The good with the bad

I have been absolutely blown away by the good things that have shown up at my proverbial door lately. I am in awe, deeply moved, flattered, and touched by the fact that women from around the world have reached out to me to let me know that I've inspired them. I've given them hope. I've let them know that they can get through whatever challenges may lie ahead for them. 

It's ironic that so much good has come out of such a crappy situation. I say that because when I was first diagnosed, I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone's pity or sadness or grief. I told close family members of the diagnosis, and a handful of good friends, and I asked them all to keep my secret. They obliged, but with one or two of them insisting that it might be good for me to open up about it. In hindsight, I wish I had started publicly documenting my experience right from the get-go, but I just wasn't ready to face it. There was so much on my plate - doctor's appointments, consultations, biopsies, blood draws, mammograms... It took all of my energy to just solely focus on those appointments and surgeries. 

It was during my second chemo that I was sitting in my chair, thinking long and hard about what an ex-boyfriend had said to me when I told him of the diagnosis. Looking back, I don't remember the entire conversation, I just remember that he thought it would be good for me to get it off my chest. Because burying that pain so deep inside of me was surely only going to cause more damage. I would hear cancer commercials on the radio, or see them on the TV, or in casual conversation someone would start talking about someone they knew who'd died of cancer, and every time one of these things happened, I would cringe. I couldn't escape cancer. It's like it was hunting me down, trying to remind me daily of its presence in my world. Cancer was my new normal at the time, whether I liked it or not. So, as my mom and I waited for my nurse to show up with my first meds and before putting my cold caps on, I made the decision to go public, posting a picture on Instagram and Facebook, detailing how my life had drastically changed. And to my surprise, I didn't receive pity. If anyone thought of me differently, it was in a positive way. I was told how brave I was. How strong. How fearless. How positive. People offered prayers and well wishes. I leaned on other people for support who have also gone through cancer because I needed to know that I would come out on the other side. Because I didn't actually feel brave, or strong, or fearless. The only thing I desperately clung to was my positive outlook. I had to in order to survive everyday. 

So with that first public picture came this realization that I needed to go public about my experience with breast cancer. Not only so I could help other young women, but to give breast cancer a face. A name. To let people know that I'm a real person, and yes, it happens to women under 40. I wanted to be honest and open about every single struggle I was going through, but also taking time to celebrate the small victories. Being vulnerable is incredibly difficult, especially in the judgmental society we live in, but I needed people to hear my story. Letting go of the fear of being judged or labeled as weak or incapable was the best decision I've made. Being public about my cancer has helped me heal in a way that I don't think anything else ever could have. 

It has also opened several doors for me. Learning about Barbells for Boobs and fundraising to help young women and men get access to screenings. Traveling to the Young Survival Coalition Symposium and meeting Z from BFB and getting to train with her. Having my pictures be used in national campaigns for the YSC and BCO to spread awareness about breast cancer in young women. A video of mine being used for the YSC to offer advice to young breast cancer patients. Writing an incredibly raw and heartbreaking account of my experience with IVF and cancer and having it be published. Advocating for Barbells for Boobs and raising awareness. Possibly getting featured for an amazing cancer organization within the CrossFit community.. 

But the most amazing thing that has happened has been receiving messages like the ones below. It has reminded me that what I say makes an impact. My small voice is being heard. And if I can change even just one person's life, then that makes it all worth it.

So this is 29...

Most people fear getting older. After 25, the subsequent birthdays are just a countdown towards gray hair, wrinkles, and death.

But not for me. Today is my birthday, and I'm 29. It's my last year in my 20's, and I'm actually really looking forward to it. For me, life has only gotten better after 25. Yes, you read that right. Life has only gotten better.

Don't get me wrong, I've definitely struggled. I've agonized over the "why me?" of getting breast cancer at 27. I've had my heart broken several times over. I've gone back and forth with my decision to quit grad school. Life hasn't always been easy or kind to me, but I'm at this place now where I am immensely happy. I know I've typed this before, but I wake up every single day with a smile on my face, grateful to be alive. Every single day is something new and amazing, and I'm so incredibly thankful to be able to experience whatever life has in store for me.

27 was supposed to be my golden year. I thought everything was falling into place. I had several interviews lined up for the job I wanted in a tough field. I was madly in love with someone who I thought I was going to have a future with. I was making every effort to live a positive lifestyle, and be grateful. Then I found a lump, and got diagnosed. I feel like life dealt me the shittiest card, and from there it was a domino effect. I held onto that positive outlook for as long as I could throughout treatment, but it was hard. My doctors and nurses were all impressed with me, because I was determined that this was only one chapter of my story. I refused to let it define me. I refused to think that my life was over, even though, some days, that thought admittedly did slip through the cracks. I lost that person I loved. Or rather, he abandoned me. In a time where I needed someone to step up to the plate, he threw in the towel. I did eventually get the job I had worked so hard towards, but it was incredibly difficult working and going through treatment.

28 got better. It started with me joining CrossFit WIT and getting my health back on track. I got my ass handed to me for that first workout, and then I kept showing up for more. I lost 10 pounds of my chemo weight, I finished radiation, I finished my herceptin infusions, and got my portacath removed. I started to use my story to advocate for young women with breast cancer. I won a contest with the Young Survival Coalition and a video of mine was highlighted. I won a local essay contest for Bay Area Cancer Connections in which the essay I wrote was published in their newsletter. A picture of mine has been highlighted on breastcancer.org, and also by Barbells for Boobs. Breast cancer helped me find my voice. It has helped me try to do some good in this shitty situation, and I've had people from all over the world reach out to me about my experience.

This year, I've also had the opportunity to travel more than I ever have before. I went to Atlanta in March for the YSC conference, then Disneyland in April, then Maui for a cancer retreat. I'm heading back to Atlanta this weekend, and then the biggest trip of the year is Costa Rica in September!

I look back at all this and I realize that without my struggles, I wouldn't have stumbled across my strengths. I am so proud of the person I've become. I look in the mirror and I'm happy with the reflection. Every single day is a gift, and I plan on savoring and appreciating each moment. 29 is going to be the best year yet. I can feel it.

Moments of hesitation: when you break

Sometimes, I think I'm capable of being a lot stronger mentally than I actually am. I wish I could say that I no longer think about cancer on a daily basis, but that's absolutely not true. What I can say is that I think about my life much differently after having had cancer. I am happy and alive and breathing, and every day that I wake up is a gift that I don't plan on wasting. That counts for a whole hell of a lot in my book. So, yeah, I still think about cancer daily, but it's in a much more positive way than it previously has been. I will never be one of those people who says that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, because I wouldn't wish that hell on anyone. But it's made me stronger. Happier. More open to new opportunities. My whole life has been reshaped in an incredibly positive way because of the experiences I've had. I used to be incredibly angry at cancer. Now, I'm at peace with it. It happened. It's part of my story. But it's definitely not the entire book.

Yesterday morning as I was typing away about my bowel movements, I had my tv on, which is a rare occasion these days. I don't watch it much, preferring to read or be outside or at the gym in my spare time. But, I've been waking up a lot earlier before work lately, so as I typed, I decided to put on a movie. And I'm not entirely sure why, but I settled on "50/50". If you've never watched that movie, it stars Joseph Gordon Levitt and Seth Rogen (IMDB page here). It's about a 27 year old who gets diagnosed with a sarcoma on his spine. He goes through the awkwardness of counseling, the chemotherapy, the relentless side effects, the pain of someone he cares about walking away from him in the middle of his treatment, his best friend doing what he could to hold it together, and his family struggling with how to deal. Literally all things that I experienced, including the heartbreak. Especially the heartbreak. Honestly, I thought that the heartbreak aspect of it was going to be what stood out most to me and would tug at my heartstrings, but it actually didn't bother me.

