My Vie en Rose: A Breast Cancer Journey

With Scars, Strength and Smiles

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  • My Battle with Breast Cancer: From Diagnosis to Hope

    It has been about 10 months since my breast cancer diagnosis. In that time, I’ve gone through several surgeries, about six months of chemo, and now I’m in the middle of 30 rounds of radiation.

    My body has been through a lot. It’s been damaged, changed, stitched back together, and in some ways, rebuilt. Parts of me have died—and I have felt it happening. There’s no way to go through something like this without knowing exactly what it’s taking from you.

    I am doing all of this for one reason: to stay alive.

    But I’ve also come to understand that treatment isn’t the finish line. Ringing the bell will be a milestone, not the end of the journey. After this, there will be ongoing scans, checkups, and a level of monitoring that most people never have to think about. It’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

    I feel optimistic that I will stay healthy. I truly do. But I also know life won’t go back to what it was before. There will be a new normal.

    What’s hard to explain is that cancer survivors don’t just “go back” to their old lives. Physically, things are different. Mentally, things are different. When you’ve gone through something like this—when you’ve felt your body break down and fought to keep going—it changes you in ways that don’t just fade with time.

    Even knowing all of this, I’m still not entirely sure how I will handle what comes next. There’s strength in what I’ve made it through, but there’s also uncertainty in what life looks like after. I think both can exist at the same time.

    What I do know is this: I’ve made it this far. And whatever this next version of life looks like, I’ll find a way to meet it.

  • Navigating Radiation Treatment: What to Expect

    Radiation has been the next step since chemo. I had about four weeks off before starting, and I had plans—exercise, check things off my to-do list, start feeling like myself again. Instead, I slept. A lot. My body clearly had other priorities. Think less “fresh start” and more early-2000s dial-up mode—slow, unpredictable, and not responding when prompted.

    To start radiation, your first appointment is a simulation. They map out exactly where the machine needs to be, make a mold for your head to rest on during treatment, and place three small tattoos in the area being treated. I already have a tattoo on my shoulder, and somehow these tiny, freckle-sized ones hurt more.

    For breast cancer radiation, there’s no modest way to put it—your foobs are just out there. Thankfully, all of my technicians are women, which helps. At this point, modesty feels like something I used to care more about.

    You lie on a hard table with a foam cushion under your knees, your head in a custom mold, arms stretched overhead holding onto bars behind you. Everything is positioned very precisely—arms out of the way, head tilted—so nothing important, like your throat, gets caught in the crossfire. It’s oddly both very high-tech and very “just don’t move.”

    Then comes the breathing. With a body and lungs already worn out from chemo, you still get to work on your breath-holding skills. Each time the machine passes, they ask you to hold your breath for about 20 seconds. It’s basically a daily check-in with my lungs. Some days they cooperate. Some days, it’s more of a negotiation. Not exactly Olympic-level performance over here.

    The goal is to create space between the treatment area and your heart—a buffer zone to help protect it. I’ll have another echocardiogram in three months to make sure everything stayed where it should. The technicians monitor my breathing closely and stop the machine if needed, which makes the whole thing feel a little less like a trust fall and a little more controlled.

    With radiation, a burn similar to a sunburn is common in the treated area. So far, I’ve avoided that, but I do have a rash on the right side of my chest. I checked with the nurse, and it’s a normal side effect. I’m grateful my skin isn’t burning, but the itching is relentless—like a bad wool sweater you can’t take off. It’s not dramatic, just constant, which somehow makes it worse.

    Given my stage, the recommendation is 30 rounds of radiation—Monday through Friday. Today was round 15, so I’m officially halfway through. No shortcuts, no fast-forward—just showing up and getting through it.

    Some days feel long. Some days feel heavier than others. But halfway is still halfway, and that counts for something.

    I plan on ringing the bell May 20, 2026 with available family and friends 😁.

  • Surviving Chemo: Battling Exhaustion and Pain

    Hi all! It’s been a while since my last post. It turns out A/C chemo was much harder on me than I expected. I knew to anticipate fatigue, but what I experienced was a completely different level of tired.

    The first round didn’t seem too bad at first. I even went by myself, thinking that since I wasn’t being given Benadryl, I’d be fine to drive home. That turned out to be overly optimistic. During the 17-minute drive, I started to fall asleep. I made it home safely, but once I got inside, I was so tired I nearly fell asleep standing up. I made it onto the couch just in time to avoid face-planting into the coffee table.

