Pretending to Live

 Pretending to Live

Sometimes I feel normal. Like everything is okay. It’s the strangest part of this whole journey - how I can feel so normal that it almost makes me question everything. Like maybe this isn’t really happening. Maybe it’s all a weird moment or phase, and it’ll be over soon. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe “cancer” isn’t my word.

I hear the word said aloud - in doctor’s offices and conversations, read it in paperwork - but it still feels like it doesn’t apply to me. And then, just when I let myself relax and feel happy, the reality creeps back in. It taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that something awful is happening. That I probably shouldn’t feel carefree. That I’m sick, even when I don’t feel sick.

I’m honestly surprised I haven’t fallen into a deep depression. Because there’s this constant whisper in my head about how finite life is now. When I’m doing mundane things - folding laundry, loading the dishwasher - I catch myself thinking, “What if this is my last day alive?” And then I’m crushed by the idea that my final moments could be spent doing chores.

But that’s real life, isn’t it? No one gets a fairytale ending. Most of us don’t go out in some magical, beautiful way. We keep contending with everyday nonsense until the very end. And I guess that’s what makes it so human - and so heartbreaking.

I wish I knew how to really live. I used to be so social. Always out, always surrounded by friends, always doing something. But over the years, I’ve slowly slipped into this quieter life. Now I like staying home. I like being safe. I like cozy. I need cozy. But part of me wonders if it’s good for my mind - especially now, when I’m wrestling with what it even means to be alive.

Maybe the new car will help. Maybe it’ll give me a little boost - the tiniest nudge to get out more, to be in the world again. To pretend I’m healthy. Or maybe not even pretend… maybe just act like it for a while. Maybe that’s enough.

Because sometimes I feel like an imposter - walking around dying, pretending to live. Not quite one or the other. Just… in between.

Tesla Today!

 

New Wheels, New Chapter

Today, we made a big decision - we’re getting a new car. Not just any car, but a 2025 Tesla Model 3 RWD. We took it for a test drive in full self-driving mode, and honestly… it was incredible. A little surreal. It’s hard to describe how strange and amazing it feels to let go and trust the car to take over - like stepping into the future and trying to relax at the same time.

But this car isn’t just about technology or comfort. For me, it’s about hope. It means I’ll have a peaceful, safe, and reliable drive to and from radiation. That’s everything right now. I feel so happy - not just about the car, but about what it symbolizes.

My husband is such an extraordinary man. He takes care of me with his whole heart. I’ve always been madly in love with him, and this moment just reminded me again how deeply he loves me too. This wasn’t just a purchase - it was a gesture of love and support.

I’m so excited for tomorrow when we pick it up and officially begin this next part of the journey. A new car. A modern masterpiece. And a reminder that even in hard times, there are still moments of joy, magic, and love.

Staying Positive

My vibe is in shambles

Staying Grounded in Reality

I’ve been using this blog as a place to process what’s happening - to keep a record of what I’m going through, what helped, what didn’t, and what I’m feeling along the way. I want it to be an honest space, but I also try to keep it positive. Still, not everything is sunshine and silver linings, and today, I need to write about some of the harder parts.

When Support Is Silent

Some people in my life – people who know exactly what I’m going through – have responded with near silence. No calls. No texts. Not even a simple “thinking of you.” And it hurts. I’ve shown up for them in the past. I’ve cared, I’ve helped, I’ve listened. And now, in one of the scariest chapters of my life, their absence feels like a deep cut. I’m not trying to shame anyone – I just wish it wasn’t this way. It’s part of the emotional weight I carry, right alongside the physical one.

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. And I’m hurt.

The truth is, serious illness can make people uncomfortable. They don’t always know what to say, or they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. Sometimes, being near someone going through cancer is too much – it makes them confront things they’d rather not. It reminds them that this could happen to them. Illness can strip away familiarity. Suddenly, you’re not just you anymore – you’re “the person with cancer.” And that shift in identity, even in the eyes of others, can feel incredibly lonely.

