Semantics

Since I've been off of work, I've had a lot of time to think about my cancer and the treatment I've gone through. How I feel about it, how I've reacted to it, trying to decide between the have/had aspect, and what I'm going to do with myself when it's done.

After I had that candid talk with my radiation oncologist last Friday about if I'm cancer free or not, I emailed my medical oncologist (I have an army of doctors) to ask when I'd be considered in remission. I don't know why, but this is important to me. I think mostly because it marks a finite ending point of having had cancer and gone through treatment to prevent a recurrence. Unfortunately, I didn't really care for Dr. Shek's answer. Due to the fact that I'm still going in for Herceptin until next  March, and then I'll be on a hormone pill for 10 years, my ending point is a little tricky. Dr. Shek said it's an issue of semantics, but most would say I'd be considered in remission at the end of Herceptin. That's a whole lot of waiting to be able to officially consider myself cancer-free. So, I think I'm going to go with Dr. Fisch's idea that at the end of radiation I'll switch from have to had and consider myself in remission from that point. I think it's really a matter of when I feel ready to accept that we did as much as possible to get rid of any lingering cancer, and to move forward. It's not like a broken arm - okay, you need to spend 6 weeks in a cast, then we'll remove it, and a month after that you can resume all regular activities. I'll forever have to be cautious of how cancer has affected my body. For example, I can't have blood drawn or my blood pressure taken from my left arm due to having had lymph nodes removed. If I were to travel right now, I'd have to take this special card with me to the airport that states I have a portacath in my chest and would need a pat down search to get through security. Now, whenever I have concerning pains, I have to be cautious about x-rays, CT scans, and MRI's. The list goes on.

My anxiety about the end of treatment ebbs and flows. Some days, it's nonexistent, and I feel normal. Other days, it's stifling, and it's all I can do to not think "what if this pain in my side is cancer? What if the lump I still feel in my breast is some of the tumor they missed?" (it's not. It's scar tissue. I know this, but there's still that 'what if' hanging there). This is all part of the "new normal" that every cancer patient nearing the end of treatment talks about.

I guess the good part about my treatment being so long, is that it tapers off. Radiation is hard because it's 5 days a week, and I still have to go in for Herceptin. But once radiation is over, then it's only Herceptin once every 3 weeks, which is easy to handle in comparison to my whole chemotherapy arsenal. There's little to no side effects that I've noticed yet, and I'm in and out of the infusion center in less than an hour. Life will be fairly normalized when I'm down to just that. I've been reading up on other women's experiences with Tamoxifen, and their side effects are all across the board. Some experience weight gain, some weight loss, some nausea and vomiting, headaches... It makes me worried to find out what I'll have to deal with for the next 10 years. But I'll just have to remind myself that it's to save my life.

While I trust my doctor's with my life (I kind of have to - they know more science-y stuff than I do), I think making the decision for myself of when I'm deemed in remission will help me heal and move forward with life. It will close another chapter of my cancer story for me, and then I can move on to writing the next one.

There's no doubt that cancer changes your life. You have to mourn the loss of the life you once had, while trying to accept this new life that you never asked for.

Brought to you by one of the forums I frequent on breastcancer.org:

(In case anyone is wondering, the ultrasound I had of my abdomen came back normal. Which is yay happy, but also frustrating because I still have pain there, and I don't like being told that there's no cause for the pain. I also found out I have high cholesterol, so I have to actually start exercising again, not just saying I'm going to, and being more careful with my diet.)

Candid Conversations

Months ago, I didn't want to talk about my cancer. At all. It was hard to reconcile with, and I hoped that the less I talked about it, maybe the less real it would be. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. There was no magic wand in the world to reverse my diagnosis, or make it un-true. All I could do was accept it, and move forward. So, that's what I've tried my best to do. I still have days where my anger prevails, and the "why me?" feelings gnaw at my head and heart, but I try not to revel in them. With this sort of zen-like acceptance, and going through the motions of treatment, and "coming out" to the public, it's become much easier to talk about my cancer, the treatment I'm going through, and the doubt that I sometimes experience. The candid approach I've taken with talking about my cancer simultaneously helps me accept it, and come to terms with it a little bit more.