    After that, I retired from solo trips. I talked with Mark’s mom, and we arranged for her to take me to the next treatment. Mark took me to the third, and my friend Danielle brought me to the fourth and final infusion. It became pretty clear I needed backup.

    With each round, the exhaustion stacked up. By the third infusion, I was sleeping 18–20 hours a day and only up in short windows. By the second infusion, I was already starting to feel my worst. They say chemo kills cancer cells, but it also affects healthy cells—and I could feel that more and more with each treatment. To be completely honest, I could feel myself dying a little each time. If I hadn’t been so tired, I think I would have been more scared.

    Then came the bone pain. At times, it felt like certain bones were actually broken. I’d wake up trying to figure out what I had done in my sleep, which felt very on brand for this stage of life. Then I’d remember: chemo and the white blood cell shots.

    Those shots boost your cell count by stimulating your bone marrow, which can cause it to expand and lead to pretty intense pain. Mine was likely mild compared to what it can be, but it still got my full attention.

    There were also side effects I was fortunate to avoid—no significant nausea, no fingernails or toenails falling off, and I kept the small amount of peach fuzz that had grown back before A/C chemo. So far, there are also no signs of heart damage. Mouth sores were minimal. I didn’t realize I had them until I tried chips and salsa—a quick and effective reality check. I’m continuing with chemo-induced menopause, which means my already unpredictable internal thermostat is about to get even less reliable this summer. Managing the hot flashes has been a bit of trial and error with medication.

    With each passing day, I’m one step closer to being healthy—and closer to finding my new normal. I really hope I never have to go through anything like this again.

    If there’s one thing I’m taking from all of this, it’s that I’m stronger than I realized. And I’m holding onto that. I’ll keep showing up, keep pushing forward, and keep being strong in every part of my life.

  • From Long Locks to Baby Bald to Peach Fuzz and Back Again

    My hair loss has come in stages. So many cancer patients advised me to cut my hair short ahead of time so the actual hair loss would be less traumatic. At the time, my hair was past my shoulders. I found a cute picture online of a punky long pixie cut and booked an appointment at a very bougie salon in the nearest city.

    I brought the picture with me and explained that I’d been diagnosed with cancer, was about to start chemo, and there was a very real chance I’d lose my hair. When I left the salon, I was… not happy. At all. It was less punk and more “something I might be getting in about 50 years.”

    So we went home, and Mark fixed it for me. Eventually, I took his hair trimmers to my own head, cutting off more and more each time. When my hair started thinning rapidly, I grabbed a razor and shaved it all off.

    Big no-no, by the way. Razor cuts can cause folliculitis—in other words, infected hair follicles. I already have cancer; I’m not looking to collect bonus medical problems.

    After that, I just let it grow in. Slowly. Painfully slowly. For weeks, it was nothing but spotty peach fuzz on the top of my head. The back and sides? Smooth as a baby’s tush. Eventually, the top started growing actual hair that sticks straight up, with thick peach fuzz filling in the sides and back. It was about 3 months’ time to get to this point.

    And it’s coming in white.

    Still, it’s so nice to have hair on my head again.

    Unfortunately, it’s very common to lose every single hair on your head—and body—during AC chemo. What really chaps my ass is that I’m almost done with chemo. I’ve got about seven weeks left. But I’ll most likely lose my hair again in three to four weeks.

    So I’ll be nearly finished with chemo… and then I’ll be bald. AGAIN.

    Son of a B!

    And with my luck, I won’t even lose it evenly. No, I’ll just lose the hair on the top of my head and end up looking like a medieval monk who lost a bar fight.

    FANTASTIC!

    All joking aside, I’m still optimistic. This is hard and it’s exhausting, but I’m not done yet. I’ll keep showing up, keep fighting, and keep pushing my way through this—one day, one treatment, and one very questionable haircut at a time.

  • Facing New Chemo Struggles: Lessons Learned

    I am nine days post–first round of my new chemo, and it feels like my strength is really being tested this time. I was feeling a little cocky after the first couple of days, which was adorable of me.

    I’m going to start with a little TMI, because at this point, modesty and chemo are no longer on speaking terms.