But I also want to say this: others have stepped up. Beautifully. I’ve had friends and family members who’ve sent thoughtful messages, checked in by phone, even just said, “I’m thinking of you.” And those small acts? They mean the world to me. They help patch up some of the hurt. Every single message, every call, every gesture makes me feel a little less alone. I don’t take any of it for granted. It doesn’t erase the sting of the absences - but it helps. It truly helps.

False Hope, Real Fear

Another hard part of this journey is the constant flood of “cures.” I love vitamins, minerals, and supplements - I believe they help support a healthy body. But I don’t think I believe they cure cancer. And with my life on the line, I just can’t afford to gamble. I wish it were that simple - a tea, a pill, a natural miracle - and I genuinely want those things to be true. I’d love to avoid surgery, radiation, and long-term medication. But I can’t risk everything on hope alone.

And I’m not just talking about advice from well-meaning friends. I see it constantly online - in Facebook groups, Instagram posts, Twitter threads - all promising secret, natural cures. I want to believe. I really do. But I’m scared of falling for something that isn’t real, and then looking back with regret. So, I’ll continue with evidence-based treatment. If something natural supports me along the way, I’ll gladly include it - but not instead of what science and experience say will give me my best shot.

Yes, I Feel Sorry for Myself

And yes - I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I can’t believe this is happening. I don’t want to go through any of it. I wish I could wake up and have it all be a nightmare. I find myself thinking, I don’t deserve this. I’ve always tried to be kind. I’ve been helpful, generous, loving. Why would this happen to me?

But then I remember - most people feel that way. Nobody deserves cancer. Nobody deserves pain. It’s not that life is unfair to me, it’s that life is just… unfair. To everyone, in different ways.

So I let myself feel the sadness, the fear. I acknowledge the anger, the exhaustion, the loneliness. And then I keep going. I take another step. I keep choosing treatment, and hope, and love - because that’s the best way forward.

And for today, that’s enough

Feeling Love

 

Flowers, Friends, and Feeling Loved

Coming home from a rough day of appointments, I was completely surprised to find deliveries waiting for me - flowers and gifts that made me pause and smile through the exhaustion. What wonderful friends and family I have.

My niece and her husband started it off with a beautiful flower arrangement. I was stunned by how lovely it was, and so touched by their thoughtfulness.

Then came another arrangement - this one from our close friend group, affectionately known as the Shiny Happy People. In a hilarious twist, they didn’t love the flowers that were first delivered… so they sent another bouquet! Double the blooms, double the joy.

Next came a cheerful surprise from my best friend: a fun game and an adorable diamond painting craft kit (which I do love doing - it’s like tiny therapy for my hands and brain).

Another dear friend sent an incredible food gift: fresh veggie soup, warm rolls, cookies, and more. It was comfort in a box, and I could feel the care packed into every bite.

A few days later, one of my oldest friends sent yet another bouquet of flowers. By then, my house looked and smelled like a tiny flower shop.

My sister-in-law sent me a cute adult coloring book of cats!

Every delivery, every gesture, felt like a little burst of sunshine in my heart. I felt so lucky. I felt such love.

Gratitude

Waiting, Worrying, and Gratitude

I’m having some much-needed downtime right now  - a quiet stretch of days while I wait for radiation to begin. I cannot express how frightened I am about it. Truly, I’m terrified. But I understand why it’s important and why it’s needed. I will face it. I will be brave. Even if I’m just a tiny mouse.

Writing this blog has been strange. In hindsight, I wish I had started from day one. But back then, I was honestly too horrified by what was happening to me to even consider it. My mind was focused entirely on facts, appointments, survival. I buried myself in my big notebook full of notes and plans.

It’s odd to sort of relive it all to write it down.

The Notebook

Ah, the notebook.

I took a three-ring binder and filled it with tabs and a printed table of contents. I made sections for my notes, surgeon, oncologist, radiation oncologist, radiology reports, pathology reports, and more. Every time I was given a paper, I printed it out and filed it. Somehow, organizing it all gave me a small sense of control in a situation that felt completely out of control.

And it wasn’t just helpful to me - the notebook actually came in handy more than once at appointments. A few times, I was able to produce something a nurse or doctor needed. Many of them even flipped through it during appointments, impressed by its thoroughness.

