Home

Our family is reunited and it is. So. Good.

No pics because we don’t share pictures of the girls online. But trust me when I say that there were tears, and smiles and so many hugs.

Also, I made a carrot cake from scratch.

That is all. ❤️

Last day of chemo

It’s almost a week later (how is that possible?) and I still don’t have adequate words.

Look at how my family showed up for me to ring the bell” for my last chemo treatment. One of the nurses even snuck a picture of me watching them gather outside while I was getting treatment. Their shirts say “Future Survivor Squad.” I received a bunch of pictures of family members wearing their own squad shirts all over the country.

Then when we got home, friends and family from all over had also showed up with cards and posters and messages of love. My Sister is the master of planning and the GOAT (the Greatest Of All Time, of course).

To everyone who sent a text message, a DM, sent a poster or showed up in person, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I love you so much and I can’t tell you how much it means to have your support.

I love you so much. ❤️

Even in the midst of Covid and cancer, no one walks this journey alone.

Onward.

We made it to July

It’s July and I have just two more days until my last chemo treatment.

I have such a strange relationship with time now. If this global pandemic has taught us anything, it’s that time is completely made up anyway. What does five months feel like? How much longer does it feel when the world changes so completely many times over during those five months? I have no answers, only questions.

My body feels like it has aged a decade in the past few months. It probably has. Jerry Seinfeld had a stand up routine in the late 90s called I’m Telling You For The Last Time*. Sean and I listened to it in the car on cassette tape so many times we have the whole damn thing memorized. We still quote it incessantly. Anyway, Seinfeld has a bit in there where he talks about pain killers and how we all want MAXIMUM STRENGTH. There is no strength anymore, just maximum. “Figure out what’s going to kill me, and then back it off a little.” I think about that line a lot.

Now it feels a bit jarring to start to plan for things that can finally happen post-chemo. I’m not going wild, mind you. We are still living in a global pandemic and I have surgery coming up.

I mean, I’m talking about things like arranging to have our furniture that we ordered in February to be delivered. Or finally scheduling my car to be serviced. I know. Crazy times at the Weaves’. But we’ve had to go to pretty extreme measures to keep our house a safe space for me.

I have only left the house for our neighborhood walks and to go to chemo treatment. I tried once to take the girls to the park near our house to ride bikes and walk around the path that circles it. I lasted less than 10 minutes because no one was wearing masks and people kept showing up and walking the opposite direction of the rest of the crowd. (Can we take a moment to collectively recognize that, if everyone walks the same direction, it’s infinitely better? If you walk in the opposite direction of everyone else, you pass each other TWICE for every trip around the circle. Make it make sense, people. Also, wear a damn mask.)

I’m still wiping every delivered grocery item down with Clorox before it comes in the door. I know that experts say it isn’t really necessary, but it makes me nervous to think about not doing it. Even if it doesn’t do much good, the ritual makes me feel like I’m doing something. Years from now, the girls’ kids will ask why Grandma wipes all the groceries down when they’re delivered.

Anyway, I’m excited to think about life past chemo. It has been hard to live in a cycle of vulnerability for so long. Chemo - vulnerable - start recovering - do it all again a week later. After this Wednesday, I’ll get to start recovering and keep recovering. The journey is far from over, but we can move on from this chapter.

I’m nervous about it. But I’m also celebrating. BIG TIME.

We’re celebrating. Our family reunites in just over a week. When the girls started their paper chain, it stretched all the way around the door. And now look where we are.

We’re definitely celebrating. And thinking a lot about what comes next.

* You really gotta see/hear his bit on the horses. It makes me cry laugh every time.

Two more miles

When my sister and I were little, we used to take long road trips from where we lived in Boise to visit family in Oregon. My sister was a baby and, as legend goes, would hold it together until we were just outside of our destination. Necessity being the mother of invention, my genius parents invented the “Two More Miles” song. To call it a song is probably a bit generous, as basically it consisted of chanting “Two. More. Mi-les. Two. More. Mi-les” over and over again.

I mean this with all sincerity: the Two More Miles song was my favorite part of any car trip.

Of course, I was the big sister then, and not the parent. I have a whole new perspective on the Two More Miles song now. For instance, I always thought that we waited until we had exactly two more miles to go. Now as a parent, I suspect the song could have easily started anywhere past the halfway point.

So, my sister reminded me of the Two More Miles song a few days ago. I’m at Two More Treat-ments. And I find myself identifying most with my sister back then. I’m so close to the end of chemo. I’m so very ready to be done. We’ve come so very far and yet, I’m so very ready to lose my shit.

The side effects are definitely accumulating. And though I have some truly bizarre side effects that I can only attribute to the chemo, the most annoying of all are the persistent headaches.

I’ve mentioned them in my appointments for the last few weeks, which happened to be with two different oncologists. Without even prompting, they both said, “Here’s why I think these headaches are a side effect of the chemo and why I don’t believe these headaches are related to your cancer.” They both know that’s exactly what I need to hear.

I wonder if I will ever have a “normal” ache or pain ever again - one that I simply take some Advil and dismiss as the price of getting older. I doubt it. I’ve read from a lot of cancer survivors that this is one of the things you learn to live with.

What strange questions to have to get used to for the rest of my life: Has the cancer spread? Has the cancer returned? I’ve said before, I don’t trust statistics anymore. Won’t ever again.

The real trick is figuring out how to find co-existence with these questions, but not let them run my life. And just because I figure out how to co-exist with the possibility of cancer returning some day, doesn’t mean I’m inviting it into my life.

Quite a few weeks ago, I was getting ready for a shower and discovered what looked like a growth on the other non-affected side. I had an immediate freak out. How in the hell did I not I see it before? What on earth does this mean? It’s not a typical symptom of breast cancer, so what in the hell? Seriously, what in the hell??

Then the “growth” fell off.

Turns out, it was pumpkin bread that had fallen in to my bra.

So, yeah. That weird ache/pain/growth could be a sign that cancer is coming back. It could also be pumpkin bread in my bra.

Two more treatments.

Two more miles.

The last 100 days

I promised myself I wouldn’t apologize for being “behind” in posting. So let’s start with this: there’s a lot to catch up on. This post is a whole lot of free association, but that’s basically how any conversation with me goes, so buckle up!

I’ve been out here living and pushing through. I started to write “surviving” and some days it feels like that. I want to do more than just survive this time period. But honestly, I’m not even sure what that really looks like some days.