    On day three, Mark’s mom wanted to go out for lunch to celebrate Mark’s birthday. I was genuinely excited—good company, a birthday to celebrate, and a brief return to something resembling normal life. We arrived hoping it would be safe for me to be there. Thankfully, even though the restaurant was a little busy, the hostess seated us in a booth that kept people at a safe distance.

    I opened the menu and instantly locked eyes with what would become both the highlight and the villain of this story: a Spicy Pickle Burger. Anyone who knows me knows I’m a sucker for a good cheeseburger, and that day I was craving moo cow in a way that felt deeply personal. It was the second-best burger I’ve ever had. First place still belongs to a little bar in Bandon, Oregon, that served a Jalapeño Bacon Peanut Butter Burger—which sounds unhinged, but I assure you, it was life-changing.

    Anyway… through no fault of that glorious burger, my digestive tract apparently did not get the memo that eating requires follow-through. One of the many charming side effects of AC chemo. I spent the next few days taking the proper medication to get things moving again, and I can confidently say it was some of the worst stomach pain I’ve ever experienced. I’m fairly certain that burger set up a long-term lease in my stomach and had no intention of moving out before Wednesday.

    Because all my focus was on that particular bag of awesomeness, I forgot to take the other medication meant to counteract the side effects and pain from the nifty White Blood Cell Booster shot. Rookie mistake—one I won’t be making next time. Of course, the pain from that shot decided to show up right after my digestive system finally started cooperating. Perfect timing, as though my body has a twisted sense of humor.

    From what I’ve read, the pain can be unbearable because the shot causes your bone marrow to swell as it cranks out extra cells. Basically, my bones are screaming while I try to rest and knock out some household chores, feeling like someone strapped sandbags to my skeleton and called it a to-do list.

    So far, the pain is just under unbearable—like it’s trying really hard but hasn’t quite earned the title yet. Most of it sits at the base of my head and runs down my spine. To be almost 43 years old and experiencing something that feels suspiciously like growing pains is just fantastic. Truly. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

    And then there’s the fatigue. Oh, the fatigue. I’ll get a decent night’s sleep—assuming I can survive the fiery hellscape that is hot flashes—wake up thinking, I got this. Today’s the day. And then, a few hours later, I feel like I just ran across the country with Forrest Gump… except without the cardio, the crowd, or the emotional soundtrack.

    This round is different. It’s harder. It’s humbling. But I’m still here, still laughing when I can, and learning that confidence should probably be kept to a minimum around chemo.

  • Coping with Chemo Anxiety into My Next Treatment

    Anxiety before chemo is completely normal—especially when it’s your first treatment. You hear all the horror stories before you’re even diagnosed, and somehow those stories stick like glitter. No matter how hard you try, they’re impossible to shake at first.

    Before my very first chemo infusion, I was terrified. I was walking into a world of unknowns with nothing but a pamphlet and blind optimism. My doctors explained the possible side effects, but since every body reacts differently, I had no clue how my body would respond. Was I going to feel fine? Was I going to feel awful? Was I about to discover a brand-new allergy? (Spoiler alert: yes.)

    Surprisingly, my first round of chemo wasn’t terrible. I did have the start of an anaphylactic reaction, but my nurses—absolute ninjas in scrubs—handled it before things got scary. After that, it was just some annoying allergic reactions. Chemo has a way of teaching you fun new facts about yourself, like how you’re apparently very sensitive to medications you’ve never thought twice about before.

    That first infusion was Taxol, which I was promptly taken off after Day One: The Adventure. The rest of my treatments switched to Paclitaxel, which my body tolerated much better.

    Today, I started the chemo I’ve been dreading the most: AC chemo. I actually slept well the night before (thank you, nightly sinus meds), but anxiety still found me first thing in the morning. All those memories from my very first infusion came rushing back—the fear of starting something new and not knowing how the day would go.

    When my doctor offered me a low dose of Lorazepam, I pretended to think about it for roughly five seconds before enthusiastically saying, “YES, PLEASE.” And honestly? Huge help. It may not be for everyone, but for me, it took the edge off enough to breathe.

    AC chemo is more aggressive than my previous treatment and can really put your body through the wringer. The list of common side effects includes extreme fatigue, significant hair loss, nausea and vomiting, mouth sores, and low blood cell counts—just a casual checklist of things no one wants.