One day we visited a friend whose elderly father used to be an oncologist. I showed him the notebook. His eyes lit up. His whole demeanor changed. He became animated, flipping through the pages with such interest. He kept looking at me and saying, “You know you’re cured, right?” Then he’d point to a report and praise my care team’s decisions. It meant so much to me. That notebook has become a lifeline to my sanity.

Saying Thank You

Throughout all of this, I’ve felt so deeply connected to the people who’ve helped me. So I’ve done what I could to thank them.

• I wrote handwritten thank-you notes - sincere ones - and dropped them off when I could.
• I called to speak to managers and praise the people who cared for me.
• I gave small gifts of gratitude: candles, chocolates, ornaments.

I especially remember the radiologist who told me, so earnestly and sincerely, that this was real - to take it seriously. I wrote him a thank-you note and brought it to the radiology center.

There was a young woman at my MRI who touched me deeply. She was so kind - helping me tie up my hair, remove my shoes, calming me through a terrifying scan. I called to tell her manager how much her kindness meant to me.

I made a small gift bag for my nurse navigator: a pink candle, some chocolates, and a beautiful glass ornament that captured how important she has been to me. Later, while visiting friends out of town, I found a bottle of rare whisky - something I knew she’d love - and brought it to her the day I had my mold, CT scan, and tattoos. It was such a joy to see her again.

I wrote a long thank-you letter to my surgeon - for quite literally saving my life.

And I texted my old doctor, who is retired now, to tell her how much her friendship and advice have meant to me during all of this.

Finding the Good

This has been a living nightmare. But somehow, in the middle of it, I’ve found things to be thankful for.

I’ve met a string of remarkably smart, compassionate, dedicated people.

I’ve received state-of-the-art care using top-of-the-line machines.

I’ve had access to cutting-edge treatment at a leading cancer center.

I have a husband who loves me with his whole heart.

I have children who make me feel proud and supported.

I have friends and family who show up - with love, with prayers, with kindness.

Even in the hardest moments, I’ve never been alone.

And for that, I am so very grateful.

What's With the Mouse Stuff?

So... What’s With All the Mouse Stuff?

If you read my introduction post, you might remember me mentioning the image that became my safe place: a tiny mouse, curled up asleep in a walnut shell, snuggled under a soft blanket with a little glowing fireplace nearby. That mouse has become more than just a comforting picture in my head - it’s been my way of escaping, my anchor when things get too scary or painful.

Whenever I felt panic start to rise - during scans, before surgery, lying awake in the middle of the night - I would close my eyes and breathe, repeating quiet little mantras like:

“I am the tiny mouse. I am safe. I am warm and snuggled into my little bed.”

That tiny mouse gave me something to hold onto when the world felt like too much.

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The Mouse Comes With Me

One day, my daughter brought me a tiny toy mouse - small enough to tuck into my hand. I started carrying it to every appointment. It became my pocket-sized protector.

Then I found a seller on Etsy who makes needle-felted animals, and she had exactly what I had always imagined: a miniature mouse curled up asleep in a real walnut shell. I ordered it immediately from the UK, and when it arrived, it was perfect. I started bringing that fuzzy little mouse to appointments, too - holding it, stroking it, grounding myself in its presence. It might sound small, but it brought real comfort.

When I met with my radiation oncologist, I asked if I could bring my mice into the treatment room. Without hesitation, she said yes - I could even set them up nearby. That meant more to me than I can explain.

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A Punch Card for Progress

During that same visit, I asked another question: “Do you have a punch card or something to mark my progress through radiation?” I had mocked up a little example - a cute visual to track how many sessions I’d completed.

To my surprise, the doctor loved it. She thought it was a brilliant idea. I was shocked this wasn’t already a common thing - people love countdowns, especially when facing something as overwhelming as cancer treatment. Even just getting a tiny hole punch after each session can feel like a win, a step forward.

I’ll be making my own punch card for sure. But maybe, just maybe, by the time I start treatment, they’ll be offering them to other patients too. A little mouse, a little punch card, and a little hope - sometimes, that’s what it takes to get through the hard days.

