metastatic breast cancer really is, they can better support patients, push for research, and help shift the narrative beyond pink ribbons and survivor slogans.

Living Beyond the Ribbon

For me, living with stage 4 means making peace with uncertainty. It means celebrating good scan results, mourning the life I thought I’d have, and finding joy in unexpected places. It means showing up honestly—because awareness isn’t about fear, it’s about truth.

Beyond the pink ribbons, there’s a whole world of us living with metastatic breast cancer every day. And we deserve to be seen, supported, and remembered.

Closing thought

If you know someone with stage 4, don’t be afraid to ask how they’re really doing. And if you want to help, look for organizations that provide support and/or funding for research, not just awareness campaigns.

Some organizations you should look at:

Metavivor

Friend for Life

Cancer Support Community – Gilda’s Club

Derby City Dragons. If you are looking for a dragon boat team in your area, please reach out and I can help you find one!

Check. regularly as I will add more information.

Fatigue No One Sees

Sep18

Here’s the thing about fatigue with stage IV cancer: it’s not “I stayed up too late last night” tired. It’s not “I just need a nap and a coffee” tired. It’s bone-deep, soul-sucking exhaustion that no amount of sleep, vitamins, or positive thinking can fix.

And the kicker? It’s unpredictable.

Just because I wake up feeling halfway decent doesn’t mean I’ll still feel that way by lunchtime. I can say “yes” to something with every intention of showing up — then my body pulls the rug out from under me, and suddenly I’m on the couch with zero energy, nauseous, and mad at the world. It feels depressing because I want to go, I plan to go, and then… I can’t.

That’s the hardest part: not being able to trust my own body. I used to be a planner. I thrived on calendars, commitments, and being the person who always showed up. Now, week 4 of my Ibrance cycle is basically the Bermuda Triangle of my life. Energy goes in, but nothing comes out. I know better than to schedule anything major then — but life doesn’t stop for my blood counts. Showers, birthdays, dinners, family things… they don’t care what week I’m on.

And then comes the guilt. Backing out feels disrespectful, like I’m letting people down. But here’s the truth: I’m not disrespecting anyone — I’m protecting myself. This isn’t about being flaky, it’s about survival.

I’ve had to redefine what “showing up” means. Sometimes it looks like dropping off a gift even if I can’t stay for the party. Sometimes it’s sending a text that says, “I’m with you in spirit.” And sometimes it’s choosing to stay home, rest, and save what little energy I have for the scans, infusions, or just getting through the next day.

Do I like it? Absolutely not. Do I grieve the old me who could plan without hesitation, commit without fear, and follow through every time? Every single day.

But here’s what I’m learning: showing up doesn’t always mean being there in person. Sometimes showing up means honoring what my body needs. Sometimes it means loving people from a distance. Sometimes it means letting go of the guilt and reminding myself — I’m not lazy, I’m not unreliable, I’m not disrespectful. I’m living with cancer fatigue, and it’s okay to say, this is all I have to give today.

And honestly? That’s enough.

The Difference No One Talks About

Sep8

When people talk about cancer, the story almost always centers on survivorship. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. A diagnosis, a battle, and a victory. Survivors ring bells, declare themselves warriors who “beat cancer,” and step back into a version of normal life. Yes, there’s fear of recurrence. Yes, there ay be follow-up scans every six months or a year if something doesn’t feel right. Yes, there may be medications with side effects—but for most, those meds have a finish line, often five years down the road.

Stage IV is different.

There is no finish line. There is no “last day of treatment.” There is no bell to ring. Cancer doesn’t leave; it moves in. It’s not something you beat—it’s something you live with. Sometimes it quiets down, sometimes it flares up, but it is always there.

Stage IV means:

Infusions that don’t end. Scans more often. Constant blood work watching white blood cell counts and tumor markers. Stopping and starting meds because your body can’t handle it and the fear that everything will get out of control, and sometimes it does. Medications that are lifelong, not temporary. Radiation to stop growth on occasion. Exhaustion that never fully lifts. The knowledge that cancer is not a visitor that might come back—it already has.