    Thankfully, there are plenty of medications to help manage nausea, so for now I’m cautiously optimistic. That said… OH MY GOSH, I really hope I don’t throw up!!!

    A few months ago, I talked to my dentist about chemo and my fear of mouth sores. He’s worked with cancer patients for years and told me the key is avoiding dry mouth. Still, because I hate mouth pain with a passion, I asked my doctor for backup. Enter Nystatin: a magical little mouth swish that I would now like to nominate for sainthood.

    Low white blood cell counts with AC chemo get some help from a white blood cell shot the day after treatment. I’m also doing my part by focusing on protein, vitamin B12, zinc, and vitamin C. Sleep shouldn’t be an issue—I could nap competitively lately—and I’m hoping to manage some light exercise if the fatigue allows.

    Another goal? Staying on top of hygiene, no matter how tired I get. I genuinely believe the zombie apocalypse could happen, and I’d still be washing my hands, brushing my teeth, and washing my produce. Once you see a dude sneeze into their hands and then play eenie, meenie, miney, moe with the apples, you never skip produce washing again. If you do… honestly, we can’t be friends.

    I’m now nine hours past my first AC chemo infusion. I immediately took a five-hour nap, with a brief lunch intermission. Even though I’m still at the very beginning of this phase, I already feel like the next infusion will go better—hopefully with less shaking and a calmer heart rate.

    It’s one more treatment crossed off the list, and one step closer to the finish line.

  • Supporting Cancer Patients in Public: We Can Do Better

    My voice has changed since cancer.

    I find myself sticking up for myself more. Before, if someone made a rude or brash comment, I would usually brush it off and keep moving. Since my diagnosis—and especially since my surgeries—I have a much harder time holding my tongue. And honestly? I’m completely okay with that.

    I don’t think people really see cancer patients out in the wild. It’s like once you hear the word “cancer,” you imagine someone confined to a hospital bed, not standing next to you comparing pasta sauces. People seem to walk around with cancer blinders on, which might explain the surprising lack of manners. So consider this a brief public service announcement on exactly how not to approach a cancer patient.

    One day, I was out grocery shopping shortly after having surgery to place my chemo port. The actual port was hidden under my shirt, but the catheter they run up your neck into your vein was visible and very red. A stranger decided it was their moment to shine and loudly informed me that I was “too old to be getting hickeys.”

    Without missing a beat, I told them I would much rather have a hickey than a chemo port in my chest—and then I pulled down my collar to show them. Not my proudest moment, and definitely not something I should have had to explain in the produce aisle.

    The second incident was less rude and more… oblivious, but it still stung. Again, grocery store (because of course). By this point, I had lost all my hair and was wearing a slouchy beanie. A gentleman walked up to me, opened with a cheerful “Hey man,” and launched into a question. When I turned around, I politely let him know I was not, in fact, a man—and gently pointed to my chest for clarification. Cancer: redefining awkward social interactions one aisle at a time.

    The hardest thing, though, is the constant grief I get for wearing a mask in public. I know masks are controversial. Everyone has opinions. Everyone is apparently an epidemiologist now. But here’s what some people forget: there are seniors worried about getting sick with anything. And there are people like me—immunocompromised, in active cancer treatment—who still have to go out and buy groceries, who would very much like to avoid catching something that could land us in the hospital.

    It might seem pointless or silly to you. You might think it’s political, fear-based, or a sign someone is being “controlled by the man.” But here’s the thing—you’re not the one dealing with a serious illness. You’re not the one whose immune system is barely clocking in for its shift.

    I’ll be honest—if this post sounds a little angry, it’s because I am. Not at one person, but at how out of hand this has all gotten. At how comfortable people feel commenting on strangers’ bodies, health choices, and medical realities without knowing a single thing about them.

    So instead of commenting on someone’s body, their mask, or their appearance, maybe try something radical: compassion. Empathy. Or, at the very least, minding your own business.

    You have no idea what someone is carrying—under their clothes, under their hat, or inside their body. And someday, you might be the one just trying to get through a grocery run without having to explain your medical history to a stranger. When that day comes, I hope the world treats you more gently than it often treats cancer patients.

  • The Heavy Weight of Strength: Battling Cancer and Independence

    I’m being brave. I’m “handling everything so well.” But honestly, I don’t want to be this person all the time.