I’m getting close to the end of chemo. Only three treatments left - just 16 more days. I am so ready to be done. I’m tired and I’m Tired. Much more than that, I’m so ready for Sean to be able to come home. It’s been 103 days since we’ve been living apart. (Yeah, I looked it up.)

We’re finally getting close enough to be able to picture an end to this phase, to plan for life beyond chemo. There was a time it felt as if it would last forever. I remember where I was when I figured out that I had exactly 100 days left in treatment and it sent me into a downward spiral because it was then that I realized that Sean probably wouldn’t be able to come home until I was done. There are just so many things I will never again take for granted.

I had an MRI last week. It was the first scan I’ve had since starting chemo and the results were the first official look at how well (or not) the chemo has been working. Add to my list of skills gained during quarantine: changing my nose piercing on my own. You’ll just have to trust me - it’s a lot harder than it looks and I feel like a badass for being able to do it. Also, shout out to my piercing guy/life coach in Kauai (where I first had it done) for FaceTiming with me and sending me the tools I needed.

The MRI results came in the next day, which showed a “near complete resolution” of the tumor in the breast and significant reduction in the lymph nodes as well. Awesome news, for sure. The chemo is working really well. But my biggest question was still unanswered, do they have to take all of my lymph nodes out, which can lead to long-term complications, or has the chemo reduced the cancer enough that we can we safely remove just one or a couple of lymph nodes? This is a big quality of life issue for me long-term. So I emailed my surgeon.

By the way, this is one huge change I’ve noticed. I didn’t hesitate to message her, where in the past I might have felt like I had to wait until my next appointment to ask these questions. I would have spent the next few weeks until then wondering and worrying but for some reason, not feeling like I should/could take control. I would have been afraid to speak up. I can’t emphasize this enough - when it’s your health and your treatment plan, you are in control. Whether they realize it or not, my care team has taught me this.

In the beginning, deciding whether to do chemo before or after surgery was ultimately my call. My oncologist recommended the same chemo regimen that could be completed either before or after surgery. The decision was up to me. This idea terrified me at the time. I didn’t want to have the weight of that decision on my shoulders. Everything was so new and the learning curve was so steep. I just wanted someone who knew what they were talking about bout to tell me what I was supposed to do.

So anyway, my surgeon called me the next day (I knew she would and I love her for that) and confirmed that I am a candidate for a sentinel node biopsy. It’s freaking amazing. Before we started chemo, she and my oncologist put the chances of this outcome at around 15 percent. It’s a huge relief and confirmation that doing chemo before surgery was the right call. Had we known that a global pandemic would happen during chemo, we might have made a different call then. It’s also nice for it to be a good thing to be on the side of long odds.

I have my surgery on the calendar now too (August 4) and it feels really good to have the date secured. It’s reassuring and feels like progress. The surgery will be a double mastectomy regardless, but as I said, now with less involvement for the lymph nodes. Yay again.

My hair is starting to grow back and I think my eyebrows and eyelashes are too. It’s hard to tell because it’s white-white. Apparently this is common when hair starts to grow back post-chemo and it will change to my regular (or maybe new?) color after a while.

I’ve also made a reservation for my very own post-chemo-I-made-it-through-this-unbelievable-circumstance celebration. I’m spending a couple of days (a day and a half, really) completely by myself. I’ve reserved a hotel room on the waterfront near where we live. I might go hiking, I don’t know. If you had told me a few months ago that time completely alone would be how I wanted to celebrate anything, I never would have believed it. Let’s be honest: there’s a lot about the past few months I never would have believed.

I am so looking forward to it.

Onward.

Un-fragile

Black lives matter.

I’ve been quiet here. At least for the past week or two, it has been an intentional pause.

I’ve been watching the protests and I’ve been listening, reading, watching, learning. And I’ve been thinking a lot - and struggling, if I’m honest - to find the balance between taking up space in a conversation that doesn’t need my voice and not remaining silent on something that is so important.

So here’s my awkward invitation to my white family and friends:

We have to talk about this more.

Actually, “more” would suggest that we’re talking about it “some” now. We’re not. I mean, maybe you guys were hanging out before these past few weeks having conversations about racial injustice and white supremacy without me. But I kinda doubt it.

We don’t talk about it because we don’t have to. We don’t have to think about it every single day of our lives.

The work is about unlearning so much of what we think we know. It’s about unpacking. All of this is deeply uncomfortable and unsettling. It’s meant to be. I am learning that allyship is a lifelong process. We can learn and unlearn together.

Now that I think about it, I used the word “invitation” which sounds really polite. But we have to be done with polite too. We’re already WAY late to the game and our “politeness,” it keeps us from having the tough conversations. It makes us think that it’s rude to talk about race. It makes us think that “I don’t see color” is what we should aspire to. It’s not. And it’s not just not rude to talk about race, it’s a violent way of sticking our heads in the sand and ignoring the very real threats that exist for people of color.

I’ve seen hundreds of lists of resources in the past few weeks, but if you’re still looking for where to start, here’s my advice: Start anywhere. Google some shit and get started. It matters less where we get started (though choose your resources wisely) and matters more that we just get started.

We can’t wait to get it perfectly right or be assured that we won’t lose face or be publicly embarrassed by our feeble efforts. It’s not possible to get it perfect. And the longer we wait, the more harm that is done. And you know, perfectionism is a characteristic of white supremacy. It’s another way of avoiding, which brings me to a confession: I’ve written and rewritten this post approximately 100 times.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I feel more comfortable talking about anti-racism in the workplace at HRuprise than talking about being anti-racist in personal settings. Maybe it’s because I’m more practiced. Maybe it’s because I have the ability to hide a bit behind the brand. Maybe it’s because having this kind of conversation with those who are closest feels loaded. Probably mostly the last one. But we have to do this.

There are a hundred million ways that we can be really fragile about these conversations. There’s a whole damn book on it. It’s hard and it’s uncharted territory for a lot of us. But we can’t be fragile about this. People are dying. We’re so late. Let’s get to work.

We have to be un-fragile.

We have to get moving and keep going.

We have to talk about this more.

Artist: Danielle Coke (www.instagram.com/ohhappydani)

Something beautiful

I’m having a day.

The routine of chemo days is firming up. The day before, I get what they call “anticipatory nausea,” which is my body’s way of telling me that we’ve been here/done that before and it doesn’t go that well for us. The other part of the routine is usually a sleepless night the night before. The part that I find so fascinating is that I’ve had a relatively easy go of it, as side effects go. But I suppose it’s understandable after 9 infusions of two kinds of chemo my body would start to grow tired of the whole process.

