Tag: breast-cancer

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.

I’ve been watching videos from influencers and reading cancer related articles lately, and so many of them are loud, frightening, and incredibly dramatic. If you—or someone you love—is navigating a cancer journey, this kind of content can turn every meal into an anxiety attack. Suddenly you’re questioning everything:

“Is this fruit too sweet?”
“Should I feel guilty about eating toast with jelly?”

Let’s all take a deep breath and look at the bigger picture: how can we gently support our bodies?

The idea that “sugar feeds cancer” is one of those concepts that’s been blown way out of proportion. Yes, cancer cells use glucose (sugar) for energy—but so does every other cell in your body. Your brain needs glucose to think. Your heart needs it to beat.

When we receive a cancer diagnosis, it’s easy to become hyper-focused on “starving” the cancer by cutting out every carbohydrate and every gram of sugar. Unfortunately, that often ends up starving us—of the energy we need to stay strong through treatment and recovery. Perfection isn’t the goal. Balance is. A steady blood sugar level helps the body feel calmer, stronger, and more capable of healing.

The real issue isn’t sugar itself—it’s the environment created by a diet high in refined and added sugars. When we consume a lot of processed sweets, the body releases more insulin. Persistently high insulin levels can act like Miracle-Gro for some cancer cells. Over time, excess added sugar can also contribute to increased body fat, hormone changes, and inflammation.

What I’ve taken away from all of this is the importance of limiting added sugars, not eliminating sugar altogether. It’s about choosing “slow” sugars—like whole grains, vegetables, and fruits—over “fast” sugars like candy, soda, and white bread.

Instead of spending so much energy thinking about what you can’t eat, shift your focus to what you can add to your plate to help your body defend itself:

Brightly colored fruits and vegetables
Spinach, broccoli, carrots, berries, citrus, and peppers are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals that support healthy cells and overall resilience.

The beauty of fiber
Steel-cut or rolled oats, lentils, and beans act like a slow-release energy pill. Fiber helps prevent blood sugar spikes and crashes, supports digestion, and nourishes a healthy gut. I’ve even opened my boyfriend’s eyes to the wonders of fiber—and I don’t think he’s looking back anytime soon.

Our friends, the anti-inflammatories
Life is stressful enough without added inflammation—and cancer thrives in inflammatory environments. Small dietary swaps can make a big difference: use olive oil instead of butter, add fresh ginger to tea, sprinkle ground flaxseed on breakfast or salads, and include omega-3–rich foods when possible.

A resilient diet doesn’t have to be restrictive. Food is more than fuel or medicine—it’s comfort and connection. If you’re going through treatment and the only thing that sounds good—or stays down—is a big bowl of mashed potatoes or a milkshake, that’s okay. One meal does not define your health.

The bigger picture matters most: a pattern that’s mostly whole foods, with room for flexibility and enjoyment—without guilt. Aim to fill about two-thirds of your plate with vegetables, add lean protein, and choose whole grains when you can. And when you can’t, don’t beat yourself up.

Focus on changing the “soil” of your body—making it a place where healthy cells can thrive.

Disclaimer: This post is for informational purposes only. Everybody is different, and you should always consult your oncologist or healthcare team for guidance tailored specifically to you.

During my diagnosis and treatment, I have encountered many terms and phrases that were unfamiliar to me and required a quick lookup. To make things easier for others navigating a breast cancer diagnosis, I wanted to compile a list of common breast cancer terms and define them in a clear, easy-to-understand way. If there are any additional words or phrases, you’d like me to include, please feel free to let me know.

Benign
A tumor that is not cancerous and does not spread.

BRCA
Short for BReast CAncer gene mutation. BRCA1 and BRCA2 mutations increase a person’s risk of developing breast and other cancers.

Biopsy
A procedure where a small sample of tissue, cells, or fluid is removed and tested to determine if cancer is present.

Chemotherapy
A cancer treatment that uses drugs to kill cancer cells or slow their growth. Because it travels through the bloodstream, it affects the whole body. Chemo can be given through an IV or as pills—both are equally effective.