I've started to talk openly with strangers about my diagnosis, which seems to be a really common thread in cancer. At the radiation center, I've met several people in the waiting room, and introductions come with an identifier of why you're there. It's like prison scenes from movies. "So, what are you in for?" "Breast cancer, how about you?" "Liver cancer." And then the conversation spirals into where you're at in treatment, what type of surgery you've had, or will have. It's hard not to let it, but cancer becomes a part of your identity.

The other day, I had an intriguing conversation about various radiation techniques with one of my radiation techs. I was curious about why I didn't need to hold my breath, when in the forum I frequent, some women report having to do that. I was informed me of a technique called "caging" in which breath control is required, but that it's not a common practice, and hasn't shown to have any added benefit. These types of differences in care fascinate me. It's amazing to me that treatment styles and techniques vary from clinic to clinic, patient to patient, and doctor to doctor.

Did I mention that I had this conversation while I was on the radiation table, with my breast hanging out, while I was being put into position? Oh, and the radiation tech that I was having this conversation with was a guy. His name is Bob. I couldn't help but laugh on my way out the door about how strange that conversation would have seemed to an outsider. My modesty has gone almost completely out the window.

Today, I had a conversation with my radiation oncologist about my fears regarding not having any scans done, and trying to rid myself of the anxiety of the unanswered question - how do we KNOW that the cancer is gone for sure? I asked him his opinions on the risk involved, and what he would do were he in my shoes. That's when he told me he's also had cancer. My faith in him swelled at that moment, because who better to understand what it's like to have these questions floating around in your head, giving you uncertainty, than someone who's had those same feelings? I mentioned that I haven't been able to mentally distinguish between whether I have or had cancer, and when I'll be able to be considered in remission. Medically billing speaking, they use "have" for radiation treatment, even though the cancer is technically gone, so he feels that after radiation is when I could potentially say had. But then again, I still have to go in for protein infusions, and then do 10 years of hormonal therapy. He assured me that he doesn't think I have any cancer, and that at the end of radiation, I could transition to had. I think I like that idea, but I'm probably going to consult my oncologist to see if he agrees.

I never thought I'd be so concerned with the tense of a verb, but in this case, it holds a lot of meaning. And I think for me, it signals a moment when I can start to move forward, and start to distance myself from active treatment. Right now, I feel in limbo. I'm not really living, just sort of surviving. And I desperately want to start living again.

A love letter

Dear Whitney,

I know that you are hurting right now, and that is completely okay and understandable. Anyone in your position would feel run down, broken, defeated, isolated, and afraid. No one blames you for your emotions - they are all completely valid. Don't let anyone deny you of your pain.

Life has rarely been kind to you, and these last 7 months have been especially rough - the hardest thing you've ever had to endure. No one should have to experience cancer, let alone in their 20's, when life should be about finding your place in the world. It should be filled with nights out with friends, drinking and dancing at the bar, lazy sun-filled days at the beach, reckless romances and passionate kisses, and adventures in far off places that require a stamp in your passport. Instead, your time has been spent at consultations, doctor's appointments, spending countless hours on the computer doing research, surgeries, lab tests, chemotherapy, now radiation, and an endless amount of tears. It's almost as if you could have ended California's drought with the amount of tears you've cried since December. This was supposed to be your golden year, and it's become tarnished, its joy and beauty tampered with by cancer.

But you should know something. You are incredibly brave, and even though I know you almost never feel like it, you are so strong. Think of all of the people you've impressed and inspired that you've met along the way - your surgeon, the breast care navigator, the geneticist, and so many others - your positive attitude and outlook has inspired so many people. I know right now you don't feel positive, and you've been struggling lately with the ability to see life beyond cancer, but it's there. Your attitude since day one is likely what has helped you handle the side effects of chemo with such ease, even though it never felt that way, what with having tissue stuck up your nose to stop what felt like constant nose bleeds, or running to the bathroom because you can never trust a fart. Sometimes ending up with tissue in your nose and your butt simultaneously (now that was probably an interesting sight).

