There’s one thing I regret this past year, and that’s putting on a brave face for everyone.
I didn’t want to break down every day. But now I feel like hiding so much of the pain and fear made things worse. People saw me pushing through, and somewhere along the way, that became the idea that I was okay.
I wasn’t. And I’m still not.
The truth is, this has been the hardest thing I have ever dealt with. I’m scared. I’m exhausted. And I’m tired of keeping those feelings tucked away instead of showing what this has really been like.
I heard my early diagnosis while I was still lying on the biopsy table. Then I sat at the Cancer Center listening to the treatment plan and my five-year survival rate. At 42, I was having to think about the possibility of dying.
Then I had my breasts carved out and implants put in that look nothing like the boob job people might imagine. I had tubes coming out of my chest, with plastic bulbs hanging from them to collect lymphatic fluid. Those bulbs had to be emptied two or three times a day.
I lost part of my breast to necrosis. I had to look at tissue dying and turning black on my own body while I waited to get into surgery. Do you know what that does to you? To have to see that, live with that, and wait?
Every surgery meant more pain, more healing, and more time when I couldn’t move freely or do things for myself.
Then came months of chemotherapy. My very first infusion sent me into anaphylactic shock. After that, every treatment came with the anxiety of wondering whether it would happen again. I had to keep showing up for something that had already terrified me.
And while I was getting through those treatments, I was dreading the next round: the “Red Devil.” I had been told how hard it was on the body. I had read about it. I had plenty of time to be afraid before it even started.
Then it started, and after each infusion, I actually felt like I was dying.
I don’t think I can describe that feeling in a way that makes someone understand it if they haven’t felt it themselves. It was terrifying. It was absolutely draining. And I had to go back and do it again.
Then came radiation.
Lying there for the treatments was manageable at first. Halfway through, my skin started burning and breaking down. Imagine getting the worst sunburn of your life and then continuing to lie out in the sun every single day.
The blisters were intense, painful, and disgusting. This was my chest. My skin. My body that had already been through so much.
I finally healed about two weeks after I rang the bell.
Ringing that bell was an emotional milestone. I had so many people show their support and tell me how proud they were that I had made it through such intense surgeries and treatments. That meant so much to me.
But here’s what hurts: so many people act like ringing that bell meant my cancer journey was over.
It is not over.
I’m still not myself. I’m still healing from everything those treatments did to me. I still have more surgeries to go. I’m still getting poked, stuck, scanned, and cut up. I’m still taking pills to keep my chances of living higher.
I’m still fighting cancer.
I want to be clear: I’m not angry at the people in my life. I’m angry at myself for putting on a brave face and showing toughness instead of letting people see what was really happening to me. I showed them what I could handle, but not how much it was hurting me to handle it.
I wish I had let them see more of the fear, the pain, and the breakdowns. They saw me pushing through because that’s what I showed them. Now, when people think it’s over, it hurts—and I regret hiding so much of the reality when I still need them to understand how hard this is.
I am still worried about dying. I am still scared that cancer will show up again in my tests and scans. I still have days when I have no energy and moments when I feel like I’m going to pass out.
I’m 43 years old, and every day I can’t find the energy to keep moving makes me feel like I’m losing my chance to live whatever life I have left. I want to do things. I want to enjoy my life. I don’t want so much of it to be spent exhausted, recovering, waiting for appointments, or being afraid of what comes next.
My survival rate is above 80%. Yes, that’s good. I know that.
But it isn’t 100%.
And that uncertainty is terrifying to me every day. I can’t just put it out of my mind because treatment reached a milestone. Those numbers stay with me. The fear stays with me.
I’m grateful for the love and support I’ve received. I also need people to hear how much I am still hurting.
I need room to be angry. To be scared. To cry. To say that this is awful and unfair and that I am tired of having to endure it. I need to let myself show those feelings instead of swallowing them and trying to look tough.
I don’t want to put on a brave face anymore.
I want the people I love to see me and understand that I am still in this. I still need them. And just because I’ve managed to carry it doesn’t mean it hasn’t been crushing me.