Chemo Brain
A term used to describe memory issues, brain fog, or trouble concentrating that can happen during or after chemotherapy.

Dense Breasts
Breasts with more fibrous and glandular tissue than fat. Dense tissue can increase breast cancer risk and make mammograms harder to read.

Docetaxel
A chemotherapy drug in the taxane family used to treat several cancers, including breast cancer. It works by stopping cancer cells from dividing.

Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS)
A non-invasive breast cancer where abnormal cells are found only inside the milk ducts. DCIS is considered Stage 0 breast cancer.

Grade
A measure of how abnormal cancer cells look under a microscope.

• Grade 1 (Low): Slow growing
• Grade 2 (Intermediate): Moderate growth
• Grade 3 (High): Fast-growing and more likely to spread

Herceptin (Trastuzumab)
A targeted therapy drug used to treat HER2-positive breast cancer.

HER2
A protein that helps breast cells grow.

• HER2-positive / HER2-low: Higher-than-normal levels that can cause faster cancer growth; treated with targeted therapy
• HER2-negative: Normal levels; targeted HER2 therapies are not effective

Hormonal Therapy
Treatment that blocks estrogen or progesterone, hormones that can fuel some breast cancers. Not effective for triple-negative breast cancer.

In Situ
Latin for “in its original place.” Cancer that has not spread.

Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC)
A rare, aggressive form of breast cancer that affects the skin and lymph vessels of the breast. Often diagnosed at Stage 3.

Infusion
Medication delivered slowly into the body through a vein, commonly used for chemotherapy and targeted therapies.

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC)
The most common type of breast cancer. Cancer begins in the milk ducts and spreads into surrounding breast tissue.

Invasive Lobular Cancer (ILC)
Cancer that begins in the milk-producing lobules and can spread to nearby tissue and beyond.

Lobular Carcinoma In Situ (LCIS)
Not cancer, but a condition that increases future breast cancer risk. Often monitored closely and sometimes treated with hormone therapy.

Lumpectomy
Surgery that removes the tumor and a small margin of surrounding tissue while preserving most of the breast.

Lymphedema
Swelling caused by damage to the lymph system, often affecting the arm, breast, or chest after lymph node removal.

Malignant
Cancerous and capable of spreading.

Mammogram
An X-ray of the breast used to detect cancer.

• Screening mammogram: Routine check with no symptoms
• Diagnostic mammogram: More detailed imaging when something looks suspicious

Mastectomy
Surgical removal of one or both breasts. There are several types, including total, skin-sparing, nipple-sparing, and bilateral mastectomy.

Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC)
Stage 4 breast cancer, meaning the cancer has spread to other parts of the body. While not curable, it is treatable.

Oncotype DX
A lab test that helps predict the chance of breast cancer recurrence and whether chemotherapy will be beneficial.

Palliative Care
Specialized care focused on relieving symptoms and improving quality of life, alongside active cancer treatment.

PET Scan
An imaging test that uses a tracer to help detect cancer spread throughout the body.

Preventative (Prophylactic) Mastectomy
Removal of one or both breasts to reduce cancer risk, often chosen by people with BRCA mutations.

Prognosis
A doctor’s estimate of how a disease may progress and respond to treatment.

Radiation
Treatment that uses high-energy rays to kill cancer cells in a specific area of the body.

Reconstruction
Surgery to rebuild the breast after mastectomy using implants or the patient’s own tissue.

Recurrence
Cancer that returns after treatment.

• Local: Same breast
• Regional: Nearby lymph nodes
• Distant: Spread to other organs (Stage 4)

Red Devil
Nickname for the chemotherapy drug doxorubicin, named for its red color and strong side effects.

Stage
Describes how large the cancer is and how far it has spread (Stages 0–4).

Tamoxifen
A hormone therapy drug taken for several years to reduce the risk of breast cancer recurrence.

Targeted Therapy
Treatment that attacks specific proteins on cancer cells to stop their growth.