For survivors, the narrative is one of triumph: “I fought and I won.” For those of us living with Stage IV, the narrative is different. It’s about endurance. Adaptation. Learning how to carry cancer alongside life, even when the load feels unbearable. Sometimes the disease wins ground. Sometimes it’s held in control. But it never leaves the room.

This isn’t about minimizing what early-stage survivors go through—their fight is real. But the lived reality of Stage IV is different. It’s not about beating cancer once and for all. It’s about learning to live fully while cancer stays.

Grieving the Old Me with Stage IV Cancer

Sep1

Grief with stage IV cancer isn’t just about death—it’s about losing pieces of yourself while you’re still here.

I grieve the life I had. The ability to plan a day and actually do it. The energy to say yes without wondering if I’ll be too fatigued, in pain, or stuck at another surprise blood draw. I watch people go on with their lives and sometimes wish I could just jump in without a second thought.

Instead, trips are shorter, closer, slower. They’re built with rest breaks and backup plans. My daily schedule has shifted from “here’s my whole day” to “here’s what I might try this week.” And when I don’t get it all done, it feels like failure—like I wasn’t enough.

The truth is, cancer has taught me a brutal lesson: energy isn’t just physical. Emotional energy drains faster than running a marathon. My body is fighting behind the scenes 24/7. And my brain? Let’s just say it’s its own exhausting full-time job.

So now I live in a rhythm: do a thing, rest, recharge, repeat. High-energy, pre-cancer me would’ve laughed at the idea of needing recovery time after folding laundry. Yet here I am, with a bullet journal (yes, I caved) trying to map out energy like its currency. I may not be able to control my body but I can take charge of how I respond to it.

This grief isn’t the same as mourning a death, but it is mourning—the loss of my old self, of the version of me who didn’t have to measure every ounce of energy just to exist. And yeah, it sucks.

But I’m still here. I’m still me—just reshaped. Different. Learning to live in this “new normal.” (ugh! I hate that term…must find something else like ‘The Realness Era’ or ‘Life 2.0 – with glitches’) And maybe the most defiant thing I can do is name the grief, feel it, and still keep moving forward, just a little slower and without a plan.

And this my friends is what it is to be resilient. One of the most important lessons to learn from your time on this rock.

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.

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.

Scheduling, Treament, and Insurance

Jul28

Today’s rant includes three of my favorite things.

I had an appointment with the Radiology Oncologist today. She was explaining things, and I thought, ‘Yes, I’ve been through this before.’ So she told me what type of radiation I would have and the schedule. It will be the SBRT: Sterotactic Ablative Radiotherapy. The whole schedule is going to be an MRI in my pelvic region since the culprit is on my ilium. (the largest and uppermost bone of the pelvis, which forms part of the hip bone). Then, after the MR, I have to have a marking appointment. They used to do tattoos, but now they are doing a casing of the area they are going to zap, so you can’t move. After that, she has to review everything, come up with the dosing, and all the other technical doctor stuff. I’ll go for 5 sessions every other day. Not bad at all.

I will be tired, in more pain at first, and then it should be fine. Of course, there are side effects, because it wouldn’t be right without the side effects. We will then do another round of scans to see if there is any further activity. I think 6-8 weeks after I’m done.

Common Side Effects:

  • Fatigue
  • Skin Changes
  • Pelvic pain or discomfort
  • Nausea
  • Changes in bowel habits
  • Bladder irritation

Long-term effects that may occur months to years later

  • Bone weakening or fracture risk (which is going to happen with or without radiation)
  • Chronic pelvic pain
  • Scar tissue or fibrosis

Super excited. When I had my first rounds of radiation back in 2016 it was in my chest. So I had the fatigure, skin changes, arm/joint pain, nausea, heart issues and a whole lot of scar tissue and fibrosis. And these things still bother me to this day. So I’ll get to add a few more things to the list. I’m excited.