To be honest, I was kind of an emotional wreck this morning. I dropped the girls off at my sister’s house (Aunt Bebe is the absolute best) and then on the way to the treatment center, I could feel the emotional wave coming. Do you ever get that? This time I could see in the rear view mirror that it was gaining on me.

I got to the treatment center (aka the Cancer Institute, which for some reason makes me think of a bunch of Disney movies) and the wave caught up with me. I listened to a song by Alexi Murdoch that I was recently introduced to. It’s called Something Beautiful. (I highly recommend listening.) That sent me down an Alexi Murdoch rabbit hole and if you know anything about his songs, you know that they’re the perfect choice if you want to let loose a big cry. I chose Orange Sky for this noble purpose. Or maybe it chose me, I’m not sure.

After I was done, I pulled myself together, put my mask on, and headed in. When you come in this frequently, you get to know many of the nurses really well. The nurse who did my blood draw was new to me, and she was lovely, of course. She asked how I was doing and I confessed that it was an emotional day for me, that I was struggling with how long the road was feeling. She then told me that she has gone through chemo twice, and that she knew I would get through it. It is always so different when I hear that from a fellow survivor. She had breast cancer 27 (!) years ago and then again 15 (!) years ago. And here she is, still kicking ass, and of course, in such a giving profession. There she was, a gift from the Universe, at exactly the right moment. I needed so badly to hear her story of survival.

I went back to see the doctor and I got my favorite nurse. She was there on the very first day Sean and I came in. I was so salty to her that day because I was just angry at the world. I was particularly crusty when she wanted to get my weight, which was approximately the sixth time in the past two weeks. I just couldn’t take it one more time. (Also see my post from yesterday.) She couldn’t have been more lovely to me that day and every day since. She even introduced me to the wig maker.

Anyway, I haven’t seen her in a little while and I’ve been meaning to tell her how much her entire approach with me has meant to me. So of course, I chose the day when I’m already at my emotional limit. Good choice. Anyway, I just had to tell her how much she has meant to me. We both cried.

Sean came to sit with me again today. I have no words to adequately express how comforting it is. And he’s famous with the nurses now. When they come to get me from the waiting room, they’re already strategizing about which available seat has the best view of the parking lot for him.

Later when I saw my oncologist, she gave me the most amazing pep talk. I can’t tell you how amazing it was to hear her say, “This part is the hardest. The path feels so long, but you are doing so well. I’m so proud of you and how well you’re doing. We’re all so proud of how well you’re doing.” It was even better than the “superb” I usually get for my nutrition levels.

After a day like this, I did the only sensible thing and I came home, ate a brownie, and drank milk from a wine glass.

Volcanoes

My grandmother asked me a little while ago if I ever asked myself “Why me?” and I answered without hesitation:  "No, I don’t." From the very beginning when I heard the diagnosis, one thought came in to sharp focus: this experience with cancer was here to teach me something. Many things, actually. I felt it at a deep, soul-level.

And from that moment early on, I also knew that one of those lessons was going to be how to change entirely my relationship to my body. I also felt from that same moment, that this might be the hardest of all the lessons. I certainly never anticipated talking about this one publicly. There’s too much shame wrapped up in that one. If I’ve learned anything from Brené Brown, it’s that shame can’t survive being spoken. Shame can’t survive empathy. 

Like so many women I know, this relationship with my body and self-image has been, at very best, complicated for my entire life. With a few exceptions (periods of time that were marked by really unhealthy behaviors) I have never been happy with the size, shape, appearance of my body. Even as I type that now, I’m sad at the truth of that statement. What a waste it is. 

This body threw itself around a volleyball court as a teenager, has run multiple half-marathons, and yes, even though it was the last one up and down, has climbed a volcano in Guatemala (it’s a good story). It has expressed tenderness, anger, and power.  It has traveled the world, and felt the pain of heartbreak and the euphoria of love. Perhaps its greatest accomplishment yet is having grown, birthed, and breastfed two children who take my breath away. 

In fact, the girls’ arrivals opened the door to my acting (if not yet thinking) more compassionately toward my own body. I know that if I want them to grow up with a different relationship with their body, they will watch what I do, not what I say. So, at least around them, I stopped acting self-conscious about how flattering my outfit was or, God forbid, getting in to a swimsuit. The outside world’s expectations will reach them sooner than I want, but at least in our home, they will not learn to put themselves down. And I hope they will learn to love what their bodies are capable of, without getting so caught up with an unrealistic ideal of what their bodies should look like. Up until now, I have felt like a bit of faker. I have been showing them what that looks like without really believing it myself. 

So now, here I am with cancer. 

In the very beginning, my ultimate shame was that I thought I had somehow done something to cause my cancer. I wasn’t sure exactly how - maybe it was the extra pounds I carried since my pregnancies that I could never quite shake, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the Diet Coke. I carried that around for weeks until late one night, Sean picked up on something I said and he stopped me. “You do realize that you didn’t cause this, right? This is the result of some bad cells and you did not cause this.” The dam broke and I cried the biggest, ugliest cry I’ve ever cried. I felt such a massive release in that moment. 

This is not to say that there aren’t healthy lifestyle choices to be made that can give you a better chance at a longer life. Or for that matter, that I could make choices in my life that will give me a better chance at a longer life. Of course there are. But that’s a long way from holding myself responsible for causing this cancer. And I realized that there was a twisted logic to it: if I was responsible for causing the cancer, then there actually was a party responsible, someone/something I could direct my anger and hate toward. And honestly, if I was looking for someone responsible, who better than me, who has had a fraught relationship with this body for 40 years already? 

And even more than that, if I could hold myself responsible for causing the cancer, then I could also be responsible for preventing it from coming back. Of course, neither of these things are true. The process to understanding this started the process of Letting Go.

I know now that I cannot hate my way to self-acceptance any more than I can hate my way to healthy. 

There is a very strange aspect to this type of cancer, which is that I have no physical symptoms at all. There were no pounding headaches or searing pain to alert me to its existence. Nor do I feel the need to be relieved of these kinds of horrific symptoms. All of the physical “evidence” of this disease comes from the treatment - the thing meant to cure me.

I am grateful to have it, but there are so many side effects to my cure.  There are, of course, the obvious ones: nausea and fatigue. There’s also the occasional red face from the steroids, neuropathy, and the possibility of losing my finger and toenails (yeah, yikes). But there are also longer term changes to this body in store for me as well: a massive surgery, burns from radiation, early menopause, and more side effects from hormone therapy I’ll be on for ten years. 