Thriver
A term often used by people living with metastatic breast cancer to describe living fully with the disease.

Triple-Negative Breast Cancer (TNBC)
Breast cancer that lacks estrogen, progesterone, and HER2 receptors. Hormone therapy is ineffective; chemotherapy is the main treatment.

Tumor
A mass of abnormal cells that can be benign or malignant.

Ultrasound
An imaging test that uses sound waves to evaluate suspicious areas in the breast.

When dealing with any health issue, it is critical to advocate for yourself.

In my experience with Stage 2 breast cancer, the majority of people I’ve encountered—from the front desk staff to the physicians at my medical center—have been warm, compassionate, knowledgeable, and deeply empathetic. That said, every system has its bad apples. Occasionally, you will encounter professionals who simply don’t meet those standards. In those moments, it’s essential to know what you need, to know when to say “no,” and to take action by clearly communicating your expectations to your medical team.

My current care team is incredible. I truly love them all. My surgeon is exceptional, my plastic surgeon is phenomenal, and the nurses are attentive, compassionate, and thorough. My reconstruction is still settling and will take about a year to fully heal, but my scarring is minimal and even my chemo port is barely noticeable. Most importantly, my oncologist is on top of everything. She actively manages my chemotherapy side effects, listens when I need to vent, and understands how cancer impacts every aspect of daily life. She is present, responsive, and supportive in every way.

That was not always my experience.

Before finding my current oncologist, I worked with one who left me feeling confused, devastated and unheard. During appointments, she wouldn’t sit down and explain things in simple terms. Instead, she would read paperwork to me word for word—documents I already had—without offering context or explanation. I often left her office knowing less about my cancer than when I walked in. In fact, I didn’t even know the stage or grade of my cancer until I met my new oncologist. That is completely unacceptable!

The final straw was how my chemotherapy options were presented. When patients are sick—especially when they are fighting cancer—bedside manner and empathy are not optional. Words matter. When discussing treatment options, the focus should be on survival rate, not fear. There is a significant difference between saying, “This treatment gives you a 70% survival rate,” versus “You have a 30% chance of dying.” While mathematically similar, emotionally they are worlds apart.

If you’ve never had cancer, this may seem like a small distinction. But when you are already fighting for your life, communication matters. The words we hear should communicate hope and clarity—not fear.

For me, that was enough to say, “No more,” and request a new oncologist. If your doctors don’t make you feel informed, supported, and comfortable, you have the right to speak up and ask for a different provider or care team member.

Educate yourself. Write down symptoms, questions, and concerns before appointments. The cancer experience can be overwhelming, and it’s easy to forget details in the moment. Consider bringing a trusted friend or family member to take notes and provide support. Ask your doctors to simplify explanations when needed. Ask questions about tests, scans, medications, supplements, and upcoming procedures. This is your life—and there are never too many questions to ask.

If something doesn’t feel right, you have every right to ask for a second opinion. Know your type of cancer, your stage, and your grade.

Ask for help. This journey is long and difficult, and no one should have to walk it alone. Cancer takes an emotional toll, and support groups or therapy can be invaluable parts of your care.

One thing I notice often at the cancer center is how many seniors attend appointments alone. I know it’s not always possible to be there, but if you can, please check in on them. See if they need help, support, or someone to advocate on their behalf when they cannot.

Advocating for yourself does not mean being confrontational or aggressive. It means finding a medical team that aligns with your emotional and physical needs—one that gives you the best possible chance to navigate this journey with confidence, dignity, and hope.

We are strong! We are Warriors!

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Allergic Reactions.
Exactly what a cancer patient wants to deal with.

Unfortunately, allergic reactions during chemotherapy are somewhat common—though some of us seem determined to raise that bar. Take Taxol, for example. About 30% of patients experience an allergic reaction, usually within the first 15 minutes. Taxol is a very common chemotherapy drug, used to treat breast, ovarian, lung, and Kaposi sarcoma cancers. More than one million patients have received Taxol as part of their treatment.