I've watched this movie before and enjoyed it, but that was before my own cancer experience. I literally only put it on for background noise as I clicked away on my keyboard, but after I posted the last blog post, I went downstairs, made myself breakfast, and then came back upstairs to finish the movie before having to get ready for work. And then, a scene came up that caused one of the most intense flashbacks I've had regarding my cancer. There are spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the movie, I don't recommend continuing to read on.


Near the end of the movie, Levitt's character goes in for surgery. He's in a hospital gown, laying on the gurney, and has an IV hooked up to a portacath in his chest, and at one point signs a waiver for being an organ donor. All things that I remember incredibly vividly. I was looking at the tv, and I knew it was Levitt's character that was on the screen, but all I was seeing was my face. All over again, it was me on that gurney. Me in the hospital gown. Me with an IV hooked up to fluids. Me signing the medical releases. A nurse and an anesthesiologist come up to him and start to administer the anesthesia, explaining that they were going to be wheeling him into surgery. And Levitt breaks down. He starts to panic, asking how long it's going to take, whether they're giving him enough anesthesia to keep him asleep, what would happen if he woke up during the procedure... All while his mom is by his side and trying to reassure him the best she could that things were going to be okay. That she would see him in a few hours. That it would all be over soon. They embrace in a hug and start crying, and I just lost my shit. I started bawling, unable to control my tears, and the feelings of fear rushing back practically knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't stop crying or gasping for air.

It was like I was back in that hospital. The four walls of my room transformed into the one wall and three privacy curtains of the hospital where I waited for my table time for surgery. I easily remembered my mom and I sitting there, waiting and waiting, and me trying not to move because I was in pain. I had a wire sticking out of my left breast, and an IV in my right hand. I knew my blood pressure was over the roof. I had brought a book to read, but I couldn't focus on anything, so I turned on the small tv at my bedside table while my mom and I made small talk. I had started crying in the car on the drive over, telling her I was afraid. She put on her brave face, and told me everything would be okay. That we were in it together. So, while we waited in that room for the surgeon to come up, I held back the tears, and reminded myself that everything would be okay. It had to be. I was strong enough to make it through this. I didn't exactly believe it, but I had to keep repeating it. Eventually, my surgeon came into my little "room" and marked my left breast with his initials, a precaution to make sure they operated on the correct side. How they could possibly get it wrong since I had a wire sticking out of the breast, I had no idea. But better safe than sorry. Not too long later, my nurse came by asking if I needed to use the bathroom before I went in. I said yes, so she and my mom helped me unplug my monitor that had me hooked up to the IV, and the nurse followed me to the bathroom and waited outside the door. I was still trying not to move too much because of the IV and my grave dislike for needles, so it was difficult getting my underwear down. It took me longer than it should have to go pee, but I was taking my time, still trying to stay calm. When I came out of the room, the nurse informed me it was time to go. I went back to the area my mom was sitting, and sat back down on the gurney. My mom took my belongings, and followed us partway down the hall. It was when the nurse told my mom that she had to stay behind that I absolutely broke down and started crying hysterically. I didn't want my mom to see me cry like that. I didn't want her to see me so broken. I wanted to be strong for her. She had been so strong for me in the month of doctor's appointments and biopsies and consultations prior to that moment. But, at that moment, I couldn't help myself. I needed her at that moment more than I ever have. Just like in the movie, my mom hugged me tight as I cried, no longer holding back the fear and panic I was feeling. She told me she loved me and that she'd see me soon. Eventually, we separated, either because she pulled away, or the nurse told her we had to go, I'm not really sure. I cried the rest of the way into the operating room, and had to choke back the tears as the anesthesiologist administered my drugs and the surgeon did the walk-through, asking me my name, date of birth, what surgery I was in for... And all I could think about was my mom sitting alone in the waiting room. Other family members had wanted to come to sit there with her and be there for me, but I asked them not to. Not just because I didn't want anyone else there, but because my mom was the only one I needed.

My mom and I have had our differences, but I can say she has been the most amazing support system through all of this. I remember her sitting on my bed after I casually told her about my diagnosis, telling me we would figure it out. I can only imagine how devastating it was hearing that her daughter had cancer. I know that she would've happily taken my place if possible, but I would never have let her. Despite being in school and working a full time job that had her traveling on an almost weekly basis, my mom was there for every single doctor's appointment that I wanted her there for. Every test result she wanted to know about. She was there as I agonized over whether or not I should save eggs through IVF, telling me in the most heartbreaking way that she didn't need to be a grandmother and that the choice was mine alone to make. She came to every single chemotherapy appointment, and helped me carry in the 100 lb cooler of dry ice and cold caps, which was quite a feat for my small framed mother. She helped me change the bandages on my wounds when I practically passed out in the shower from pain. And on one of the days where I had a huge panic attack regarding the IVF, she injected me with hormones when I couldn't bring myself to do it.

So, this less than 5 minute scene of this movie had this effect on me. It opened the floodgates of memories, and I couldn't shake it for a few hours. It wasn't the best start to my day. In the midst of my tears, I texted my mom to tell her I loved her. Not only because she needs to hear it more often, but because I just really needed to say it. And, as moms do, she asked if everything was okay. My mom always knows when something is wrong, which is something I love about her. The fear and anxiety that had built up regarding these memories lasted for a few hours, causing me to randomly break out in tears while getting ready for work, and while at work. Eventually, my day got busy enough to where the feeling passed. But it served as a reminder that at any given moment, the walls I've built up to protect myself from these memories could come crashing down. Most often when I least expect it. Granted, I should've known better than to watch a movie about cancer, but I honestly didn't think it would have any effect on me. I thought that I was far enough removed from my cancer that I could hold those memories at arm's length. Today, I learned that's definitely not the case. Just as I wrote a few days ago, I'm always going to be living in these moments of hesitation. Of being wary of living too much for fear that something might knock me back down.

I refuse to live in fear. I let the feelings come, because they deserved space and recognition. I couldn't stop them, so there was no point in trying to push them back into the recesses of my heart. I allowed myself to feel my feelings, and then, slowly as the day passed, I was able to move forward. It didn't ruin the rest of my day. It just made me realize that much more how much life I have left to live.

My text to my mom.

Joseph Gordon Levitt as Adam in 50/50 - the scene that made me lose it.

Oh Kale no (Disclaimer: this is about poop)

Okay, so if you've been reading my blog from the beginning, you know that I talk about poop. A lot. Much to the dismay of many of my past boyfriends and also family members, it's a pretty common topic of conversation with me. I am definitely not one of those girls that pretends she doesn't poop or fart, or that everything that comes out of my body is all glitter, sunshine, and rainbows. That's definitely not the case. I've seen the evidence, y'all. (I never say "y'all", but it seemed appropriate there.) I'm human, I poop.

When you go in for your first chemotherapy, one of the nurses gives you a "teach" about what to expect while on chemo. My nurse, DJ, was awesome. Super patient and friendly, and apologetic that my first chemo was a complete shitshow (not because I was actually shitting everywhere, it just took them forever to release my meds, so what should've only been about a 6 hour day ended up being closer to 9.) She gave me a bunch of packets of information as far as possible side effects, phone numbers to call if I had any problems, and what to look out for if I had an allergic reaction to the drugs. It was way too much to read, and luckily she summarized it for me, knowing I'd probably never look at those pages again. I don't know about you, but before I was diagnosed with cancer myself, I was pretty naive about the whole experience. I had seen my grandma go through it when I was 16, but all I knew was that she was making frequent trips to the hospital, she was tired all the time and had no energy, and eventually she was put into hospice care. I was in the hospital room when she died. So, my picture of cancer was that. You go to chemo, you get sick, you might lose your hair, and then you may or may not live. But, in reality, there's so much more to it than that. This time around, I'll spare you any philosophical or insightful comparisons of what the cancer experience is like. I'm actually intending for this to be much more lighthearted. Cancer took a lot of things from me, but my sense of humor wasn't one of them.