Even though I love a healthy dose of f-bombs, the “fuck cancer” movement/concept doesn’t really resonate for me anymore. I totally get the anger toward cancer and the devastation that it leaves in its wake. I’ve even had the thought when loved ones have been diagnosed with cancer before. "Fuck that!” I’ve thought. I’m angry that they have to go through all of that. But now that I’m here myself, it doesn’t fit quite right. Of course, I want the cancer gone. But there’s much more to it than that for me now. It doesn’t seem like enough. 

In the Healing Light meditation I do, I am asked to visualize a part of my body that needs healing, the part that needs some love. At first, that part was really hard for me - I thought I was being asked to give love to the cancer inside my body. Now I visualize it as giving love to that part of my body. And I visualize healing light surrounding the cancer and completely destroying it. It lights up each and every cell, and then lights up every other cell around it until I’m filled with light. 

It starts with love. 

So, while I’m far from having conquered this particular volcano in my life, I commit to this for myself: I will do all I can to love myself to healthy. 

Mind, soul, and yes, body. 

Thanks to the unsung heroes

Friends, indulge me for a moment and say a prayer of thanks to your nose hairs today.

Among the many “what in the hell?” moments I’ve had along this journey, count this: when you lose your hair from chemo, your nose hairs go too. Who knew?

Cue a constantly drippy and sometimes bloody nose.

Those little nose hair warriors do much more than I knew and we’re all most definitely taking them for granted.

Thank your nose hairs today, for me.

Purple gowns and echos

This phase of my life will be marked by the purple gowns. It has become my uniform for what seem like countless mammograms, MRIs, ultrasounds, doctors’ exams, and yesterday, the echocardiogram. The first time I wore it, I thought the cross front was an attempt to be stylish for women’s health. Silly me. There is no form in this medical universe - only function.

The purpose of the echo was to make I don’t have heart damage from the A/C. Adriamycin (the A in the A/C) is one of the older chemo drugs around, still used because it is so effective against the cancer. It also has a history of causing heart failure, which our family knows all too well. Shortly after Sean and I started dating, his mom Robin was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, which the doctors believe was the result of her taking adriamycin many years earlier to fight cancer as well. Remember when I said I had a vision that Robin came to visit me during my first chemo treatment? This is why. This is our connection with the Red Warrior.

When we found out that adriamycin would be part of my treatment plan, it was understandably, incredibly emotional. My oncologist even conferred with her partners to see if there was an alternative chemo drug that could be used. Final recommendation: it works too well not to use it, especially since we’re aiming for cure.

Doctors know so much more about it now, about how to dose it, how to monitor patients closely. I’m received just over half of the dosage that is considered to begin to cause toxicity to the heart. I had an echo before starting chemo and another one after finishing A/C to keep a close eye on my heart function.

I know all of these things logically. And yet, I still found myself in “scanxiety” mode again, where I convince myself that the worst possible outcome will be in the results. I spent all morning obsessively checking MyChart for the results and had trouble concentrating on anything else.

Around midday, I got a call from my oncologist. “Your heart function is perfect and is even better than before chemotherapy.” My ejection fraction (the number that measures how much blood the left ventricle pumps out with each contraction) actually went up since I started chemo. This measurement is apparently pretty dynamic - think of how blood pressure numbers can change dramatically - but ultimately as long as you’re in the normal range, the higher the number the better. Mine went from the low end of normal to the high end of normal.

This was not what I expected.

The doctors are the ultimate experts, of course, but I’m choosing to hold on to the symbolism of my heart getting stronger since I started chemo. Holy shit, this has been so hard. And I feel some seismic shifts happening in me. All I have to say is, when I’m done with all of this, watch out world.

Took this photo after the echo. It felt like an astonishingly accurate selfie: red face from the steroids, watery eyes from the chemo, marks on my face from the mask, sweatpants wig, smudged makeup, eyebrows and eyelashes still hanging on, if barely. But I’m still here.

By the way, I wore my “Will donate organs to RBG” shirt to the echo. It cracks me up in the same way that listening to “Milkshake” by Kelis nonstop does. Key lyrics: “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”

Halfway point

I’m happy to report that, so far, Taxol has been much easier to handle than A/C. In fact, the day after the infusion, I felt AWESOME. I had so much energy - way more than I had in a long time. I started to make big plans in my head for all the things I wanted to accomplish. And I realized how much I had just been focusing on powering through with A/C. You never really know how miserable you were until you aren’t anymore, right?

Well, the next day, the familiar fatigue came back. And I realized that it was the steroids still hanging on from my premeds that made me feel so awesome the day after. Well, now I know that all plans for world domination will now have to happen on Thursdays going forward.

With A/C, I had to use an app to track all the meds I was taking - all the meds, mind you, that were there to deal with the side effects of the chemo. So far I haven’t had to take anything for Taxol. That by itself is a huge break that I’m grateful for. I didn’t realize how much I took simplicity for granted.

This week also begins week 10, which is the halfway point, not in number of treatments, but number of weeks spent fighting this cancer. Most of them spent in social distancing.

Technically, I guess it’s the end of this week but I hope you’ll forgive me for celebrating these milestones a little early. I’m desperate for the milestones. These days can feel so long.

Seventy-two more to go.

The next round begins

Chemo #5 is in the books. Only (!) eleven more to go. I’m now on a weekly schedule so I’m hoping that helps the time pass faster. Anything to be done with chemo so Sean can come home.

I felt pretty good so I brought out the fancy wig. Felt nice to look kinda back to normal. My eyelashes and eyebrows are still hanging on. So far. And in an ironic turn of events, my leg hair started growing back and I have a few chin hairs still hanging on for dear life. Not cool, Universe.

I started a new chemo drug today (Taxol) that everyone keeps telling me is much easier on the system for most people. I don’t trust statistics anymore to be honest (I was in the minority with this diagnosis, so there you go) but here’s to hoping anyway. I can already tell it’s not as bad as the last four rounds with the A/C. I’ll hold on to that.

Sean “sat with me” again because he’s my lobster:

And oh! I forgot to share the big news: The tumor has shrunk so much that I can’t feel it anymore. As recently as my last appointment, it was still really easy to find. It’s strange to have the last physical evidence of this disease gone, but it’s a welcome change. My new visualization is what’s called pCR - pathologic complete remission - meaning, even microscopically, all the cancer cells are gone. 💥 They will be able to make the determination after my surgery.