And even though you don't feel or see it, you are so incredibly beautiful. Whether or not you have hair, or no eyebrows, your body is riddled with new scars, or you feel bionic because of Penny (your portacath) or you've gained 20 pounds from chemo. Your body has become a roadmap of your cancer experience, but it's something to be proud of, even though I know how hard it's been to accept every new attack on your skin. Your outward appearance only makes up a small fraction of your beauty. It's things like your ability to laugh when corn is coming out of your butt, or to think of others and ask them how they're doing when you're going through your own hell, having manners, hopelessly believing in love, or smiling at strangers just because you want to brighten their day, that all contribute to your beauty as a person. Those things, and so many others, make you so much more attractive than just your reflection.You've often been told by former lovers, and even friends, that you don't see yourself very clearly. And though I know it's going to be a struggle, you should start trying to see in yourself what they all see in you. You are so much more than your eyebrows.

I know that you feel lost and like a failure, and that you desperately want to find your place in this world. Be patient. You'll figure it out, in due time.

I can't promise you that things will get better or easier, because I don't know what will happen in the future. There will still be days where you don't want to get out of bed because it hurts too much to deal with all of your emotions. There will be days where you can't stop crying. There will be days filled with anger at the world for not giving you the answers that you want. However, what I can promise you, is that there is something beautiful in every day, so long as you're willing to open your eyes. Find the silver linings in your life, and be grateful as much as possible.

Lastly, I am so proud of you. I'm proud of you for taking charge of your health, for overcoming your fears and opening up to people about what you're experiencing,  and for being honest with yourself with what you need and when. You are an amazing woman who has handled every obstacle life has thrown at you with grace. Yesterday, you sat in the same spot in which you sat over 7 months ago awaiting surgery to have your tumor removed. Then, it felt like you wouldn't make it through every treatment that was ahead of you. And now? Look how far you've come!

There is still a long road ahead. Be gentle with yourself. Love yourself. Believe in your own beauty. I'm here with you every step of the way, holding your hand.

Love,
Whitney

Finding the sun between the clouds

I've been wanting to try to find a way to make an impact with my writing, and my friend Alicia has provided me with an opportunity to do just that by sharing a call for writers to submit a piece about their experience with cancer.

I started to type, but then would stop. It became clear to me yesterday, that it was because I didn't want to relive the emotions that I experienced during those early days. I really wish I had started writing then, rather than waiting a few months. Because it would have been great to look back at those moments - the breakdowns, the insights, the strength and perseverance, the fear..

Tonight I finally started typing, and came up with a rough draft of an essay. In order to try and remember some of those emotions, I looked back in the emails I had sent to friends and family during the early months of my diagnosis when I kept it a secret.

And in reading them, I am so saddened to realize how much more hope I had when I was first diagnosed than I do now. I've let myself backslide into a really dark place, and have let myself fall back into a pattern of negativity, when I had been so adamant that I would continue to live a positive life, and keep looking for silver linings.

I know that no one would blame me for feeling so sad, given the situation that I'm in. But I also know that if I have want any hope of moving beyond this, and living my life again, that I need to eventually start seeing the silver linings.

Just the other day, Alicia texted me, "You don't always get to choose what your silver linings are. But you do get to choose whether or not you see them." And she's right, my silver linings may be small compared to my bigger picture right now, but at least they're there. I just need to do a better job of opening my eyes.

I'm alive. I'm breathing. I'm healthy. I made it through chemo. I have an amazing support system, and have made so many incredible new friends over the last few months.

This may not be the life I hoped for, but it's a beautiful one, nonetheless.

Is it cancer?

