Cancer Sucks

I have so much to say. I don’t even know where to start. So many things have occurred to me during my cancer journey. So many revelations. So many feelings. I’ve been through so much in the last six months. In the last few years. And, more to come.

People say – “There goes a fighter. She’s so brave. You’ve got the best attitude.” On and on the words come. I’m thankful for them. Always will be. But, I don’t feel brave. I honestly don’t have that good of an attitude. I just have a “let’s get this done” attitude. I cry. I get down. I get so mad I could just yell.

I’ve always lived in this protective bubble. I’m one of the people that will get to grow old. I’m a good person, so I’ll get to live a long time and be a good person for a long time. But, cancer has a way of making you look death right up the nose. You stare at it. You wake up with it. You go to bed with it. He follows you around. About the time you feel comfortable saying, “screw you,” he says, “not so fast.” No, I don’t feel like I’m dying. I’m not going to say I am. Dying must feel more uncomfortable, right? It must hurt, or make you tired, or make you turn a weird color, or something. I can stand up straight. I can look at it right in the eyes.

Never before have I seen death so clearly. And then, seen the fragility of life.

People are going to read this and think, “Oh gosh, she’s thinking she’s dying. She’s doomed.” No way, y’all. I am just talking about it. I’ve always despised it when people won’t talk about hard stuff. Hard feelings. Hard subjects. It’s like if they don’t speak it, maybe it won’t happen. Dude. It’s happening whether you talk about it or not. It happens to everyone. And, I’ve known some people, even myself, that have been really hurt by people not talking about hard things. Death being one of those subjects.

So, my treatment – let me walk you through this. Especially for those women out there that would like to know more about breast cancer. It was never on my radar. I had had a mammogram two years ago – all clear.

Then, about January, maybe sooner, (that’s how much attention I paid…) my left breast started to have a red mark on it. Almost like a bruise. Then, it started spreading. And swelling. I would go run or bike and come back and it would be really swollen, like staph. I didn’t have any insurance. I didn’t feel bad. I thought maybe it was an infection. It’s not like I could go to the doctor in the midst of the coronavirus catastrophe. Then, I got an option to get insurance through my work on April 1st. On April 2nd, I made an appointment with a doctor in Houston – a teledoc visit – so it didn’t matter where he was. I flashed him my boob – he told me it was a fungal infection – I got some cream. A week later, I called him again – antibiotics this time. Nothing. A week after that, same game, different antibiotics. Lily was in another room one day when I flashed him – she came out and said, “How much did you have to pay him for that?” I said, “$35.” She said, “Shouldn’t he be paying you?” Funny moment.

Then, I finally got in with my OBGYN. She said she didn’t think it was anything to worry about. Probably a poorly fitting bra, or a detergent allergy. So, I relaxed yet again. She said I needed a mammogram just to be safe. So, I scheduled one. I went in, expecting to be cleared. I had a normal mammogram and then a sonogram. The doctor came in immediately, he looked it over, and he said, “This is breast cancer.” There I was, sitting there alone. You know that dramatic shot in movies where the background zooms in and all you have in front of you is the doctor? It was like that. I could barely breathe. I didn’t hear much of what else he said. I remember looking at the nurse looking at me. All I could concentrate on was not crying. Getting outside. I needed out, NOW. Some lady told me she’d call me soon for a biopsy. I nodded and thanked my way out as quickly as I could. I could barely get dressed. I was shaking. I walked out of the building and burst out crying. I didn’t care who was around. I had to come home and tell Lily, and call my mom and tell her. I’ll never forget either.

I had a biopsy. They called and told me on May the 5th, Cinco de Mayo, that I had breast cancer for sure. I was with a client. I had to go home and do it all again.

Then, the hurry up and wait starts. I’ve always wondered what knowing you had cancer and waiting was like. I found out. I went with my mom, the only time anyone was ever able to come anywhere with me, to the surgeon. Most of the time, that’s the first stop. She wrote a lot of numbers and things on a whiteboard, Mama took notes. I took a picture of it. She said the words “chemo, surgery, radiation…STAGE III…” All I could focus on were those words. She left the room and Mama and I just looked at each other. We had loved ones downstairs waiting to hear some good news. We had no good news to share. I hated walking down there and telling them.

I finally got in with an oncologist. Chemo would be the first thing that started. Chemo. I had never been going to take chemo… I had to have a port put in first. A port. Six rounds of chemo, every three weeks. Then surgery. Then radiation. Then more infusions, and depending on whether they got it all, they might have chemo in them for a year. Medication.

The first round of chemo is over. Surgery is over. I didn’t choose reconstruction. I lost eight pounds in a few hours. I woke up feeling really weird. I looked down, I had probably double D boobs, y’all. Now, they gone. I feel really small. It’s like I’m a new person – the way I look. But, I don’t care, at all. I’m trying to survive.

I see my oncologist tomorrow. I was called earlier and told I’m taking the hard infusions with the chemo in it for the next year. I got off the phone and cried. This journey sucks. Basically what that means is that they didn’t quite get it all. But, I’ll know more tomorrow. It’s in my lymph nodes, that, I know for sure, but the rest of my body was clear in May. So, I’m sure it’s still clear.

People tell me to fight. So many tell me that. I might have said that to someone with cancer before, too. I kind of want to say, “What do you think I’m doing?” I can have the best attitude. I can stay positive. I can pray. I can believe. But, the fact is not lost on me that I still have death beside me every day. If anything is within my power, I will do it. I’m going to completely change the way I eat starting this week. I’ll do all I can- physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally. Sometimes I think the fight is simply saying, “Okay, what’s next? Let’s do this.” Taking each step and knowing you’re going to get through that one. What’s next? What’s next? Let’s do everything we can to get rid of this. And, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Like Rocky Balboa at the end of the fight – so, maybe it is fighting. I get knocked down, I get back up. Over and over. And I’ll continue to do that.

So many people are praying for me. It has been so humbling. There are people I don’t even know praying for me. I’ve had Catholic prayers, Muslim prayers, Buddhist prayers - I take them all. So many people have sent me money, cards, kind words, food, and all kinds of things. There’s no way I could do this without so much support. There’s no way for me to adequately thank all the people that have helped me. There’s no way I could tell you how much it has helped and how much it means to me.

Please keep praying. I have a long way to go yet. I pray you all stay healthy. Don’t waste a single moment. I love you all.