Onward.

On keeping score and losing

I’ve lapsed. I have had every intention of writing frequently - of even getting into that habit that so many writers talk about, which is getting up early and writing every day. (What a lovely thought. Anytime I do that, inevitably my alarm wakes up the girls too and it’s totally useless.)

I think about it all the time, what parts of these stories I might tell. And ever since I felt the first pull to tell these stories and, more importantly, to share them, I’ve committed to myself that I would tell the full story, not just the Instagram-worthy version.

I thought I was doing that. But I realize that I really haven’t been.

My first sign was noticing that I feel irritated when people say “You have such a positive attitude!” What a strange reaction to such an innocuous statement. It makes me worry that I’m coming across like Pollyanna, and I have no interest in playing the Glad Game. I really thought that I was sharing the darkness along with the light. But If I was sharing it, all people were hearing what the positive side. I want to be authentic. Pollyanna doesn’t feel even remotely authentic to me. I’ve been wrestling with a lot of darkness.

But, here’s the struggle: In the midst of the darkness, it feels really, really ugly. And what’s the point of sharing the ugliness if I haven’t had time to process through it? I certainly don’t want pity. Or worse, a bunch of people thinking that my reason for sharing was to garner sympathy. Please, God, I don’t ever want to be a Sympathy Whore.

Well, I had an experience recently that gave me some insight into what exactly is the point of sharing the ugliness.

I have resisted most of the dozens of Zoom invites in my inbox every day. Everyone is offering their version of “Navigating the New Normal” and “How to Market in These Unprecedented Times.” Hard pass. But I saw a group call for women with breast cancer and dealing during Covid-19. Boom! Yes, I’d love to talk to other people who are trying to figure out how to live with breast cancer treatment during a global pandemic. So I logged on, and women started sharing their experiences. We’re all complete strangers and yet, we’re connected through this shared experience.

So it came to my turn to share. And I did. I talked about how, just after I started treatment, Sean had to move out to reduce the risk of exposure to the virus. And about how I’d found myself single-parenting our two young girls while going through chemo. I felt compelled to acknowledge that we are coping however we can, by getting creative in seeing each other, and how grateful I am for people who keep showing up for us in ways I never expected. When I got done, the facilitator just said, “Wow.” And then she asked, “Are you able to prioritize yourself and get some time to yourself for self care?”

Umm, that’s a no. I wanted to scream: I am with my children around the clock. They are young and they still think I’m awesome most of the time and that means that they want my attention constantly. The only time I get to myself is when they go to sleep at night and by then, I’m exhausted. I might get in one episode of a grown-up television show before I pass out. Only once have I tried to lock the door when I took a shower just to get 10 minutes of Me Time but LW nearly beat the door down trying to get in. My Me Time became me yelling “I’ll be out in just a minute!” at the top of my lungs every 30 seconds. It feels like the only real Me Time I get is when they’re distracted by either the television or their tablets. If BW gets in some of her schoolwork in that screen time, I feel like it’s been a good day. I let go of expectations and our normal rules around screen time a long time ago, but the mom guilt abides.

But I didn’t say any of that. I just said, “No. I’m not getting a lot of alone time these days.”

Later, another woman shared and she said, “I’m really struggling. I guess I’m going to have to find some inner positivity like others on this call. Because right now, I’m just angry.” I wanted to jump through the screen. I wanted to tell her that I don’t have the inner positivity she thinks I do.

And as I’ve thought about it since then, I’ve realized that this is the point of sharing in the middle of the ugliness: to hear someone else’s story and to have that moment where you say “HELL YES to that!!”

I have fallen into my own version of the Glad Game. My Glad Game’s rules have been pretty simple: For every negative thought or experience I have, I have to counter it with something I’m grateful for.

It’s not that I shouldn’t be grateful for what I/we have. There is much to be grateful for in the midst of all of this. And I fundamentally believe how important it is to acknowledge the multitude ways in which we’re incredibly privileged. All of this is an incredibly important tool in maintaining perspective and not letting the darkness hang on for too long.

But my Glad Game has been holding me back. It’s been holding me back from fully experiencing and exploring the ugliness. It has been stunting my growth. There will be times for acknowledging my gratitude, even daily.

But I don’t have to keep score. Keeping score means that one emotion is not valid without another. I can let each experience stand on its own and fully explore it for whatever it is. And for that matter, I can let each and every emotion I feel stand on its own too.

If I’m playing My Glad Game in my writing, I’m too focused on how others might perceive me. If I’m playing My Glad Game, I’m not writing for myself, which is what I promised myself I would do.

No more Glad Game. No more keeping score.

Buy a mask, donate three to families in Guatemala

I wanted to share an opportunity to support an organization I’ve loved for so long and learned so much from: MAIA (formerly Starfish). If you’ve known me for any length of time, you no doubt know about MAIA. I’ve always said, woe to the person who happens to ask me about MAIA because the conversation will inevitably last for at least an hour. (Yes, I know. It’s a theme of mine.)

MAIA has teamed up with a local organization in Guatemala, Humans in Action, to create masks and create job opportunities for recently unemployed garment workers.

For every mask purchased, Humans in Action will donate three masks to MAIA staff and families of Girl Pioneers. Masks are difficult and expensive to source in rural Guatemala. For many families, masks are out of reach.

Get this: During this pandemic, MAIA has been playing a crucial role in getting public health information out to the indigenous communities in which they operate. The Guatemalan government has been sharing important information, but it is only in Spanish. The majority of the families in the areas MAIA serves speak only local dialects, very rarely Spanish. MAIA staff are now recording public health messages in three major dialects to ensure families stay informed.

I know. This is one more reason why I love this organization. These women are changing the world.

So here’s what you can do: Click here to purchase masks and support MAIA families. And click here to learn more about MAIA.

AC chemo is done! (12 more to go)

Well, here’s the big news up front: I had my last AC chemo (the red warrior) yesterday. It’s supposed to be one of the most challenging types of chemo and I feel fortunate that, though I’ve had some tough days, it has largely been pretty manageable for me. At the very least, I was expecting much worse. Sean came and sat with me through the treatment again from his car. I love it so much.

After the two weeks of recovery from the red warrior, I start weekly treatments of Taxol for 12 weeks. Most people are able to tolerate it much easier than the AC so I’m hopeful that pattern follows for me too.