So, by my math, roughly 700,000 people didn’t have a reaction. That’s a nice number!

Apparently, I’ve been walking under ladders nonstop lately, because everything I touch turns to… well, definitely not gold. I didn’t just land in that 30%—I slashed the “15 minutes” down to four. No, no prize necessary, thank you very much. After that little excitement, my doctors switched me to Taxol’s cooler cousin: Paclitaxel.

Each chemotherapy infusion begins with a cocktail of pre-medications administered by the nurses: Pepcid, steroids, and Benadryl. This pre-med regimen exists for an important reason—to reduce side effects and prevent reactions—and the nurses are vigilant throughout the infusion. They monitor patients closely and are fully prepared to intervene immediately if a reaction occurs, which provides an enormous amount of reassurance when things go sideways.

The steroids, while known for weight gain (for some of us, excessive weight gain), are the MVPs of the pre-med lineup. They block nausea triggers, calm the immune system like a mom handling a misbehaving child— “Dex-ametha-sone, don’t make me come over there or so help me!!”— reduce inflammation and flip on the appetite switch. Pro tip: have your favorite cancer-friendly foods ready, because once you sleep off the Benadryl, it might get real.

Benadryl helps prevent allergic reactions. Pepcid prevents heartburn—or at least downgrades it from a full inferno to a “mild salsa.” It’s still there, but you don’t feel like you’re melting from the inside out.

As of today, I’ve completed 10 of 12 Paclitaxel infusions. Aside from the initial and lovely reaction, I’ve had three additional mini reactions after the drug was already fully in my system. This has baffled my new nurse friends—but not in the fun, “Oh hey, that’s interesting” way. More like I’m the overachiever or the difficult customer uncovering glitches the manufacturers didn’t even know existed.

Or maybe my immune system is the Gordon Ramsay of immune systems, sending the drug back to the kitchen screaming,
“What the @#!&, it’s RAW!!”*

On the days I don’t have a reaction, those are genuinely good days. I wish—and I’m pretty sure the nurses wish too—that we knew the common denominator on the rashy days.

I can still see the look on my nurse’s face as she watches red bumps and a rash creep down my neck to my chest, the redness at my knuckles spreading across the backs of my hands and up my forearms. All the while, I’m wearing a slightly tortured expression as I fight the overwhelming urge to itch. Be strong!!

Then there’s the look on Mark’s mom’s face. The chemo machine alerts that it is finished, only for the red tint on my skin to grow more pronounced. She quietly puts her belongings back down in utter defeat. We have 45 more minutes to go now.

That’s when we start talking about the next chemo drugs I’ll begin next month—eight weeks, every other week. Mark’s mom is with me as we ask about pre-meds for AC chemo.

“Well, usually we just administer steroids.”

“No Benadryl?”

“No, not usually… but with Renae—”

Touché, Nurse Tanya. Touché.

So, I press on and continue to fight the fight—red bumps, itchy rashes, and all.

The ages we’re told to get screened for different cancers often sound so clear and official, like they’re set in stone. But really, they’re more like guidelines. Every person is unique, with their own mix of genetics, risks, and life experiences.

For years, doctors told me the recommended age for mammogram screenings was 40. That’s what I’d always heard. But what I didn’t know is that women and men should actually start discussing risk assessments and screening options as early as age 25. And honestly, women and men shouldn’t hesitate to bring it up even earlier if they feel something is off or their risk is higher.

I made the same mistake so many of us make with doctor appointments: I put it off. I kept saying life was too crazy, work was too hectic, I didn’t have time, it was “on my list.” Meanwhile, I forgot something important — our bodies don’t wait for a calm week on our calendar. Our bodies are fragile, and things can change without warning. Viruses, diseases… they don’t care if we’re busy. And when something harmful shows up, our bodies go through hell trying to get rid of that uninvited guest.