Before I left the office, we made an appointment for the marking appointment tomorrow at 8:00am. Then I noticed an MRI was put on my schedule for tomorrow at 2pm. Great. She said we needed to get this done sooner rather than later

Now…When I get home from all this appointment stuff and running some errands, I get a phone call from the hospital saying that insurance hasn’t approved anything yet. The person on the phone lets me know that it was marked at STAT and then continues to explain to me what STAT means. I’m like, I’m aware of the definition. He says we can keep that appointment if I pay $4980 up front (there’s a. 25% discount for paying this way). I’m like, I have met my deductible, and they are just going to turn around and write me a check. Here’s the thing. I have had them call before because they would rather be paid directly than go through insurance. I’d rather just not change what we are doing because then everyone gets confused.

Shortly after this, I get another call stating that we have to reschedule an appointment. Now, I have 8 doctor’s appointments over the next 2 weeks. I ask which appointment we are rescheduling. She says: “The hip.” Okay. I ask: “Is this for the MRI or the Marking?” And she replies again with the Hip. Okay great. I ask what the date and time of the appointment are right now. She tells me. Okay, it’s for the MRI. Fantastic. This appointment has been changed to August 4th. Next Monday. I look at MyChart, and the appointment for tomorrow morning is now gone.

I’m not calling anyone. I’m not going to complain, I’m not going to point out any of the things because I just don’t have the energy, and honestly, I don’t really care at this point.

I have 2 appointments tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll have more at the last minute or if they will surprise me. My favorite thing is that they just schedule things for me without asking me anything. And evidently without authorization.

Cant wait to see what happens the rest of the week!

I’m baaaack!

Jul23

It’s been a minute since I’ve written anything. Been a bit busy. I just looked and I haven’t posted since March 2023! Wow!

Okay, so… We moved to Louisville, Kentucky, in November 2024. Pete actually moved in October 2024, because I stayed behind to deal with the house! I finally just picked up and let our wonderfully amazing realtor, neighbor, and friend take care of things for us. Mindy and Steve are just the most wonderful people. I will for sure miss them the most.

Drove across the country, two dogs and a cat. My sister-in-law, who lives in Wyoming, graciously agreed to keep me company on the trip. We had a pretty good time. Stopped at Devils Tower, Mt. Rushmore, and the Badlands. OH, and Sturgis. It was pretty dead that time of year. But we saw some of the most incredible sights. And we stopped in Indianapolis to see her son, my nephew, for a bit. It was really nice to see him.

We spent 2 months in Airbnb’s with all the animals. That was super fun. I do not recommend. We closed on our house in Montana the same day we closed on the house here. So that was kind of nerve-wracking. We moved in the day before New Year’s Eve. I just wanted to sleep in my own bed! I think we got everything unpacked in less than a week. The house had this bright yellow door. The living room was yellow…I mean YELLOW, the kitchen/dining room was peach. And the bedroom was purple with a silver stripe. It was for sure very colorful. One of the first things we did was have the living room, hall, bedroom, kitchen/dining room, and bathrooms painted. I mean, for the love of all.

Weird being close to family again. Over the holidays, it was very overwhelming. Thanksgiving, my birthday (Pete decided to have a get-together to surprise me), Christmas. I had a family dinner in our house after it was painted and everything. Kind of an open house if you will. But I’m slowly getting used to everything. Weird going from being isolated from town and people all day to living in a neighborhood and having people to do things with.