I wore one of RBG shirts. She’s my Patron Saint of Cancer Survival. She had beat cancer FOUR TIMES. And some of those have been particularly gnarly cancers. Badass. (And I hope she’s locked away in a very safe and corona-free environment right now.) And of course the “sweatpants” wig. It’s amazing - one of the nurses thought I just hadn’t lost my hair yet. I suppose in a way I haven’t.

Based on the physical exam (which is less precise than an official scan, but a good indicator nonetheless) the tumor in my breast is “significantly smaller” than when we began. I said, “Well, that’s good news!” The doctor replied, “It’s excellent news!” So, here’s to hoping that the tumor in my lymph nodes is following suit. 🤞🏻 That’s the ultimate goal - to reduce the need for a more involved surgery in the lymph nodes.

My blood levels looked much better this time around as well. Almost all of them back in the normal range, which was a huge relief. The girls and I have been back home for about a week and a half now, so this was good validation for that decision too. I’m infinitely grateful for a safe space like my mom’s to be able to retreat to. But after a couple of weeks, the stress of being away from home and Sean got to be too great.

It wasn’t an easy decision - it means that I’m now completely on my own with the girls, which is its own kind of challenge, especially when they’re out of school through the end of the year. But we’re all doing our best to manage through that too. And we have friends, coworkers and family being incredibly generous bringing meals over for us on a regular basis.

Coming home has given us the opportunity to get creative in being able to see Sean. We get to have dinner “together apart” when he’s not working. It looks something like this when the weather is nice and when the weather is too cold, he sits in the garage and we keep the kitchen door open:

The girls have even put on some ballet recitals in our front hallway that Sean can watch from the front door. It’s still not the same. All any of us wants is for Sean to be able to come back home and for us to catch up on ALL THE HUGS. But until that’s possible, we’ll continue to try to be creative.

I figured out just after we got home that, at that point, I had exactly 100 days left until my last chemo treatment. At the time, I wasn’t sure if it was helpful to have a specific timeline to work toward, or whether it was more depressing to think about how far away the finish line might be. Another both/and situation, I suppose. I created a tracker in my beloved journal. And now that I’ve been doing it for a week or so, I’d say it’s ultimately helpful. There is something satisfying about marking every day off. I feel like I’ve earned every damn one of them.

I’ll be honest - I have some dark days, which I’ll probably be ready to talk about soon. I’ve struggled to find the words and understanding to write about it just yet. It is really important to me to not paint the rosy, Instagram-pretty version of things. Because it’s not always like that. I want to share the honest journey. This is a challenge sometimes - I don’t want to be pitied and I don’t want to share the hard stuff in an attempt to garner sympathy. But I want to share it within some context. So, I’m taking the advice that I advocate for at HRuprise - “Speak from your scars, not your wounds.” (When I originally found this quote, it was attributed to Nadia Bolz-Weber who is a complete badass Lutheran minister with major tats and sometimes foul language. Just my kind of woman.) So, anyway, more to come soon.

Stories of people showing up for each other (and chemo #3 is in the books)

I want to tell you a few stories about my family and about how people show up for each other in unexpected ways. Even in these turbulent times. Maybe especially in these turbulent times. Spoiler alert: I sobbed.

Yesterday was treatment #3 for A/C. A quick aside/update there - everything is looking pretty good. My white blood cell count is getting low, but not low enough to have stopped treatment, thank goodness. I’m still tolerating the side effects relatively well and I’m grateful for that because we’re now at the stage where I may start to feel the cumulative effects. I even got a few hot flashes on the way home last night. That was a fun intro into what is to come.

Our day started really early. My mom took the day off (by the way, from her incredibly busy job at her own hospital where she’s neck-deep in their preparations for Covid) to drive me up and back to Seattle for my treatment. And in case you’re wondering - yes, I’ve looked into whether I can receive treatment down here in Oregon, but all the providers are considered out of network for our plan, which would double our out-of-pocket costs for the year.

We left at 5:30am to make it to my appointment in time. One side benefit of the “shelter in place” orders for Oregon and Washington: this was hands-down the easiest drive I’ve ever had between mom’s house and Seattle.

Here’s my beautiful Mama. I wanted a closer up selfie but she reminded me that it wasn’t good social distancing. She’s right. Always.

So Mom dropped me off at the treatment center - they’re no longer allowing any visitors - and she went to hang at my house while I went to start my four hour appointment. Every appointment consists of a blood draw to check my levels, then a meeting with the oncologist, and then the treatment itself. The premeds, then chemo takes about two hours itself.

Here’s me and my chosen shirt for the day:

They gave me a choice of chair options - did I want a solo chair in the corner or a shared space on the side? I chose the corner spot because why not? Also last time I was put next to the guy who was hard of hearing who was either yelling or snoring loudly.

Turns out, I had a front row seat to the mobile Covid testing center right outside my window this time.

A few minutes into treatment, I got a Facetime call from my Sister. She and her kids were out in the parking lot trying to find my window, but they were blocked with the testing center from getting too close to my window - didn’t want to risk the rather official-looking security guards with all the protective gear on. Probably a good call.

Have you seen anything cuter?

So I was, of course, already in tears when a few minutes later, I got a call from Sean. He had found his way into the employee parking lot just outside of the testing center and found an open parking spot right outside my window. He had come to “sit with me” for my treatment. It was at this point that I sobbed.

So we talked on the phone for the two full hours of my treatment. And I could see him from where I was sitting and he could see me through the window. It’s the closest (physically) I’ve been to him in two weeks.

The nurses all had to come see too. Of course they loved it. And then my nurse stretched out the last part of my treatment so I could have extra time to talk to him. “Take your time, honey,” she said. “This is really important.” It really was.

So, there you have it. After 23+ years together, he still has the ability to surprise me. And make me do the happy ugly cry in a big way.

There’s so much emotion wrapped up in this situation we’re in. I hate that we don’t know how long we have to be apart. I feel like we can endure anything, if we just know how long it’s going to be. But the open-ended nature of this feels nearly impossible. Neither one of us ever in a million years imagined that this is how we’d be managing through my chemo treatments. Or that we’d have to live apart - for my own safety - while I’m in the middle of it.

I worry for Sean’s own safety too, of course. I’m trying desperately to stay away from social media, especially the stories and statistics about healthcare workers getting sick with Covid. We’re making sure all of our affairs are in order, just in case. I hate that we have to think about this.