For the past few months, I've had this nagging abdominal just under my last rib on the right hand side of my body. At one of my follow up appointments with my oncologist, I mentioned it as a concern. He had me lie on my back on the exam table, and proceeded to poke and prod in the above mentioned area, and all down my right leg. Eventually, he didn't feel as though it was chemo related, and brushed it off. Since then, I've tried to ignore the pain, and go about my days. The pain has still persisted, and I finally decided to make an appointment with my primary care physician (PCP) to get her thoughts on the matter. That was two weeks ago. I've cancelled and scheduled the appointment multiple times, either making excuses or because something else has come up.

Since diagnosis, I've been on an online forum through breastcancer.org, and have made some amazing friends and supporters on that site through the March chemo group. I had mentioned this nagging pain to them, and yesterday, one of the ladies asked me if I'd found out what was wrong yet. It was then that I realized that I needed to put my big girl pants on (or, sweatpants rather, since none of my jeans currently fit) and make the appointment, if anything, for peace of mind. This morning, I looked online for an appointment, and scheduled one for this afternoon.

It really wasn't until I was sitting in the room waiting for my doctor, that I realized why I was hesitant to follow through the appointment. I'm cared that it might be some other type of cancer. From now on, any new pain, bump, or lump I feel, that's going to be the first thought I have. I hope that over time, that fear will subside, but one thing that my cancer has taught me, and has hopefully taught anyone reading this or following my story, is that I should be advocating for my own health care. If I feel like something is wrong, I should get it looked at rather than waiting. Being that persistent is what helped me find out about my cancer so much sooner, rather than waiting like the advice nurse suggested.

So, after talking with my PCP, and her overviewing my chart from the last few months, she decided to do more blood work to see if my elevated liver enzymes have gone back to normal, and also ordered a urine test and an ultrasound. She thinks there's a possibility that it might be a gall stone, and that is pushing on my liver, causing it to be inflamed. There's also a possibility that I'm just having heartburn and indigestion. I won't know for sure until all the tests are back. What I do know for sure is that I should listen to my body, and I shouldn't have to suffer in silence.

Now all I can do is wait..

Misguided Ghosts

Today I was thinking about how much I keep saying I want my life and my body back. How much I miss my old self - my old hair, my old skin, my old body, my old life... And I finally realized (or maybe I've said this already, and have just forgotten) that I'm never going to be that same person again. No matter how hard I try to be that girl, she's gone. The same general shell still exists, but there's no denying that cancer will have a lasting impact on me, physically and mentally.

I have to let go of the idea of getting my old self back, and start accepting the me as I am now, cancer and all. This body of mine is an amazing thing - it's fighting cancer. That's a pretty big task to take on, and I should be more proud of it, rather than hating it so much. I struggle so much with feeling beautiful and proud of my body, and it's weighing on me. The ghost of my pre-cancer self taunts me, and I am so tired of her negatively impacting me.

I've made a practice of actually looking at myself in the mirror every morning, and trying to really see myself and accept the reflection. For the past 6 months, I've barely been able to look in the mirror. Now, I've been making it a point to accept the scars that mar my skin, and be proud of them, like most people tell me I should be. I brush my teeth topless, forcing myself to get comfortable in this new body of mine. It's a difficult process, but I hope that eventually, I won't have to force myself to look in the mirror. Maybe one day, I'll be proud of the reflection again.

An Impostor (looming guilt)

I feel like an impostor. To the unknowing eye, I wouldn't appear to be a cancer patient. I probably just look like any other late-twenty-something girl, albeit with crookedly painted on eyebrows, steroid bloat, acne of a 12 year old, and the days where I choose not to care about hiding Penny from the world, somewhat bionic.

Because I still have most of my hair.

It seems silly, but it was one of the first things I was worried about losing. I remember sitting, fairly calmly, in the oncologists office last December, my list of questions burning a hole in my purse. I already knew the answer to the question I cared about most, but I had to hear him say it. Dr. Shek gave the answer to my question before I even had a chance to ask it. As gently as he could, he told me I was going to lose my hair. Not that I "might" or that "there's a possibility", but that I would. I tried incredibly hard to take that news in stride, and listen to the other side effects I might endure, but I wasn't hearing anything else he said. I turned my head towards my mom, hiding behind the curtain of my hair, hoping it would shield me from this news, starting to sob.