    I am strong. With all the obstacles I’ve faced in my adult life, strength is the only way I know how to exist anymore. But the immense effort it takes to be this strong is exhausting. The emotional burnout. The physical fatigue. It’s draining.

    I’m eight days away from starting aggressive AC chemo. The anxiety is intense—the uncertainty, the fear of the unknown—punctuated by brief moments of hope that everything will be okay. It’s an emotional rollercoaster that makes it hard to focus on everyday life. My chore list keeps growing. Mark is here to help me, and I’m grateful, but I still want to cross things off that list myself. I’ve love being independent. Independence wasn’t just how I lived—it was how I defined myself. Losing pieces of it feels like losing parts of who I am.

    That independence was shaken first in November 2022, when I discovered my wages were being stolen. I quit that toxic job of almost 7 years, confident I’d find another quickly based on my skills and experience—only to learn I was dealing with defamation and blacklisting. After a long, painful wait, I made it through that.

    The next job wasn’t much better. I loved the job and my co-workers. Unfortunately, I worked under a misogynistic jackass of a general manager, plus I was constantly sick and looked down on for it. At the time, I had no idea cancer was already present—brewing quietly in my chest.

    I’m not sharing this for pity. My point is this: being an independent person while facing obstacle after obstacle has nearly broken me. And now I’m here, taking a medical leave of absence from a new job because obstacle number three is cancer.

    I want to be healthy and cancer-free more than anything. But I also desperately want my independence back—to contribute to household bills, to take some of the financial stress off of Mark, to see something that needs to be done and just do it, to live without having to add another task to Mark’s to-do list. Every time I have to ask for help, it feels like a small grief. I know it’s necessary, but it still hurts. I yearn for the days of wanting to do something and simply getting to do it.

    For now, my focus is chemo and my upcoming MRI. I know, logically, that everything inside my head is okay—but as the appointment gets closer, my mind spirals anyway, running through every possible outcome.

    This is where I am. Strong, tired, scared, hopeful, and doing the best I can—even when I don’t want to have to be this strong.

  • Talking to Kids About Illness: A Personal Journey

    Now, I don’t have kids of my own, but as many of you know, I have two nieces who are my entire world.

    One is far too young to understand what’s going on with me. She just knows that Naenae is sick, looks a little different, and comes over wearing a different wig each visit. My oldest niece, though, is old enough to somewhat understand the situation. Her parents have sat her down and explained everything, but this weekend was the first time since my diagnosis that she stayed overnight at my house and truly saw what daily life looks like for me now.

    I’m currently between infusions, so I’ve been able to catch up on sleep, and the fatigue has eased a bit. She didn’t see me at my absolute lowest, in the thick of chemo exhaustion—but she did see, for the first time, that Naenae is truly bald, takes a lot of pills twice a day, and has hot flashes constantly. Still, I think she also saw that in so many ways, I’m the same Naenae I’ve always been.

    We were able to goof around and try on my wigs, which turned into an absolute comedy. She named every single one. Apparently, one of my wigs is a “Karen” (which I didn’t notice until she pointed it out—LOL). I also have a Chelsea, a Tiffany, and a dark brown one I bought to change things up that she very confidently named Edna Mode (The Incredibles). I can’t get over how creative and hilarious she is.

    Throughout the visit, she was her normal, kind, sweet self. I think a lot of kids might point out a bald head or feel uncomfortable. And while I know it must have been strange for her to see her aunt bald when she’s only ever known me with hair, she never made it awkward. Not that I expected her to be mean—she’s just not that way—but I do look very different than I have the past 11 years of her life. She really is my best little buddy.

    We did sit down and talk about what I’m going through—the medicine, the chemo, how it changes my mind and body, and the side effects. Even though they’ve been relatively mild, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to do sleepovers for about seven months. Most importantly, I made sure she knew that even though I’m on this journey, I am going to come out the other side healthy. I told her I fully plan to be around for at least a few more decades—to have fun and, of course, lovingly torment her in true Auntie Naenae fashion.

    Even though I have one of the best nieces ever, I was still dreading this conversation. But I can’t lie to or keep things from my best little buddy. She deserved to hear it directly from me—why things have been different, why Naenae hasn’t been the same lately. Seeing how well she handled it was such a relief. And when she looked at me, I could tell that when I said I’m going to be okay, she believed me.

    I also told her that if she ever hears upsetting stories from classmates or sees something scary in a movie or TV show that is cancer related, she needs to remember that everyone’s situation is different. She knows she can call or text me anytime if she feels scared or upset.