When I zoom out too far, it gets really overwhelming. But focusing on one day at a time doesn’t feel quite adequate, especially for a planner like me. So for now, I’m thinking about one week at a time. That feels more manageable. And doable.

But in the midst of all of this, there is beauty and gratitude as well. I’m so grateful to our friends Tom and Julie Hull for offering up their downstairs apartment for Sean to stay in. What a huge weight off of our shoulders to know that he has a comfortable (beautiful!) place to stay while we have to be separated.

I’m grateful that we’re finding creative ways to connect with each other. Facetime and Zoom have become staples, and while they’re not the same as seeing someone in person, they’re so much better than nothing. We still can still “eat dinner” together and do bedtime stories on the nights that Sean isn’t working. We even had a big family Zoom call for BW’s birthday the other night.

I’m grateful that the girls and I are headed home so that we can keep finding ways to be “together apart.”

I’m infinitely grateful for this family of mine - both the one I was born into and the one I’ve created.

And so we continue onward.

Chemo in the time of coronavirus

What strange, surreal times we find ourselves in.

For a little while, it felt like our circumstances were really extraordinary. And in some ways, I suppose they are. But as the coronavirus continues to spread, I’m finding we’re not so unusual after all. And it feels both tragic and somewhat comforting - less alone, anyway - to see all the ways in which we’re in this together. And how intertwined our fates are.

Big sigh. That’s a heavy way to start a post. So, I’ll take a step back from all that for a moment and give you an update on how the chemo has been going. I’m about halfway through the second round and so far, it’s been pretty manageable. I’m really grateful for a lot of progress with the way that they approach chemo side effects now. I’ve felt queasy for five or six days after and a bit tired, but then around day seven or eight, I start to feel back to “normal.” And I get a reprieve of about a week before it’s time to start the cycle all again.

The worst of the side effects so far have come from the daily shots that help boost my white blood cell count. They cause deep and pretty intense bone pain for a few days in the middle of the cycle. All those white blood cells being pulled from my bone marrow apparently put up quite a fight. The good news is, I' was ready for it this second time and was able to stay on top of a healthy regimen of advil and tylenol. It wasn’t nearly as bad the second time around.

And I’m incredibly grateful for these shots right now as they’re helping my immune system bounce back between chemo sessions. My bloodwork showed my white blood cell count back in the normal range before I started the second chemo. I’m hoping/praying that trend continues. It helps to think that I’m not physically vulnerable to the same degree all the time.

It’s a battle to remain focused on the things we can control. Are you feeling it too? There’s so damn much that’s out of our control. So I keep coming back to what I can control: where I go (nowhere, I’m basically sheltering in place), the people I engage with in person (only the people in this house), washing my hands (a million times a day) and how much media I consume (this one is maybe the hardest).

So, chemo has so far been largely manageable, at least physically. But emotionally/mentally, it has been a pretty intense time for us. Sean is on the frontlines of the coronavirus fight in the ED. I think many of you know that, in addition to being an emergency department physician, Sean has a Masters in Public Health in Environmental Health & Infectious Diseases. He’s been talking about the likelihood of a pandemic on this level for years. (It’s fun dinner party conversation.) But neither of us in our wildest dreams imagined that, if/when it happened, we would also have to worry about me being immunosuppressed at the same time.

Our world has changed so rapidly. Sean’s hospital was where the first case of coronavirus in the US showed up. And there is still a huge hot spot for suspected cases. We’re having to take ever more extreme measures to reduce the risk of exposure for me. Right now, that means the girls and I are staying with family four hours away and I’m traveling back for treatments. At some point, the girls and I will need to return home, which means Sean will have to move out for a while. We don’t know how long we’ll have to be completely separated from him. And of course, there’s the constant worry (for me) about the personal risks that Sean takes every day when he goes off to work.

One day at a time. Focus on what we can control.

If you want to help, there are a few things you can do too:

• Stay at home. Really. Don’t try to figure out ways around the shutdowns. Just stay in. It’s hard but it’s necessary to flatten the curve. Yes, I mean you.

• There are already critical shortages of PPE at hospitals like Sean’s. You can join efforts like this one to help make PPE. (I can’t believe we’re here, but we’re here.)

• I’ve created a Facebook group for fellow partners/spouses of healthcare workers who are fighting the Coronavirus. Please share this link with anyone you know in this position who could benefit from some additional support: https://www.facebook.com/groups/2731128377114642/

• Wash your hands.

We’re all in this together.

Hello from chemo #2

I realized that I missed posting this here, so we’re catching up a bit. All things are looking about as good as can be expected. My levels looked great, which is reassuring. It is a strange, strange time to be immunocompromised in the middle of a coronavirus outbreak in Seattle. There’s lots more to that story that I will write about soon. For now, we carry on with the chemo treatments that are already showing signs of working.

At least one of the tumors is already appearing to be smaller (according to the oncologist, not just me 😊). We’re rocking our screening tags because, of course, the Cancer Center is in high alert right now. It has to be. It’s a scary time for those of us who are in the high-risk category. For me, the goal remains to do whatever it takes to keep moving forward with treatment. The path is becoming more complicated but we keep moving forward. Onward!

I did my Healing Light Meditation during the infusion, wore my Nevertheless She Persisted shirt, of course my audacity bracelet, and the sweat pants wig made a debut. But the BEST healing energy of all today came from Sister. She is the very best. And a huge thanks to Gpa Tim for watching the girls whose schools are closed. Sigh. Onward. 

We can do hard things

Well, friends. I did the hard thing. I decided to shave my head and then I did it. And I did it for a lot of reasons. I had been dreading this moment the most since I was diagnosed. I actually liked my hair and spent a not-small amount of money to get it exactly the color and style I wanted. So much money.

I was so dreading the idea of losing it. I hated the idea of looking like a cancer patient. I didn’t want to look sick. I didn’t like the idea of not having control over that part. Perhaps more than that, I was dreading the idea of my hair falling out in the shower or finding huge clumps on my pillow.

So I decided to take matters in to my own hands. The decision point actually became pretty clear as things progressed. I came across a few recommendations in a breast cancer Facebook group for something called a “halo wig” that can be made from your own hair. A halo is not a full wig and is made to be worn with a hat. It’s supposed to be more comfortable than a regular wig because the top is soft and it’s not quite as hot. Quite a few women had tried it and really liked it and said that it gave them a sense of self back.