Worrying about the loss of my hair seems incredibly superficial when I'd just been told I had cancer, but it's such an important part of your identity that it's hard to grasp not having it. It also screams "cancer patient" to the world, and at the time of my diagnosis, I didn't want many people to know. I started searching for short hair cuts, trying to resign myself with the fact that I'd always wanted to try a pixie cut, but never had the nerve, so now would be my chance. I started to have hair envy - I would gaze longingly at women's hair, saddened by the fact that I was going to lose mine.

At the end of December, I went to a young women's breast cancer support group. It was only 3 days after my lumpectomy, but I wanted to go to meet other young women. Ironically enough, though, no one else came. But it was nice because I got to have an intimate session with the breast care coordinators. They mentioned scalp cooling and how one of the women in the group had done it, and saved most of her hair, and they asked if I wanted to get in touch with her. I said yes, and gave them my information. About a week later, Rebecca called me, and we talked for over 2 hours. In that conversation, she informed me of cold capping, what it entailed, and how she saved her hair. I was due to start a new job in January, and I wanted to look like myself as much as possible. And I really just couldn't imagine myself bald (I fell down a lot as a kid. I don't think bald would've suited me well).

So, I did more research on the topic, asked my oncologist if he was okay with me trying it, and went from there. For each of my 6 infusions, I got 50 pounds of dry ice, loaded it up in a cooler with these caps, and took that to the hospital with me. During the infusion, I would change the caps every 20 minutes, for a total of about 6-7 hours. They were pretty cold... -34 degrees. The whole idea is to constrict the blood flow to your scalp during the infusion so that the chemo drugs wouldn't damage the hair follicles, causing alopecia (hair loss). It was uncomfortable, expensive, and time consuming. And I almost gave up on more than one occasion, because I still lost hair. But family and friends convinced me to endure it since I'd come so fair, and no matter how much hair I lost, I would still be ahead of the game when chemo was over in terms of growing new hair.

I'm happy to have most of my hair, even though I long for the days when I could wash it regularly, blow dry it, and straighten it. But, the past few days, I've felt an onslaught of guilt because of my hair. As though I'm not actually a cancer patient because of the fact that I still have hair, like I'm an impostor. I didn't go through the entire "cancer experience". But I know that's silly, and I need to brush it off, because I did what was right for me. I needed to feel like I still had control of something, when it felt like I was losing control of everything. And just as cancer won't define me, neither will my hair.

I doubt that I'll ever feel or look like my old self again, because there's not denying that this has had a profound impact on my life. But that's the beauty of life - we're constantly changing and evolving. I hope that this allows me to start believing in my own beauty, and to realize that I'm more than my hair.

July 2014

July 2015

The wig I would have bought if I stopped cold caps

Maggie doesn't approve of my blogging at the moment.

Down the rabbit hole

I can feel myself slipping into a really dark place. Slowly, I'm building up this wall, layering brick and concrete, so that I'm almost completely isolated. My only company being the dark thoughts I've been having, weaving their way around my mind and through my heart. But I'm forcing myself to stop my work before laying down the last few bricks.

People ask how I'm doing, what's wrong, or if they can help. And it's becoming harder for me to respond to these questions, because I feel like I'm giving the same answers. I feel like a broken record, stuck on repeat. And it's beginning to feel like people don't want to hear it from me anymore. As if my allotted time to feel angry, sad, hurt, broken, and depressed has reached its end. But how am I supposed to move past this when it's still so much a part of my everyday life? It's not something I can just get over or ignore. 

I want to be able to find the beauty in life again. To find joy in small things, to take risks, and have adventures. Some people have said that this experience will give me more reason than ever to embrace life. But right now, I'm scared to actually live it because of the crippling fear that it will be taken away from me. I know that my time could be up at any moment, but I almost feel that if I allow myself to be happy again, like I was in November, then life will find another way to rob me of that happiness. 