My sweet UK felted mouse guardian

Into June

Simulation & Tattoo Day

Rolling Through June – Small Wins & Next Steps

I’ve been feeling light, relieved, and still amazed that I had virtually no surgical pain. The only trouble spot is that persistent under-arm ache - and now axillary web syndrome (AWS) has shown up. 

AWS is when tight, cord-like bands form under the skin from the armpit down the inner arm after lymph-node surgery. They can limit shoulder movement, but gentle stretching and physical therapy typically loosen them over time.

• Lingering Discomfort & Coping Tricks Under-arm pain: that tiny pillow and a dusting of cornstarch remain lifesavers.
• AWS stretching: my nurse suggested slow “wall walks” and light arm circles several times a day.

June 17 – Meeting the Medical Oncologist

We discussed the hormone-blocking medication I’ll start after radiation. 

• Duration: five years 
• Monitoring: regular check-ins to track side effects

I’m frightened of the possible reactions, but waiting until radiation is over will make it easier to know which symptoms come from which treatment.

June 18 – Radiation Game Plan

My husband came with me to see the radiation oncologist. She’s brilliant, warm, and never makes me feel rushed—we asked a zillion questions.

They’ll use an IMRT (Intensity-Modulated Radiation Therapy) machine. 

IMRT is a modern system that shapes and modulates dozens of tiny beamlets so the high dose hugs the target while sparing nearby healthy tissue. 

Knowing the tech is state-of-the-art takes a little edge off my fear.

June 23 – Simulation & Tattoos

• Custom back mold made to keep me in the same position every session
• Planning CT scan completed for precise mapping
• Three tiny tattoos (one between my breasts, one on each side by my ribs) placed for daily alignment

I was nervous—as always—but everyone was wonderfully kind and patient.

Looking Ahead

I’m not finished; the road is still long. Yet I’m overwhelmingly grateful for skilled doctors, compassionate nurses, advanced machines, and supportive loved ones guiding me through every step.

Healing

Just the essentials

Recovery Month – June

June has been my month of healing - and joy.

I’m home now, feeling good after surgery and filled with such a tremendous sense of relief. The day after my procedure, I received my pathology report, and the news was better than I could have hoped for:

No lymph node involvement. Clear margins. A successful surgery.

For all intents and purposes, I am considered cancer-free today.

The First Week: Relief and Rest (and That Drain…)

Recovery has gone well, but I did not like the drain. It was awkward and uncomfortable - but I was incredibly grateful to have a home health nurse visit me three times after surgery. She was kind, helpful, and taught me exactly how to care for the drain and strip the line. Her visits made a world of difference.

I also bought a few things that really helped:

• A wraparound pillow from Amazon that made sleeping (somewhat) easier. I’m not a natural back sleeper, so the first night was rough - I didn’t sleep at all. But the second night? The longest and most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years.

• A couple of front-zip recovery shirts with inside drain pockets - absolute lifesavers. They made it so much easier to move around without worrying about the drain tugging or catching on anything.

Little Comforts That Made a Big Difference

Before surgery, my nurse navigator gave me a soft post-surgical bra - and when I woke up from surgery, I was already wearing it. She also gave me the sweetest handmade care package from a group of volunteers. It included:

• A soft apron to hold my drain

• A ribbon to wear in the shower so the drain could hang comfortably

• The tiniest, most perfect pillow to tuck under my arm

That pillow turned out to be my hero. My underarm had been sore and tight ever since surgery, and that little cushion made the pain so much more manageable. I also started using cornstarch to lightly powder my underarm area, which helped my skin glide and reduced discomfort.

Drain-Free and Feeling Free

After six days, I got the best gift - the drain came out!
I was so nervous going into the surgeon’s office, half-braced for something dramatic or painful. I must have had that “pre-worried” look. But my surgeon just snipped the stitch holding it in, and before I even realized what happened, it was out. I didn’t feel a thing!

The freedom I felt afterward was incredible. That bulky, annoying drain was gone, and I felt even more like myself again.

What’s Next

At my follow-up appointment, my doctor gave me the all-clear and said, “See you in a year!” That moment felt monumental. Now, I just focus on healing and preparing for radiation - the next part of this journey