Cancer begins when a cell’s DNA gets damaged, but often the exact cause of that damage is unknown. According to the American Cancer Society, about 5–10% of breast cancer cases are hereditary. Most people have heard of BRCA1 and BRCA2, but there are over 90 identified genes that can mutate and turn a healthy cell into a cancerous one.

Environmental and lifestyle factors play a role too: being overweight, being inactive, smoking, drinking, some plastics, pesticides, air pollutants — the list goes on. And I’m not going to pretend I was a picture of perfection. I drank for years. A lot at first. I smoked cigarettes for about eight years and vaped for twelve. By all accounts, you’d think lifestyle would’ve played a bigger part in my diagnosis.

But after all the testing I’ve done this year, my doctors are confident my cancer developed because of genetics — that small percentage we like to believe won’t apply to us. Because aside from that, my health is actually great. My liver, kidneys, and heart are in solid shape. My lungs look amazing. And still… here we are.

My point is this: even a small percentage is still a chance.

Don’t wait until you “hit the right age.” Don’t wait until you finally have time. Don’t wait until something feels wrong. Get checked. Ask questions. Start the conversation early. The sooner something is found, the sooner treatment can begin — and early detection truly makes a difference.

Whether it runs in your family or you’re worried you put your body through a little too much in your younger years, get screened. Your future self will thank you.

And one more thing: mammograms aren’t what they used to be. Technology has improved, and the doctors and technicians go above and beyond to make the process as gentle and comfortable as possible while still getting the clearest images.

Your health is worth the appointment.
Your life is worth the early check.

Before chemo, I cut my hair really short—a slow goodbye to the version of me I used to know. It’s been two months. I haven’t gone completely bald yet, but I look like Captain Hook after his wig is yanked off by Peter Pan in Hook. The short hair sprouts might have worked on Dustin Hoffman—but not so much on me.

Hair aside, my body had its own ideas. After my double mastectomy, I developed what people jokingly call a “Pooh belly” or “Swelly belly,” thanks to my body reacting to surgery and my lymphatic system throwing a little tantrum. And when chemotherapy kicked in, that little belly graduated to full-on “Chemo belly.” I have now promoted it to “battle belly”—fully padded for emotional combat.

And then comes the guilt. The voice that says, “you should be grateful just to be alive.” And I am. I truly am. But grief doesn’t always make sense. You can be thankful and still mourn what’s been taken from you.

This really isn’t about vanity—but instead, it’s a profound crisis of identity. My body has been cut, scarred, foob stuffed and swollen into something unrecognizable. The hardest losses being the subtle ones: wondering if I’ll be seen through this damage, hesitating before the mirror, the way my movements feel clumsy, the painful distance of intimacy.

I miss feeling strong, beautiful, whole. I miss being me.

While friends post vacation photos and celebrate promotions, I’m learning to read scan results and figure out which foods won’t make me nauseous. I track side effects like little work projects — pills lined up on the kitchen table, notes on fatigue, nerve pain, and the deep ache that sleep doesn’t always fix. My cup of bone broth has replaced my morning coffee, a small ritual that somehow helps me feel grounded. I even have a book on meals designed to help fight cancer and ease chemo side effects, which I follow when I can. This is my new “normal”. I get up each day and keep going.

There’s a rhythm now, even in the chaos. My cat curls up beside me during rest breaks, and I notice the difference between “tired” and “chemo tired.” Each infusion feels like stepping into a storm I can’t control, and yet, walking out the other side reminds me I’m a little stronger every time.

Friends and family text and call to check in, and even if I don’t always reply right away, those messages remind me I’m not alone. Life runs on a different schedule now — built around healing, appointments, and the little moments that make me feel like myself again.

I write this blog to breathe, to give my thoughts a home when they don’t fit neatly into conversations. I don’t have all the answers, and some days are heavier than others, but I notice the small, ordinary things that still bring joy — a funny meme, a text from a friend or family member, a meal that finally sits right.

Maybe healing isn’t about going back to who I was. Maybe it’s about becoming someone stronger, softer, and more certain of what really matters — one day, one treatment, one hopeful breath at a time.