I know that I can't stay scared forever. I'm going to have to let go of this fear in order to live the life that's waiting for me. The fear and pain is part of the healing process. For now though, as a dear friend just reminded me again, it's okay to not be okay. One day, I will be.

Blanket forts.

I don't want to get out of bed.

I know that at some point, I'll have to. I guess that's the blessing and the curse of radiation being five times a week - it forces me to get up, get dressed, and go outside. I think I need that right now. Otherwise, I would stay here, in the protection of my pillows and blankets, creating a fort for safety, reminiscent of childhood, knowing full well that the cotton and down won't actually protect me.

It's July, but the weather is grey and bleak, fitting my mood. Actually, the weather has fit my mood almost every day I've had a cancer chore. Surgeries, chemo appointments, and now radiation. It's as if Mother Nature is wallowing in sadness with me. She's mourning my innocence lost just as much as I am. Summer is meant for happy times. Playing in the sand, feeling the ocean waves lap at my feet, smiling with friends, soaking up the sun. Not dreary exam rooms, cold radiation centers, paper vests, and sleepless nights filled with anxiety.

My whole body aches. And I know it's both from the last of the chemo, as well as my anxiety and depression. I hear people tell me how strong I am, how impressed they are with me. If they knew all of the demons floating in my head, I wonder if those sentiments would still hold true.

I'm so tired of being strong. I wish someone else would fight for me.

I'm going to pull the blankets over my head and keep hiding from the world. At least for a little while longer. Maggie and George are keeping me company.

edit: why did this happen to me?

Radiation: day 1

My first day of radiation was yesterday. This time around, I took an Ativan beforehand to calm my nerves, and hope that I wouldn't cry on that table again. People keep telling me that I'm so strong. If only they knew how frequently I crack under the weight of this burden. I am not kidding when I say I cry everyday. With every blog post I write, I will the tears to stay within my eyelids, but defying my pleas, they spill out and over, running down my cheeks.

All of my nurses at the radiation office are nice, which makes these situations easier to handle. Once again, I was told to undress from the waist up, and put on a paper vest. My nurse Tracy said I could close the curtain around me for privacy. I figured, what's the point? You're going to see it all in a minute anyway. So I changed out of my clothes, put on my stylish paper vest, and climbed onto the table. She positioned me the same way I was laying on the table last week, and told me we would be doing x-rays first, then we'd start the radiation. I asked if I could breathe or if I needed to hold my breath, she said I could breathe, but instructed me not to move. There was music playing in the background, I'm sure to ease the mood. All in all, I was probably only on the table for maybe 10 minutes. Perhaps it was longer - I'm bad at measuring time. I met two other nurses that were there, and I couldn't help but think "oh, great, more to add to the list of people that have seen my breasts." I'm not entirely sure how long that list is, but I'm starting to think it's more than 30 since November.

The second nurse, whose name I can't remember, instructed me to lather my lotion on the area where they marked my chest, since that's where the radiation was targeted. I asked about swimming and sweating, and she said both of those things are fine to do. I want to get back to the gym so I can attempt to lose the almost 20 pounds I've gained over the last 4 months of chemo. I'd like to be able to look in the mirror again without wanting to break it.

I lathered on my calendula cream, which made me smell like olive oil - I felt like I was making pasta - and redressed. Then met the nurse in the room, who handed me my radiation schedule. I'm not sure why they feel the need to waste paper and print it out when it's at the same time every week day for 6 weeks, but I guess some people prefer it. I asked a few more questions, then I was on my way.

Later in the afternoon, I took a nap, which was the first time in quite a while I've actually been able to do that. I foresee quite a few of those in my future over the next few weeks. I think it's a combination of the treatment, the anxiety, and the frequency of having to go to the office, that contribute to the fatigue.

Today, my breast feels a little tight in the radiated area. It stayed pink for a little while after the treatment, but finally returned back to my pale white color. I'm hoping that this treatment goes smoothly.