Two of the listed side effects in the packet that DJ gave me were diarrhea and constipation, and it was pretty much a crap-shoot, literally, as to which lovely side effect your body might grace you with. I tried to prepare for anything that might come at me by heading to the store with my mom and stocking up on things I thought might help. So, I bought both a probiotic to help me poop if I ended up constipated (which I'd been told for years by doctors that I already was), and also Imodium for if I just couldn't stop going. It took about 21-25 days for the side effects to start showing up. My hair started falling out, despite the cold caps, coffee suddenly tasted disgusting, I broke out into a horrible rash from an allergic reaction to the chemo, and I had nose bleeds every day. I was also starting to gain weight, which was incredibly disheartening. When I started chemo, I was at my lowest weight (123 lbs) in my adult life, and I was super proud of what my body looked like. I had decided I wanted to put my best effort into maintaining that weight, despite knowing I'd probably continue to gain because of being on steroids, by eating healthy. I would eat yogurt and salads and laid off the sweets. I'm not entirely sure when my body decided to start boycotting that effort, but eventually I couldn't digest any sort of leafy greens. Or corn. Or tomatoes. Basically I was shitting salad. It got to the point where I would eat a salad, and within less than twenty minutes, my stomach would be hurting, and I'd be running for a toilet. So I got the lucky side effect of diarrhea. Imodium was my best friend last summer. It was at that point, that I just gave up trying to eat healthy. I figured, if my body was boycotting the healthy stuff I was trying to feed it, I might as well enjoy what I was putting into my mouth. I ate a lot of double stuf oreos last summer. Every once in a while, I would attempt to eat a salad again, and I would end up with the same result.

Fast forward a year later, and I've been done with treatment since February of this year. I eat healthy and I workout 4-6 days a week. I lost 10 pounds of the twenty I gained during chemo, and then I gained some of it back in the form of muscle. I am happy and healthy, and I wake up grateful for the life I'm leading on a daily basis. And because of my new, healthy eating and workout habits, I finally poop on a daily basis. Okay, TMI, I know, but if you've gotten this far into this post, the whole thing has been pretty TMI, and I really don't have much shame. For the first time in 28 years, I finally poop everyday and I completely understand my doctors concerns when I was a sophomore in high school and an X-ray of my abdomen showed so much cloudiness she gave me nutrition advice. Back then, a bowel movement every two to three days was my normal. Now, if I go more than 24 hours without pooping, I feel bloated and incredibly uncomfortable. I actually notice a difference in the way my body feels and how it effects my day, which is a little weird, but also nice in the sense that I feel like I have a much better understanding of my body and what it needs.

But here's where the problem lies. I've had a few lingering chemo side effects, like chemo brain, horrible heartburn, and the nose bleeds that didn't stop until I had a vein in my left nostril cauterized. At some point, I was finally able to eat salads again without running to the bathroom. But, apparently, I still can't digest certain foods. Corn is one of them. I know, you're going to say, but everyone poops corn. But, do they poop out every last kernel that they put in their mouth? Because I'm fairly certain that's not normal.. And, as of the last few days, I've come to learn that my body is still not a fan of dense leafy greens.

In the past 4 months or so, I've put on about 7 lbs of the 10 I lost. Some of it muscle, some of it fat. In an effort to get my body fat percentage down, I've been experimenting with my diet, and trying to push myself harder in workouts. So for the last four days, I've been tracking my macros again (proteins, carbs, and fats). During that time at breakfast, I've had kale with my eggs. Great source of fiber, right? Well, my body certainly thinks so. Rather than immediately running to the bathroom in 20 minutes of eating it, my body has been taking it's sweet ass time, attempting to digest it, but then in the morning I've been .... you guessed it, pooping kale! It seems as though this is one lingering chemo side effect that I'm just going to have to constantly be wary of. I guess part of my "new normal" is just that I'm going to have to be aware of where the nearest toilets are at all times....

Oh Kale no (Disclaimer: this is about poop)

Okay, so if you've been reading my blog from the beginning, you know that I talk about poop. A lot. Much to the dismay of many of my past boyfriends and also family members, it's a pretty common topic of conversation with me. I am definitely not one of those girls that pretends she doesn't poop or fart, or that everything that comes out of my body is all glitter, sunshine, and rainbows. That's definitely not the case. I've seen the evidence, y'all. (I never say "y'all", but it seemed appropriate there.) I'm human, I poop.

When you go in for your first chemotherapy, one of the nurses gives you a "teach" about what to expect while on chemo. My nurse, DJ, was awesome. Super patient and friendly, and apologetic that my first chemo was a complete shitshow (not because I was actually shitting everywhere, it just took them forever to release my meds, so what should've only been about a 6 hour day ended up being closer to 9.) She gave me a bunch of packets of information as far as possible side effects, phone numbers to call if I had any problems, and what to look out for if I had an allergic reaction to the drugs. It was way too much to read, and luckily she summarized it for me, knowing I'd probably never look at those pages again. I don't know about you, but before I was diagnosed with cancer myself, I was pretty naive about the whole experience. I had seen my grandma go through it when I was 16, but all I knew was that she was making frequent trips to the hospital, she was tired all the time and had no energy, and eventually she was put into hospice care. I was in the hospital room when she died. So, my picture of cancer was that. You go to chemo, you get sick, you might lose your hair, and then you may or may not live. But, in reality, there's so much more to it than that. This time around, I'll spare you any philosophical or insightful comparisons of what the cancer experience is like. I'm actually intending for this to be much more lighthearted. Cancer took a lot of things from me, but my sense of humor wasn't one of them.

Two of the listed side effects in the packet that DJ gave me were diarrhea and constipation, and it was pretty much a crap-shoot, literally, as to which lovely side effect your body might grace you with. I tried to prepare for anything that might come at me by heading to the store with my mom and stocking up on things I thought might help. So, I bought both a probiotic to help me poop if I ended up constipated (which I'd been told for years by doctors that I already was), and also Imodium for if I just couldn't stop going. It took about 21-25 days for the side effects to start showing up. My hair started falling out, despite the cold caps, coffee suddenly tasted disgusting, I broke out into a horrible rash from an allergic reaction to the chemo, and I had nose bleeds every day. I was also starting to gain weight, which was incredibly disheartening. When I started chemo, I was at my lowest weight (123 lbs) in my adult life, and I was super proud of what my body looked like. I had decided I wanted to put my best effort into maintaining that weight, despite knowing I'd probably continue to gain because of being on steroids, by eating healthy. I would eat yogurt and salads and laid off the sweets. I'm not entirely sure when my body decided to start boycotting that effort, but eventually I couldn't digest any sort of leafy greens. Or corn. Or tomatoes. Basically I was shitting salad. It got to the point where I would eat a salad, and within less than twenty minutes, my stomach would be hurting, and I'd be running for a toilet. So I got the lucky side effect of diarrhea. Imodium was my best friend last summer. It was at that point, that I just gave up trying to eat healthy. I figured, if my body was boycotting the healthy stuff I was trying to feed it, I might as well enjoy what I was putting into my mouth. I ate a lot of double stuf oreos last summer. Every once in a while, I would attempt to eat a salad again, and I would end up with the same result. One of the mottos of my March 2015 chemo group from BCO is "never trust a fart", and damn, that still holds true.