It was disheartening to leave my DRS in Montana. Very emotional. I have been with them all since the very beginning. Initial diagnosis, the tears, the laughs, the stage IV tragedy. I still miss them like crazy. I have a new team here in Louisville. I have my Oncologist, whom I finally got to smile and laugh a bit. We are still trying to establish a relationship. I have a Cardiologist, because well, the heart thing. I was having heart pains, shortness of breath, and dizziness. Turns out it’s anxiety. I said that, but I guess they need to go through all the things to cover all the bases. I have an Oncology Psychiatrist, primary doctor, a bunch of nurses, and my pharmacy team. I’m going to be getting a Radiology Oncologist here in the next few weeks. But more about that to come.

Trying to learn who does what. Usually, my Medical Oncologist pretty much did it all except a few things. But I think it would have changed a bit had I stayed longer. I was already seeing the nurse most of the time. But the doctor. would always check in on me. It’s for sure a little more corporate here. Everyone has a specific job. Medical Oncologist oversees my cancer and any scans, treatments for cancer. My Onc. Psycharist handles the anxiety meds and keeps me grounded. There is a pain management group I’m in. My cardiologist, of course, is all about my heart and blood pressure, which has been a tad on the high side (shocking). And then my primary doctor, who is an absolute trip. I love him out of all my doctors. He looks at everything and balances everything out. Makes sure overall I’m doing good. He talked to my other doctors to keep everyone in the loop. We just did my cholesterol and well…meh. We also did my A1C. I’ve never had that done before!

Okay, let’s talk about cancer and all the fun. We have reduced my main med (Ibrance) because my white blood cell count has been giving us issues. I’m pretty much going in every other week to get my blood tested to see where we are. I’ve had so many scans: brain, CT, MRI, bone, and heart. I’ve had stress tests, heart monitors for 2 weeks, and I now have a CPAP machine. Evidently, I have sleep apnea, which I don’t snore anymore. So I suppose it’s nice to know I have less chance of dying in my sleep because I stop breathing. We have been playing with anxiety meds and mood stabilizers. I was completely fine with the Lexapro, but they seem to think I have some sort of depression. (News flash! I can’t imagine why.)

My cancer treatment hasn’t changed, just a lower dose of Ibrance; other than that, the same. I’m still doing my Zometa infusions; it seems every 2 months now. But the last time I did my tumor markers, they went up. I was having pain in my hip pretty bad. We did a CT and bone scan. The bone scan was a trip. I’ve never had one like that before. They shoot you up with some radioactive stuff, and you have to wait 3 hours, and then they do the scan. I have learned that during scans, I just zone out and use it to meditate…or sleep if they have my head stabilized. But they are going to zap the lesion on my hip to help with pain and hopefully keep it from growing any more. The reason they didn’t change my meds or are zapping more is because that’s the only one that seems they need to spread the party. Like dude, you have your space, stay in it.

So, yeah. Blood pressure is all over the place. I am on blood pressure meds. Had my cholesterol tested. Total was high. LDL was normal, HDL was high. We will see what they do with that. I’m thinking nothing. And I had my A1C checked. I’ve never had that either. Seems I’m prediabetic. Now, a few weeks ago I met with the oncology dietitian. Oh yeah, I have a dietitian too. She told me how I need to look at eating. Not to worry about calories, but to focus on the food. Basically, every meal should have a protein, a whole grain, and a fruit/vegetable. And of course some healthy fats. She said that this will keep my blood sugar stable, so I don’t go off on some binge. My cardiologist wants me to walk every day. Start low and gradually work up. She said not to worry about distance but time. So start with 10 minutes and every week or so add another 5 minutes. This should all help with my sleep. Did I mention I also have a sleep doctor? I’m going to start making trading cards and collect as many doctors as I can. (ha!)

I have closed my business, shut down all my brilliant ideas (except this one, of course). I’m not doing the magazine anymore. Oh, I was doing the layout for Wedding Planner Magazine for 3 issues, and I just had to stop. That’s a discussion for another time! So my job now is to take care of myself and be happy. I’m getting involved with the cancer community here. And I’m working on a top secret special project that is wonderful because I have no deadlines, and it’s not for anyone but me.

So welcome back to my crazy world!