One of my radiation tattoos.

 All of the things in my arsenal for radiation summer camp.

 My body as cancer's canvas. 

The Revolving Door

The treatment process for cancer is like being stuck inside a revolving door. You enter into it, nervous and anxious as to whether you'll make it out to the other side, freedom so close to your finger tips, just to be dragged back in and spun around, landing exactly where you started. On and on the door spins, meanwhile you're trapped inside, struggling to break free, begging mercilessly for someone to help you out.

People say there's a light at the end of the tunnel with cancer treatment - that soon enough, it will be over. All of this will be put behind you and then you can move forward with your life. What people who aren't going through it don't understand is that you're stuck in the door, with no one to break you free, scared and ultimately alone. There is no light at the end of the tunnel when you're in that door - only spinning, anxiety, fear, and exhaustion. It's hard to look ahead to the future when you're just trying to make it through today. I can't even allow myself to hope for a future without cancer, because I'm not sure it exists. I'm starting to convince myself that no matter what I do - surgery, chemo, radiation - cancer will kill me. I'm afraid I'll be stuck in this door forever.

I know that with time, this fear will fade. That with each passing day of remission, I'll be able to have hope for my future, and cancer won't be something that's constantly on my mind. If anything, cancer should be a reason for me to live more in the moment and be less afraid - take risks, try new things, say yes to new opportunities - and I hope to get there one day. For now, though, I'm stuck in the door, being tossed into another phase of treatment.

One day soon I hope to find the strength to break the glass.

The art of letting things go

As I've said before, I have a really hard time letting things go. I've been known to hold grudges for extended periods of time, letting anger and hatred and hurt take precedence over forgiving, accepting, and healing. And that's no way to live. I even have a tattoo reminder of a balloon with the string saying "let it go".

One thing that cancer has given me is better perspective on how I should be living my life. I've always had the notion that life should be this linear process - go to school, graduate, get a career, buy a house, get married, have children - but I'm learning that life is rarely linear. It ebbs and flows, and there are immense challenges along the road that will frequently throw you off course. Like getting a cancer diagnosis at 27. I never could have expected this or planned for it, it just happened. I'm coming to terms with the fact that there's no real explanation for this happening to me, and the more I accept this, the easier it is for me to heal from it.

Yesterday, I met with my HR rep to put in for a leave of absence from my job. I've been considering doing this for a long time, but have hesitated out of fear of losing the job, and subsequently losing my medical benefits. However, after long, hard consideration, I decided I needed some time off in order to focus on my radiation treatment, and healing. I've been on the go nonstop since December, with biopsies, surgeries, doctor's appointments, chemo, all while trying to learn a new job. I'm exhausted. So, now is the time that I put myself first - which I'm also very bad at doing. I've had anxiety about putting in for this leave, and there was also some push back from family about why I shouldn't do it, but this is what's best for me.

While considering what I'd do on this leave, I started thinking about how I really want to work on my goal of forgiveness. I decided that life is way too short to continue to hold onto anger and resentment. It's weighing me down, and definitely not helping me lead a healthy life, which is so integral to my healing. Having emotional baggage does just as much damage as having physical ailments. Almost immediately after making this decision to let things go, I felt a weight lifted off of my shoulders. My heart started to fill with love, rather than hate or anger. I thought of so many people that I could forgive, whether they know they hurt me or not, and I started crying, simply for the fact that I should've done this much sooner. I've been deeply hurt by friends, significant others, and simply by events that have happened in life that are out of my control. And I'm tired of being angry. It's time to move forward.

I know that simply making this decision is only one step towards letting things go that are weighing me down, and I know that I'll likely have slip ups or moments of weakness where I'll be hurt over something that has happened in the past. But at least now I can recognize those feelings, accept them, try to turn them into positive feelings instead, and move forward.

Some quotes about moving on and letting go:

http://thoughtcatalog.com/lorenzo-jensen-iii/2015/07/70-inspirational-quotes-about-letting-go-and-moving-on/