Fast forward a year later, and I've been done with treatment since February of this year. I eat healthy and I workout 4-6 days a week. I lost 10 pounds of the twenty I gained during chemo, and then I gained some of it back in the form of muscle. I am happy and healthy, and I wake up grateful for the life I'm leading on a daily basis. And because of my new, healthy eating and workout habits, I finally poop on a daily basis. Okay, TMI, I know, but if you've gotten this far into this post, the whole thing has been pretty TMI, and I really don't have much shame. For the first time in 28 years, I finally poop everyday and I completely understand my doctors concerns when I was a sophomore in high school and an X-ray of my abdomen showed so much cloudiness she gave me nutrition advice. Back then, a bowel movement every two to three days was my normal. Now, if I go more than 24 hours without pooping, I feel bloated and incredibly uncomfortable. I actually notice a difference in the way my body feels and how it effects my day, which is a little weird, but also nice in the sense that I feel like I have a much better understanding of my body and what it needs.

But here's where the problem lies. I've had a few lingering chemo side effects, like chemo brain, horrible heartburn, and the nose bleeds that didn't stop until I had a vein in my left nostril cauterized. At some point, I was finally able to eat salads again without running to the bathroom. But, apparently, I still can't digest certain foods. Corn is one of them. I know, you're going to say, but everyone poops corn. But, do they poop out every last kernel that they put in their mouth? Because I'm fairly certain that's not normal.. And, as of the last few days, I've come to learn that my body is still not a fan of dense leafy greens.

In the past 4 months or so, I've put on about 7 lbs of the 10 I lost. Some of it muscle, some of it fat. In an effort to get my body fat percentage down, I've been experimenting with my diet, and trying to push myself harder in workouts. So for the last four days, I've been tracking my macros again (proteins, carbs, and fats). During that time at breakfast, I've had kale with my eggs. Great source of fiber, right? Well, my body certainly thinks so. Rather than immediately running to the bathroom in 20 minutes of eating it, my body has been taking it's sweet ass time, attempting to digest it, but then in the morning I've been .... you guessed it, pooping kale! It seems as though this is one lingering chemo side effect that I'm just going to have to constantly be wary of. I guess I'm always just going to have to be aware of where the nearest toilets are....

Bittersweet

One of the most common things you hear after cancer treatment is people trying to find their "new normal". It's a kick in the ass, really. I remember all through chemo I was desperately wishing for things to go back to normal, but only with the vague realization that the normal I was imagining was no longer going to be within my grasp. My old life that I had cultivated was out of reach. But here I am, two years later, after thinking my life was perfect. I'm standing. I'm breathing. I would argue that I'm the happiest and most content and most comfortable I've ever been. I see beauty in the small things, like waking up to the sun shining and feeling the warm air on my skin. And it's not that I didn't see or appreciate those things before, it's that now they carry new meaning. Each and every day I'm grateful to be alive. And even if I'm having a bad day, I know that tomorrow is a chance to start over. Occasionally struggling is part of the process of life, and that in itself holds beauty.

But then the reality of what my "new normal" is sets in, and I remember that some things can't, or won't, come as easy as they used to. Such as..

I'm finalizing my trip to Costa Rica in September, and it dawned on me the other day that I should contact my oncologist to make sure all of my vaccinations were up to date and make sure it's safe for me to travel out of the country. So, cue me sending off an email to good ol' Dr. Shek, following his instructions, and setting up an appointment with a travel nurse to make sure my vaccinations are up to date (dear god, I really hope they are. Nearly two years closely associated with needles has not gotten me over my grave fear and dislike of them).

I've been having this pretty significant chest pain for almost four months. After a month of it persisting, I finally conceded to seeing my oncologist. We agreed on a chest X-ray, me taking Prilosec, and an EKG. It wasn't until the results came back clear that we discussed a CT scan. My doctor has been adamant that my screenings won't include scans because he doesn't want to expose me to any more radiation. So for him to suggest the CT scan, I knew where he was headed, but I didn't believe it until the words came out of his mouth. "We have to rule out the possibility of recurrence." And my thought was, "Holy fuck. What if it's back? What if they didn't get it all the first time? What if I have to go through this all over again even though it just ended?" What if, what if, what if... I went to the hospital the next day for the scan, and of course I had to go to the same department where I went for my lumpectomy. Anxiety and fear set in as I waited. I tried to stay calm, but that rarely works when it comes to me and hospitals. I got an IV put in, and then the CT was relatively quick and painless. The results came in the next day - everything looked normal. No recurrence. No heart abnormality. Just some scar tissue buildup. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. But only for a moment. Because it's still happening. I've now seen my general practitioner, and she doesn't believe anything is wrong - just scar tissue breaking down, and inflammation from my workouts. I'm not convinced, so I'm keeping a close eye on it.

My memory isn't what it used to be. Now, I know that people say as you get older, your memory doesn't hold up to the test of time. But, let's be realistic here, I'm only 28 (at least for three more weeks). I shouldn't be struggling to remember simple things, like a conversation I had two days before. Or a word that I've used in everyday jargon for years, but suddenly forgetting what that word was. I can't tell you how many conversations I've just given up on because I've gotten so frustrated at myself for not being able to spit out a simple sentence. Luckily, this has improved since chemo has ended, but it still happens occasionally.

I'm more fatigued than I used to be. I'm always tired since I pretty much don't sleep, but it's a general lingering exhaustion that holds steady through most days. It's incredibly frustrating, because when I actually attempt to sleep, I don't. This one, I can't entirely blame on after effects of chemo, because the poor sleep has been an ongoing issue for years.

I know that healing and recovery aren't linear. There are going to be highs and lows, and I'm doing my best to accept that and deal with each new issue as it comes. At least it's making life a little more interesting....

Little Reminders

I'm currently sitting in bed, drinking my coffee, with some murder mystery show on TV playing in the background, and it feels like a normal day. I've done this exact same thing, this exact same way, hundreds of times before. Not much in those past instances differ from this very moment.

Except.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Penny the Port sticking out of my chest. An unwanted, but welcome, intrusion on my body. Most of the time, I forget she's there. I've long since stopped covering her up when I leave the house, because I figured it's not worth my energy to constantly hide her. And, if anyone is curious enough to ask about her, I feel comfortable enough to give an honest answer to whomever that person might be (stranger or friend or new date) without full breaking down into tears. Today, though, I notice the little mountain she makes on my skin, right below my collar bone. My neck has been sore on that side for a few days, and so of course, my worry is back, thinking, "Shit, what if the cancer spread? What if it's in my neck now?" I know that this is highly unlikely, but I think for a few years to come, every ache and pain I experience is going to lead to that very thought. Penny is this physical reminder that I am still very much a cancer patient, and my body does not belong to me.

It is not easy being a cancer patient out of treatment. Well, out of the worst of treatment, since Herceptin still counts as active treatment. It's hard to feel like we (my doctors and I) are no longer doing everything possible to fight the cancer, therefore what if some microscopic bits of it escaped free and are still attacking my insides? I've hardly ever liked my body, and now I feel like I can't even trust it.

Not only is the sight of Penny slightly bothersome, my breast hurts. It's been 10 months since my surgery, and I still get shooting pains in my left breast, which is the side my tumor was on. The back of my arm from shoulder to elbow is still numb from nerve damage when they took out lymph nodes, making certain weightlifting movements at the gym difficult, and also frustrating.

