Tag: BreastCancerAwareness

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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.

The next few weeks were a blur. Work emails piled up while appointments and tests became the new normal. At first, the doctors talked about a lumpectomy — something small and manageable. But then my genetics testing came back. I have an ATM mutation, which not only raises my risk of a second breast cancer but also increases the likelihood of pancreatic, ovarian, and colon cancers. Because of that, the doctors recommended a double mastectomy.

Hearing that was… a lot. My family and boyfriend were terrified for me — it’s major surgery, after all — and I wanted reconstruction, too. But my first instinct was to put up walls. I masked my fear with jokes.

“Hey, I’m getting new boobs!”
“Gravity won’t win this time!”

They laughed. I laughed. It was easier than saying, I’m scared out of my mind.

Even though I tried to keep it light, the truth was that every day felt like a constant balancing act. Learning a new job, dealing with medical decisions, and processing the “what ifs” of my diagnosis all at once was exhausting. But I kept moving forward — step by step, appointment by appointment, email by email — trying to hold it together for everyone, while secretly holding it together for myself, too.

For months, I knew something was off. I felt sick all the time — bone-deep exhaustion, weight swinging up and down, my appetite disappearing, and a creeping sadness I couldn’t shake. But every time I spoke to a doctor, I was brushed off. No one seemed to take me seriously.

Finally, I found one who actually looked me in the eye and listened. Relief hit me like a ton of bricks. He ran tests. Then more tests. Each one came back normal. Each one said I was healthy. Again and again. But I knew I wasn’t.

One night, lying awake, I realized I hadn’t done my first mammogram yet. My cousin had breast cancer, and I’d always told myself I’d get to it later. Suddenly, “later” felt dangerous. I made an appointment the next morning.

A few days prior, I’d received a call for a job interview — life’s weird sense of timing. My interview and first mammogram were scheduled for the same Monday. The day before, I decided to give myself a little confidence boost with a spray tan. I’ve done plenty before, so I walked in feeling like a pro. What I didn’t count on was the brand-new employee behind the counter. Somehow, my usual “sun-kissed bronze” turned into “back-from-a-month-in-the-Sahara.”

So that Monday, I strutted into my interview looking… darker than usual. I smiled, held my head high, and answered every question like I belonged there — hoping they’d focus on my résumé, not the fact that I looked like I’d been slow-roasted on a rotisserie.

The moment it ended, I rushed straight to my mammogram, still in my snazzy interview outfit and solar-powered tan. The waiting room was quiet, but I could feel the warm kindness in the air — that soothing, professional kind that somehow makes you both comforted and terrified at the same time. I sat there with my hands clenched in my lap, staring at the carpet, waiting for my name to be called. I came back a few days later for a biopsy.

That week, my phone became a lifeline and a weapon — calls about the job, calls from the doctor’s office. By Friday, I had a new job — and breast cancer.

When the doctor said the words, I didn’t cry at first. I just nodded; my body and mind went numb. For a second, I thought, Okay. This is just another problem I have to solve. And then the tears came.

Walking into the Cancer Center for the first time, I couldn’t let my guard down. I looked at my mom’s face — fear, heartbreak, and love all rolled into one. Instead of falling apart, I made myself stronger. If I crumbled, she would too. I told myself I was protecting everyone else.

Sometimes what looks like strength is just the brave face we put on when we’re scared out of our minds.