    I don’t think she truly realizes—no matter how often I tell her—just how much she means to me. Yes, I absolutely ran away when she picked up a garter snake, but I would step in front of a bullet for her without hesitation. She changed my life over a decade ago.

    I will fight through this for myself, for Mark, for my parents, and for everyone in my family—but mostly for her. She was my first niece, and I honestly don’t think I’d be the person I am today without my little best buddy in my life.

  • Understanding Chemotherapy Side Effects: My Experience

    This chapter of my life has been defined by vigilance—listening closely to my body, protecting my health, and navigating a constant undercurrent of fear.

    I can’t go out and do many things, and there are many things I’m afraid to do—especially anything that involves people who could get me sick. Do I sound like a hypochondriac? Yes. But it’s warranted.

    With my immune system weakened and fighting even harder than usual, every pain and ache has to be reported to my cancer care team so they can assess it, sort for urgency, and prepare next steps for diagnosis. For months, I had a persistent sensation that something was caught in my throat, making it painful to swallow. My team prescribed medication in case it was chemo-related sores or thrush. When that didn’t help, I was referred to an ENT.

    And when I say I was referred, I know what that really meant: get evaluated for throat cancer.

    Thankfully, that was ruled out. Instead, it turned out to be sinus drainage irritating my vocal cords from above, combined with acid reflux—something chemo makes worse—irritating them from below. A true team effort – just not the kind you want.

    My knees ache even after short walks, and I get random muscle pains that come and go. These symptoms are actually pretty common with chemotherapy, which is comforting in a “great, I’m officially textbook” kind of way. More unsettling is the neuropathy: pain that feels like my veins are filled with menthol, while other areas feel intensely hot, like a heating pad pressed directly against my skin on high. That may not sound so bad, but when it’s something you’ve never felt before, it can be scary – especially when your brain’s default setting is now assume the worst, then verify.

    This side effect is new for my care team, which didn’t surprise me too much. Many of the symptoms and reactions I’ve had so far haven’t been typical. Recently, these hot-and-cold neuropathy sensations have turned into persistent headaches. They aren’t really painful—just ongoing and annoying. But since I’ve been dealing with them for about two months, I now have a head MRI scheduled to rule out anything concerning. I’m not overly worried, but it will be a relief to eliminate the more serious possibilities, instead of letting my mind run wild at 2 a.m.

    And then there are the hot flashes.

    Oh boy. What a bitch!

    One minute you’re sitting there, minding your own business, feeling relatively human. The next, it’s like your internal thermostat has been hijacked by a feral toddler who just discovered the HELL setting and refuses to let go. Comfortable warmth becomes a myth. A fairy tale. A thing that happens to other people.

    You are no longer a person—you are a human microwave, cooking from the inside out. Your organs are sautéing. Your soul is sweating.

    You take a cold shower, convinced this will fix things. Minutes later, you look like you ran a marathon in a sauna while wearing a snowsuit. The heat radiates off you so aggressively that people within a three-foot radius start questioning their own body temperature.

    Then, without warning, your body realizes it has wildly overreacted.

    The crazy toddler slams the dial straight to ARCTIC TUNDRA. You are suddenly drenched, shivering, and desperately hunting for the sweater you ripped off moments earlier—the same sweater you were fully prepared to light on fire out of spite. You stand there, wet and shaking, wondering how one body can experience every climate on Earth in under five minutes.

    Every year, from Halloween through Christmas, I’m prone to sinus infections. Normally they’re annoying but manageable. When you have cancer, however, even a mild sinus infection is enough to postpone chemo until you’re better. It feels like living inside one long anxiety attack. You’re trying to avoid people, monitor symptoms, and not catch anything, all while worrying that a stuffy nose might derail your entire treatment timeline.

    Despite everything, I finished my first round of chemotherapy today—four weeks later than expected.

    I understand why it worked out this way, and I deeply respect my incredible cancer care team for prioritizing my safety. Still, it’s hard not to feel disappointed when you don’t move through treatment by the date you had envisioned.

    As my triage nurse reminded me, “Peace of mind makes a huge difference too.”

    I’m learning that getting through this safely matters more than getting through it quickly. This isn’t how I planned it, but it’s where I am – and for now, that has to be enough.