This limbo of being between cancer treatment phases is difficult for me. I feel so incredibly far removed from the woman I was just 4 months ago going through chemo, but not yet entirely the me I want to be beyond cancer. Every time I get a little distance from my cancer, some part of it pulls me back in, to the reality that I'm still very much fighting this cancer, if you can call it fighting. Every little ache and pain is a reminder of what I went through. And even though I still rarely look in the mirror, my scars are proof that it happened.

I know that time will continue to move forward. I will eventually be done with Herceptin, and will be able to check that off of my treatment plan. Penny will be removed from my chest at some point next year, and then all I'll be left with are the physical (and mental) scars of my cancer. I'm trying to help myself heal as I go along, so that way when this final chapter does come to an end, I'm not completely terrified and anxious, but I can only do so much in the here and now. I plan on living in the moment. Smiling and laughing. Making plans for my future (next year's bucket list is growing: Costa Rica, skydiving, Half Dome...). Being grateful to be alive. Being excited to get to know someone new who sees me for more than my cancer.

These little reminders about cancer are hard. But I am so happy to be alive to tell my story and inspire others.

Constant Worry

People have congratulated me for being out of the worst of treatment - surgery, chemo, radiation - but I think what many people fail to realize is that life after cancer carries so many additional concerns and worries.

A while back, I mentioned I was having abdominal pain. It was behind my ribs on my right side, and I was worried about it, wondering if my cancer had spread. I set up an appointment with my PCP, and she scheduled an ultrasound for me. Going to that ultrasound was incredibly terrifying and traumatizing. I found myself in the exact waiting room from 7 months earlier when I had my surgery - the first in many steps of my long journey with cancer. I had to remind myself to breathe as I sat there waiting for my name to be called, trying not to panic. I walked the same halls I walked when I was on my way to getting nuclear dye and a wire guide injected into my breast. The ultrasound took what felt like an eternity, and with every measurement, every shot captured, my worry grew. There were times when the tech would zoom in on an image, and spend a long time scrutinizing what she saw, which made me even more concerned. At the end, of course she said that she couldn't tell me anything and that I'd have to wait for my doctor to review the images and get back to me. Luckily, a few days later, I was told that there was nothing abnormal about my ultrasound or my blood work, other than my cholesterol was high.

Well, for the past month or so, I've been having abdominal pain on the same side, but lower. Chemo put me into temporary menopause, what's often referred to as "chemo-pause", so I haven't had my period since February. I was given a drug called Lupron twice during my chemo that shut down my ovaries, with the idea that it would protect them from being harmed or damaged by the chemo drugs. They were 3 month injections, and the last one I received was in May. So, if you're doing the math right, my 3 months is up. But still no period. So, once again, I found myself worrying about a cancer recurrence, or possibly a whole new cancer. Ovarian cancer is a sister cancer to breast cancer, so the fact that my pain was coming from that area in my body this time around, I was worried that maybe there was a cyst. Once again, I found myself on the phone scheduling a doctor's appointment, this time with my OB. I had a plan - I was going to go in and demand an ultrasound (and not the exterior kind - the really uncomfortable and awkward trans-vaginal kind that I hadn't experienced since my IVF appointments in January), and then, if necessary, a CT scan. I pushed my fear and panic aside, and had a plan.

Luckily, I have an incredible OB. She's the first doctor I saw when I found my lump, so she's been with me through this whole experience from day one. As I waited in the room with the paper blanket over my lap, I kept wondering if that was the same room she examined my lump in (I'm about 85% sure it was). Rather than breaking down and fighting a panic attack like in the waiting room of my previous ultrasound, I felt confident that things were going to be okay, no matter what the outcome was, because I had a plan. Dr. Lee soon came into the room, rolling in the ultrasound machine behind her. I didn't even have to ask, she automatically felt like it was important to do the ultrasound right then. Though those types of visits are never comfortable, I was comforted by the fact that even she felt the ultrasound was necessary. The one good thing about the aches and pains I feel is that my medical team will no longer take any chances - so I will be utilizing my health care at every single sign of pain. I will never let someone tell me "it's nothing" or that I should wait.

The best part about Dr. Lee doing the ultrasound herself right then and there is that she explained everything to me as we were looking at it - what we were looking at, how big it was, if it appeared normal, and if there were any abnormalities. I didn't have to wait for the results. Luckily, everything was normal. There were no cysts on my ovaries, and my uterine lining was thin and normal. The conclusion? My body is probably just still confused and thrown off course by the chemo and Lupron, and might be trying to figure out if I'm going to have my period again. So far, it's still MIA, which I'm not complaining about. It's just a pain to have to be constantly ready. The consistency and routine of what my monthly cycle was like pre-cancer is long past, and I'm not looking forward to the chaos of my body figuring itself out again. I'm only just hoping that I didn't get put into menopause at the age of 28, because that would seriously suck. It's unlikely, but, so was me getting cancer in the first place, so I don't take bets on this kind of stuff anymore.

Dating with Cancer

Trying to find someone who will accept me and my medical history as been high on my list of things that cause me anxiety. The biggest question I've had is, if I do go on a date, when do I tell them about the cancer? Many people have said by the third or fourth date, because by then I'll know if I want to continue to see them. My issue with that is, by that many dates in, I'm sure I'd probably develop some feelings (because I'm a sap, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I don't really know how to take it slow when it comes to matters of the heart.), and then what if I told them and they ditched me after that? That would be completely traumatizing and I would probably never want to attempt to go on a date again.

I know what you're going to say - "The right guy won't care about your cancer." or "Don't be ridiculous." or "Sometimes you have to make yourself vulnerable to get rewarded." I appreciate those comments, but it doesn't help. I know that whenever someone tells me something along these lines of encouragement, they mean well. But what I feel is valid, and nobody gets to tell me otherwise. I feel like I'm damaged goods, and who would want to take me home, when there are plenty of other non-defective pieces to pick from? Who would want to risk loving someone who's had cancer, knowing there's a possibility (no matter how small) that it could come back, and I could have to go through this whole experience all over again? Or that I might die? I know that we all die at some point, and that's a risk we take no matter who we date or fall in love with, but I feel like my odds of that happening are higher than anyone else's. Maybe that's a morbid thing to say, but these have been my thoughts. I'm scared shitless to let love in again. Especially because the last few times I did, my heart got trampled on. I also know that's a risk we take when we choose to love again, but I can almost feel the brick wall I've put up to barricade my heart from any further damage. I've carefully laid the bricks one at a time, as high as they will go in my chest cavity, and sealed them with as much plaster as possible. Telling myself Maggie is the only companion I need.

But the truth is, I miss having a partner. Someone to go on adventures with, to share parts of my life with, to talk to, and especially someone to hold me during the rough days. Throughout this entire cancer experience, I've craved someone to be by my side. Someone who wouldn't run scared when things got difficult or uncomfortable. I've wanted someone to just lay in bed with me while I cry, without trying to offer words of encouragement, but just let me feel my pain. Despite being surrounded by people who love me, I have felt incredibly alone in this whole process. But because of my past heartbreaks, and my current health status, I knew that dating wasn't something I was emotionally capable of, no matter how much I craved someone else's companionship.

But for about a month now, I've finally felt like I'm ready to get back out there in the world of dating. I feel like my health situation has settled down enough to where I can successfully manage my time between work, friends, doctor's appointments, and dates. I'm starting to feel like ME again. My problem from there was - how the hell am I going to meet anyone? While I know it's worked for many others, including two of my best friends that are getting married in May, online dating just really isn't my thing. I haven't wanted to go down that route yet. I like the idea of meeting people organically, in real life, because that's how all of my relationships have started. Knowing that is my preferred method of attempting to meet someone, I also knew that meant I would actually have to leave the house to make that happen, rather than sitting around at home in my pajamas watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress (yep. shamelessly admitting I watch that show on the regular. All girls do). A lot of my friends are either married or in serious relationships, so I didn't really know who to go out with, or where.