I thought about the wigmaker I met with a while ago and emailed to see if he might be able to make one for me. He wrote back that he doesn’t really do them (not worth the time and effort) and called the halo the “sweat pants of wigs.” I laughed so hard. It still makes me laugh. I think he meant it derisively, but it basically solidified my decision. Honestly, what’s not to love about sweat pants?

So, the place where I bought my fancy wig offers to shave your head for you. It’s a beautiful, salon-like setting and the people who work there are really kind. I decided that it was the best place to do the deed. I’m sure that if I had asked, my family members would have done it for me. But it also seemed liked a lot to ask of loved ones. It’s emotional for everyone.

So Bethany (Sister) and Mom joined Sean and I and we kept the girls home from school in the morning so they could be there. There truly isn’t a better support team on the planet. BW even wore her rainbow wig. I am honestly overwhelmed with gratitude every day for these people in my life. I could write for years about how beautiful it is when people show up for each other. And they are SHOWING UP. Oh, my heart.

And when the time came to shave to my head, I couldn’t watch but I felt surprisingly calm. BW held my hand and we were brave for each other. And when she turned me around to look at myself in the mirror, it wasn’t as scary as I thought. I saw that I’m still there. My eyes still focus on my eyes when I look at myself in the mirror. Even more so now. The hair is just extra.

And another big fear was smashed: I don’t have a lumpy head. So if I have to be bald for a little while, at least I have a good shaped head.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s still a huge adjustment. I’m still trying to figure out which version of bad-ass bald women I’m going to channel: G.I. Jane, Grace Jones, Sigourney Weaver in Alien. So many options. Actually, a friend said I looked like a Star Trek babe. I’ll take that too. And I’m listening to “I Am Not My Hair” by india.arie on repeat. (BTW, whe wrote the last verse about breast cancer after watching Melissa Etheridge perform at the Grammys while she was bald from chemo.)

But here’s what I’m learning: We can do hard things. We can do hard things together. And when you finally face the thing that you were the most afraid of, it turns out it can be not so scary after all.

People keep telling me that I’m brave or courageous. Or that they don’t know how I’m doing it. And believe me, I’m so appreciative of the thought. I LOVE these words. But there’s something I want to be super clear about: I have a daily fight not to let fear sit in the driver’s seat. And man, some of those fears are deep and dark and terrifying. But it’s really not about trying to make the fear go away. I do know that’s a massive lost battle. But I think it is about figuring out how to give that fear a space, but not too big of a space.

Brené Brown talks about being in the arena and reserving a few seats for the gremlins. They’re going to show up anyway, so we might as well reserve a seat for them. But that’s all they get. And I’m finding that the act of actively sitting with the fear/gremlins has this way of limiting their power over me. And sometimes that’s enough to get through the day. But these days add up. And that’s something.

PS - Check out the fancy wig in the pics below. Fancy wigs are awesome.

1 down, 15 to go

First chemo treatment went down yesterday (Tuesday). It was an incredibly long day - six hours all in all at the doctor’s office - but they assured us that this was really abnormal. I was mostly along for the ride. I tried to use the time to respond to the massive amount of calls and texts from all of you. I continue to be so overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and support. Please keep those messages coming. Even if I can’t respond right away, please know how much I appreciate them.

We started by meeting with the oncologist again, reviewed my labs - essentially making sure that I’m in good enough shape to start getting chemo. It’s an odd concept, if you really think about it. When it came time for me to sign the consent form for the chemo, there’s a section at the top with boxes to check about why we are doing the chemo with options like “To treat my cancer, To prolong my life, etc.” She looked me in the eye again and said, “I’m checking this box that says To cure your cancer and I’m going to circle it now too just to make sure you don’t miss it.” When we walked out the door to go upstairs for the infusion, she shook my hand and again said, “It’s time to go cure this cancer. Let’s go kick some cancer ass today!” This felt particularly awesome because she doesn’t strike me as someone who says ass very often. I loved her for it.

The actual treatment itself went fine, save for the few cross-eyed dizzy reaction when they first pushed the anti-nausea meds before the real party began. It was a strange way to start things off but it passed fairly quickly. Anyway, one of the chemo drugs is bright red, which stands in stark contrast to most IV drugs that are clear. It’s a little disconcerting. The nurse also has to gown up to push it in the IV. Again, a reminder of how powerful this stuff is.

Quite a few breast cancer patients refer to it as the“Red Devil.” I’ll be honest - that name has never really resonated with me. I totally get why people would want to call it that, but to me, as much as the side effects may be brutal, this bright red radioactive-looking liquid is also saving my life. I think I may like Red Warrior better.

The second chemo drug can just be dripped so during that one, I listened to my Healing Light meditation again. It helps me envision golden healing light coming through my body and targeting this specific area for healing. It helps me tremendously to envision the chemo doing the same thing. I’m still working on the part where I’m supposed to greet the part that needs healing with love. It’s a process.

When I was done with the meditation, I was laying in the chair relaxing and I had a strong vision of Robin (my mother-in-law who passed away 10 years ago) sitting next to me holding my hand. For the first time all day, I got really emotional. I mean, the tears flowed.

Robin hasn’t visited me like that in quite a while - she used to come when I was pregnant and when BW was really little. I suppose I haven’t needed her as much in the past few years. But she held my hand and said in her sweet, understanding way, “Oh honey, it’s all going to be okay.” We have a connection with this Red Warrior, you see. It’s a connection I never expected to have with her. But I really think she was there to tell me that my experience with it will be so different from hers. Man, I really miss her. Especially now.

View fullsize

I also ordered this print from Flying Edna, which I’ve loved for along time. And like so many things, it has taken on new meaning for me lately, so I brought it with me. It says:

“There is a village of women who know they are fire & they burn fierce with Love & even though each of them lives in different places, far apart, in golden fields & loud cities & by oceans & rivers & underneath the baobabs in Africa, still they come together often in dreams & for all you may think they are just ordinary women you pass on the street every day, they are the ones who hold the Heart of the World for all of us who will come after. “

- Brian Andreas

The day or so since I finished my first chemo treatment has been largely uneventful. I am grateful to my oncologist for being “overly aggressive” with the anti-nausea meds that I have available. I can feel the fatigue coming on. They say most people feel the most fatigue around days 3-5, so we’re heading into that now.

Tomorrow is a big emotional day. I’m going to shave my head. Yeah, it’s a little earlier than if I had waited for it to fall out. But it’s time. And I feel the need to take some control. This feels right. And I’m also feeling incredibly emotional about it. More about that later. Please continue to send thoughts for strength.

Thank you.