That's when Alicia came along. She sent out an email to a group of her friends saying she wanted to host a Singles Night at a pub in Oakland. She told me that there were a few people she wanted me to meet, no strings attached. And while I was nervous as hell, because I'm usually shy, I put on my big girl pants, and went. Before going, though, I asked Alicia if the people she wanted me to meet knew about my cancer or not. She said she wasn't sure, and apologized profusely because she hadn't thought of that. I told her it wasn't a big deal, I just wanted to be prepared for both scenarios, in case it came up in conversation. I said it wasn't like I was going to introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm Whitney, I had breast cancer." Although, admittedly, I do want to try that out as a sort of social experiment to see what kind of reaction I would get. Granted, that's probably not the best idea since I'm still in a somewhat fragile emotional state about this.

Back to Singles Night. So, I went, and Alicia and a few of her other friends were the only ones there when I got there. Alicia had set up a table near the fireplace of conversation starters and treats. Included on the table was a Donkey Kong Nintendo 64 game cartridge that could be used as a security blanket. Gradually, more of her other friends arrived, so while she was off playing host, I attempted conversation with a few of the people I had met. Which, again, was difficult for me, because I'm shy. I finally met one of Alicia's best friends who I had heard a lot about, which was great. I also met one of her other friends Jesse that gifted me a book for no reason a while back just because he'd thought of me since he knew about my health. As the night went on, I talked to more and more people, slowly shedding my shell, and although I wasn't interested in anyone as far as dating, it was nice to meet new people. I talked to people about my job, school, dating in general, art, Friends episodes, and in one instance had my first experience of someone telling me negative stories about CrossFit after me telling him I'd just started the sport. I knew that eventually that would happen, so it didn't come as much of a surprise. I definitely started to get a little defensive, but luckily Jesse stepped in and commented that so long as people are exercising, who cares what the means are? (Thank goodness for him stepping in, because I almost went off on the other guy telling him he can stick to his wilderness nudist yoga retreats, and I'll happily be at my box throwing around heavy weight.)

Eventually, people trickled out, and I got tired, so I decided it was time to head home. Alicia and I said our goodnights, and she made Jesse walk me out to my car. Yoga guy decided to leave at the same time we did, and as he was getting ready to get on his bike, Jesse shook his hand. I then stuck out my hand for a handshake and to say "Nice to meet you" but Yoga guy opened his arms for a hug. And even though I really didn't want to give him a hug, I did anyways, because society beats it into women that it's unacceptable to be rude to someone, and we should go out of our comfort zones to make other people feel accepted. Jesse walked me to my car, and I happily gave him a hug, because I felt like I'd known him for a lifetime already. There was no hesitation at all. I felt perfectly comfortable hugging him.

It wasn't until the next day that I really realized what had happened about me being nice and giving someone a hug when I didn't want to, and how I wish I hadn't done it. I don't need to make anyone comfortable except myself, and I didn't feel comfortable doing it. I told Alicia about my realization, because I know she has strong feelings about society's rules on women's cordiality, and she agreed that it was a tough situation because I let it happen, but at least I realized I didn't like it, and not to let it happen again.

So, while I didn't find love that Tuesday evening, I did meet a few new people that were fun to talk to, and I pushed myself out of my comfort zone a little bit since I only knew one person at the event. That's at least a step in the right direction towards meeting someone.

Oh, and did I mention I have a date this coming Tuesday? (He asked me to dinner/drinks/coffee and said it was his treat - that's a date, right?) I'm already nervous since this is unlike the group setting of the Singles Night, and in typical girl fashion, I'm already concerning myself with what I'm going to wear.

(PS - If you're reading this, Mr. Tuesday, we can totally just call it dinner and catching up. Or is it a date? Fuck, I'm so far out of practice with this.)

Cancer and Crossfit

Okay, I know I've seriously been slacking in posting anything lately. I'm still in that limbo - trying to balance the scales on life with cancer and life after cancer. So on non-cancer days, I just want to live life normally without really thinking about anything that's happened in the last 9 months. But I know I can't just sweep all of these life events under a rug. They happened. They're real. I faced them. I overcame them. And now I just need to learn how to deal with them head on.

I've been occupying my time with a new hobby: CrossFit. Yes. I've been sucked into the cult world of exercise by means of CrossFit. It's only been about three weeks, and it's already changing my life. I've wanted to try this type of workout for a long time. My friend Paulina has been doing CrossFit for several years, and was always talking about it when we worked together. To be honest, I've just always been really intimidated by the sport. Last year, when I started working out more, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I watched YouTube videos for instructions on how to properly squat, a few friends that I worked out with would help me set up the various machines depending on what I wanted to work out, I'd find new exercise moves through the various fitness pages I follow on Instagram, and one of the personal trainers at my gym would sometimes help me out and tell me what I was doing wrong, and then suddenly this happened:

I grew muscle! I don't know how or when it happened, because it took time, but I just started noticing these awesome changes my body was going through, and I was thrilled. I lost weight, not because I needed to, but because my body just adapted really well to the exercises I was doing, and I started eating healthier (mind you, I was still eating candy and ice cream on occasion). Every day I saw improvements to my muscle definition, how much weight I was able to lift, and I also started to see some vascularity (okay, that part grossed me out a little bit, but was also fascinating). 

Then in November, I came home from a trip and found the lump in my breast. I basically stopped exercising at that point. My mind was occupied with whether or not the lump was cancer, and then when it was, I was busy getting poked, prodded, smashed, and biopsied, and my body was too tired and too hurt from all of those procedures to be in the gym. I also could barely get out of bed because of how depressed I was. I put on this happy, smiling face for everyone, telling them that I was going to be okay. That doctors have come so far in the medical field as far as breast cancer is concerned that I fully believed that I would be "cured". I use quotation marks because I don't think that word is the right one to describe life after cancer, but I don't know a better one. But, while I was putting on a brave face for everyone else, in the privacy of the bathroom, my car, or my room, I was falling apart. 

Surgery happened December 15, and I remember being so angry about the way my body looked afterwards. The scar looked extremely jagged and my breast was this new shape that can't even be found in geometry. Then, I got the addition of Penny the Port, and was angry about how far she stack out, the new scar on my chest, and the fact that I was now bionic. Then in March when I started chemo, the weight slowly started to creep on. For about a month, I was weighing myself on a daily basis, and I stated steady at my pre-cancer weight for a while, but then somewhere along the line, that number that stared back at me kept creeping higher and higher, while my self esteem dipped lower, and my frustration at cancer grew. I was losing the body that I had worked so hard for. 

Every time I saw my oncologist for a check up, he'd ask me if I'd done any exercise. About two weeks after my first chemo, I went on a 9 mile hike, which was still manageable. Somewhere between chemo 2 and 3, I went to a yoga class, but quickly learned I had lost a lot of my strength. About twice during my 4 months of chemo, I went to the gym to lift weights, and both times ended up crying in the locker room because I couldn't lift the same weight I had been lifting 6 months prior. And I was tired. And not tired like "I need to sleep" tired, but fatigued and exhausted. I became puffy and fluffy due to the weight gain, steroids, and water retention, and I hated looking in the mirror. The reflection I saw was not me. I did not accept Cancer Whitney. I would complain to Paulina about how frustrated I was about all of this, and she gently reminded me that once I started working out again when I had the energy, the weight would come off, and my muscles would return. She encouraged me to just eat what I wanted since my body had been through a lot, and I shouldn't be so hard on myself, and to think of the fat as something that could be later turned into muscle. My winter coat, if you will.

Well, on my last week of radiation, I had dinner with Chris and Becky and Jared, and then Chris was going to CrossFit around the corner. I asked if I could go check it out and watch. And while I think Chris was embarrassed, he agreed, and I met his coach. It wasn't my first time in a CrossFit gym, as I'd been to both of the ones Paulina had gone to in the past. But CrossFit WIT was smaller - more intimate. In that hour time span of watching Chris's class, I desperately wanted to pick up weights and start lifting. I wanted to take back control. I started crying because I was so pissed off at the cards life had dealt me, especially at a time when I was feeling so positive about myself, for the first time ever. 

I told Coach Lutz I was interested in checking it out, and he encouraged me to stop by for a few classes to see if I liked it before I signed up. About a week later, my radiation burns were mostly healed, and I was in the gym with Chris, sweating my ass off in 100 degree weather, doing my first AMRAP. Four days later, I was learning how to deadlift, and then I officially signed up to be a part of CrossFit WIT. 

I've already made friends there, and I absolutely love the fact that CrossFit has such a big sense of community and support. While there's a level of competition with each other, everyone also encourages one another to push past your limits and to achieve new goals. I'm not the fastest, or the strongest, but people have cheered me on through workouts, making me want to succeed even more. I've gotten frustrated several times in the last few weeks with the fact that my body can't do a lot of things it used to be able to, but I have to remind myself that it's going to take time. My strength isn't going to come back over night, and unfortunately, the weight doesn't come off as easily as it comes on. Coach Lutz has seen my frustration, and also has to remind me that the hardest part is showing up to workout. Once I make it there, I just have to put in the work, at whatever level I can. He's modified workouts for me, I take breaks when I need to catch my breath, and there have been several instances where I've gotten cold water poured on my head to cool down. 

Last fall, I was about ready to sign up with a fitness team to start training for bikini competitions. But then I got diagnosed, and that idea got put on hold. Now that I've spent the last 10 months admiring and being jealous of other women's bodies who compete, I've also had the chance to hear about and see what else is involved in those competitions. Fasted cardio, water depletion, and being judged and critiqued on my physique when I've already been my harshest judge for so long no longer sounds like a good time. Rather than having goals of being thin and "toned", I now really want to set goals of being to lift heavier weights. I definitely want to lose the chemo weight, but it's okay with me if that fat turns into muscle and the scale doesn't budge. I want to be able to deadlift at least 110 by the end of the year (I'm currently at 85). I want to love my body again. I want to feel and be strong and be happy with who I see in the mirror again.

Coach Lutz believes in me more than I believe in myself, and every workout he picks my weights for me. My eyes bug out, because I don't think I can do it, and he ensures me that I can. And then sure enough, I can use the weights he picked. Granted, sometimes I have to modify my sets and take more frequent breaks, but I push myself. My left arm is still numb from having lymph nodes removed, and I'm hoping it's not permanent nerve damage. So that side is always weaker when I lift weights, and I can only hope that with time and exercise, it will improve and the numbness will go away. I'm already seeing a difference in the way some of my clothes fit. I don't feel quite as puffy and fluffy anymore, and I love/hate the feeling of being sore again.

Even more exciting is the fact that we're participating in a fundraiser for a nonprofit called Barbells for Boobs. They are a CrossFit nonprofit that raises money for breast cancer screenings, specifically for young women under 40 and men, which is obviously near and dear to my heart. When Coach Lutz asked if people were interested, he already knew I'd be on board. I had already heard of this organization, and was happy to hear he wanted us to do our own event. So on October 10, we'll be doing two of the girl workouts that are CrossFit staples - Grace, and Helen meets Grace if with a partner. My friend Nicole and I are going to do the partner workout. Neither of us enjoy running, but it's for a good cause. I set up my fundraiser page last Sunday, and within less than a week, I'm already almost to my goal. How awesome is that? Go check it out here. 

I have other things to write about, like going to a singles night my friend hosted this past Tuesday, starting to see a therapist again, and getting to meet one of my chemo angels yesterday. I'll update on those adventures in the near future. But for now I'm going to go eat breakfast because since starting CrossFit, I'm perpetually hungry.

Secrecy and Pressure

I haven't written anything here in a while because, well, I haven't wanted to. I'm in this limbo stage of treatment, where on one hand, I want to completely forget any of this ever happened to me, but on the other hand, I want to use it to my advantage to help other people. It's  really just fear settling in again. Fear that I'm not good enough to do anything amazing with my story. Fear that I might fail at it if I try. So, of course, hiding in a hole has seemed like a better idea. The reading of my essay was last Tuesday, and the night before, I suddenly really didn't want to go. I didn't want cancer to be my reality anymore. I'm just over it. It had started to almost feel like a distant memory, until having to read that story to a room full of strangers. That made it real again. I had to wake myself from my fantasy that I never had cancer, and remember why I wrote the essay in the first place. To help people. To raise awareness. To help me cope with one of the hardest parts of my treatment.

In many ways, I feel as though there's pressure, from other people, and especially myself, that I have to DO something or BE something amazing just because I had cancer. I have all of these ideas of things I want to do to try to make a difference, make an impact somehow, but I don't know how to do it. And I'm afraid of failure. When people find out you've had cancer, they expect to to live life in a much more gung-ho manner. They tell you, "You probably have so much more appreciation for life now!" Well, I appreciated my life before, too. There was pressure to celebrate the end of chemo, but I didn't much feel like having a party when my treatment is only about halfway over. Cancer has almost become a celebrity in its own right - actors and actresses have been coming out about their cancers, there's the Pink ribbon movement, months of the calendar dedicated to specific cancers - and part of the publication of famous people with cancer makes it seem as though everyone with cancer should be doing something BIG with their life, simply because they had cancer. It's part of why I wanted to keep my cancer a secret.

I also put pressure on myself. Because I still feel lost in life. I don't know what I'm doing, who or what I want to be, or where I'm going from here. So I know I put pressure on myself to try to be something amazing. To make an impact. To be important. I want to continue to inspire others, and if I could make a career out of that, that would be my ideal dream. But... that also means constantly facing my cancer. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that. I'm getting better at it, because the farther I get from the hardest parts of treatment, the easier it is to talk about. It almost doesn't feel real. Like, there's no way it was me who had surgery and went through chemo and radiation. But all I have to do is take my shirt and bra off, and I can see my port and my scar, and there are the physical reminders of just how real it's been.

I'm my harshest critic, I know, which is part of why I took a hiatus from writing in here. The truth of the matter is, everyone else's opinion of what I should be doing with my life is just that - an opinion. I don't have to follow it. If I wanted to forget this ever happened come next March, I can do just that. As for putting pressure on myself, I have taken up looking for silver linings again. I have a lot of great ideas that are worth attempting in order to make this a positive thing, for other people, and for myself. I think that talking about it will help me come to terms with it, and heal some more.

On a different note, I returned to work this past week after 2 months off, and it's going surprisingly well. The atmosphere has been different, and I've noticed significant changes from when I was working during chemo. My mind feels clearer, my hearing has improved, as well as my eyesight, and I'm generally in a better mood.

The downfall, however, is that my cancer is still a secret at my workplace. And the other night, some of my coworkers got into a conversation about cancer. This happens frequently, because, unfortunately, cancer touches everyone's lives somehow. But, this night, was really difficult for me. One of the girls was talking about her sister who had cervical cancer, and then had a recurrence even though she'd had a total hysterectomy. Keisha was baffled at how that could happen. I chimed in saying that it probably spread in her blood stream, and that if the cancer recurs before 5 years, it's still the same cancer. She then went on to say how it wasn't fair because her sister was a good person, she was healthy, she didn't deserve this..... All things I've heard people say to me. And then Nathalie chimed in saying something along the lines, "Could you just imagine being younger than that and going through cancer?" I had to turn my head because I had started crying. I desperately wanted to get up from my chair and run from the room, but it's like I was glued to that chair, unable to move.

Eventually, that conversation ended, but I know it's bound to come up again. And again. And again. I almost screamed, "I HAD CANCER! Can we stop talking about it now?" But, I didn't. I'll likely continue to keep quiet about my cancer at my job, simply because I'm still in training, and I don't want whatever health issues I may have impact how they perceive my ability to my job. I know that's probably crazy, considering I went through two surgeries and chemotherapy during training, and none of them knew, and I still had good performance.

Maybe one day soon, I'll feel comfortable enough revealing this secret to my coworkers. For now, though, I still need that degree of separation. As far as the pressure to be something amazing, well, hopefully I'll get over it, and start to be nicer to myself.

Life after Radiation

Radiation wrapped up last Friday, and I couldn't have had a bigger smile on my face handing over that shitty paper vest and walking out the doors for the final time. I bought myself a red velvet bundt cake from Nothing Bundt Cakes, then went home and slept for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I haven't been able to take a nap since treatment started - fatigue and insomnia have been my biggest foes throughout this process, so being able to just veg out for the rest of the day was great.

I had a good weekend, too. Saturday night, I went to dinner and spent time with Paulina. And then Sunday, my friend Chris and I made use of my christmas presents he and Becky gave me last year and went to the shooting range. I'd been asking to go for a while, and we finally had time. It was both nerve-wracking and fun! Shooting is much harder than it looks, and I need more practice to work on my aim. Luckily, Chris is a patient teacher. Then we had dinner with Becky and spent the evening watching American Pie. Which, by the way, came out in 1999, and people who were born the year that movie came out can now drive. WHAT THE HECK?! Where has time gone? If that doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what does.

But then Monday came around, and I felt incredibly lost not having to get ready for a mid-day trip to the radiation center. I had to force myself to get out of the house and just go somewhere for a little while, so as not to get too wrapped up in the panic about what's next as far as treatment is concerned.

Yesterday, Teresa and I spent the day at the Monterey Aquarium, and had a good time. I started to realize earlier today that I was feeling a sense of calm and peace for the first time probably since before diagnosis. I felt light and free and content. The word fluffy came to mind for whatever reason. It has been an incredibly long time since I've felt this way, and I honestly didn't really know if I'd ever get to feel like this again. Some people might brush that off, saying that this is only temporary, and while that's true, I have a say in how I let it effect my outlook on the future. And I really didn't know if I'd be happy again. The last time I was truly happy, something bad happened (uh, cancer), so in my mind, those two things are mutually exclusive, even though they shouldn't be.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of things I'd like to change about my life and make different, but I'm happy. I can finally accept people's commendations, and agree with them. I am strong. And I am proud of myself. I look back, and see how far I've come, and I'm amazed. In December, surgery followed by 18 weeks of chemotherapy seemed like a life time, and tomorrow is my birthday and I think, where has all the time gone? All of these treatments already seem like a distant memory.

A week ago, if you'd asked me if I was excited about my birthday, I would've told you no. In fact, when Becky asked me that very question last Thursday, and my answer was "No, because I'm afraid I'll never be as happy as I was when it was my birthday last year again." She responded by slapping my arm and telling me to snap out of it. But that was my thought process. Today, I'm not necessarily excited for my birthday tomorrow, but I'm accepting of it. There's going to be anxiety and fear laced in with survivorship, but at least I'm alive, able to celebrate another birthday. For that I'm grateful. If that's the silver lining to putting myself through all this treatment, then I'll take it.

I'm not done living.

Roller Coaster

I wish I could better describe the roller coaster of emotions that come with cancer. One moment to the next is uncertain. I could be happy, or at the very least content, and then burst into tears. And I know that people without cancer experience these same mood swings, so it's not all inclusive to my experience. But, the cancer makes it different.

I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.

What comes next? Who am I without cancer? 

It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.

That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.

Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.

I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.

Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.

Never Hide

Check out Nalie's TedTalk about being true to yourself.

"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."

http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/

I'm being published!

About a month and a half ago, Alicia and I were lounging about her apartment. She was working, and I was reading on my kindle and also playing and snuggling with Sam, the dog that she and her roommate were watching that week. I needed a distraction, and to just be anywhere but my house, and Alicia offered her couch, despite her having to work. I promised not to distract her.

If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.

But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?

But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.

So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.

I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.

This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.

And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.

Everything Changes: Another perspective

On my last post about how everything changes, I was extremely focused on the loss of my former self. I've mentioned on several occasions how I need to mourn the loss of that person, and move forward, but that's easier said than done.

But the next morning, I realized something. Everything is constantly changing, and that's not a bad thing. I am not the same me of last summer, of 8 months ago, of even 5 months ago, or hell, even 5 minutes ago. And there's an extreme amount of beauty in that. It means that at any given moment, we have the power to change (most) whatever it is that's going on that we don't like about ourselves or our lives.

"If you don't like how things are, change it! You are not a tree." - Jim Rohn

Things change, people change, if life stayed the same all the time, it'd be pretty boring. I didn't need a cancer diagnosis to teach me that, but alas, that's where I'm at.

Lately, I've often referred to "cancer perspective" when talking about things to friends and family. As in, this cancer experience has made me able to really hone in on things that I do and don't want in life. I'm able to be more honest with myself about whether or not I want to finish my MA, what I'm willing to put up with in a relationship, and that despite the money, I'm not okay with the idea of working a job that requires me to work a 50 hour work week. There's no life in that. A good friend of mine is always preaching that you should "Work to live, not live to work." I want to actually be able to enjoy and embrace the rest of my youth, not spend it holed up at a job simply because it pays well. Yes, that's an added benefit, but I want whatever work I do to have meaning. I want to be able to change lives and inspire people.

On Tuesday, I had lunch with my former boss and dear friend who's now more like family. When I expressed all of my concerns to her, she stopped me and pointed out that I was trying to tackle too many things at once. She gently reminded me that right now, I only need to get through radiation. That's my full time job. Then, I should focus on one issue at a time, rather than overwhelm myself and try to solve multiple problems at once. She talked me off my ledge.

Yesterday, at lunch with Becky, I continued to down talk myself - about how I don't like the way that I look at the moment. And she said, "Hey! Don't talk about my friend like that." And that was a slap in the face. She's right. I wouldn't like it if she talked about herself like that. And at this extremely difficult time in my life, I need to be better at being my own best friend. I was doing a decent job of treating myself during chemo - buying flowers to perk myself up - but I haven't done that lately. Becky played that role for me - treating me to lunch, shopping, and a manicure and pedicure, again, reminding me that I should be more gentle with myself. I didn't choose this road, but how I handle it makes all the difference in moving past it.

So yes, everything changes. But I have a choice in I respond to those changes. I choose to be better.

"Incredible change happens in your life when you decide to take control of what you have power over instead of craving control over what you don't." - Steve Maraboli

"You aren't what's happened to you, you are how you overcome it." - Beau Taplin

"Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it." - Michelle K 

"I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me." - Joshua Graham