The Good News Is …

 The Good News Is…

When you hear the word “cancer,” everything stops. The room goes quiet. Your breath catches. Your thoughts scatter like birds. But once the dust settles and the doctors start talking in more detail, you begin to learn that not all cancer is the same. Even within a diagnosis, there’s good news to hold on to.

So today I want to talk about my good news.

The Good News Is… It Was Caught Early

I was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), which means the cancer cells were still contained inside the milk ducts. They hadn’t spread. They hadn’t invaded surrounding breast tissue. That puts me at Stage 0, the very earliest possible stage of breast cancer.

That’s incredible news.

It means this was treatable and curable. We were ahead of it. And early detection probably saved my life.

The Good News Is… It Was Estrogen-Receptor Positive

My tumor was ER+, meaning it responded to estrogen. That might sound alarming at first. Who wants something in their body that thrives on hormones? But the truth is, this is one of the most treatable types of breast cancer. There are well-established hormone therapies, like the one I’ll be taking (Arimidex), that reduce the risk of recurrence.

We have tools. We have options. That’s good news.

The Good News Is… I Don’t Need Chemotherapy

One of the biggest fears people have when they hear the word “cancer” is chemotherapy. I had that fear too. The thought of losing my hair, feeling sick for months, and going through something that intense was terrifying.

But I didn’t need it.

Because my cancer was non-invasive, my lymph nodes were clear, and there was no sign of spread, chemotherapy was not part of my treatment plan. I didn’t have to go through infusions or deal with the harsh side effects that so many people face. I have so much respect and admiration for those who do. And I’m incredibly grateful that in my case, surgery and radiation were enough.

That’s not just good news. That’s life-changing news.

The Good News Is… My Lymph Nodes Were Clear

During surgery, they biopsied my sentinel lymph nodes. These are the first checkpoints where cancer often tries to spread.

All of mine were clear.

No signs of spread. No evidence of invasive cancer. That news was a turning point for me. It meant my prognosis remained excellent and I could continue forward with less aggressive treatment.

The Good News Is… My Margins Were Clean

When the tumor was removed in surgery, the goal was to get it all, along with a margin of healthy tissue around it. Mine were clear, with the closest margin being 9 mm. That means there were no lingering cancer cells left behind. I got a good surgical outcome, and I’m very thankful for that.

The Good News Is… I’m Probably Cured

This is something I didn’t fully understand at first. After treatment, I kept asking myself - am I cured, or just in remission?

The word remission usually means that a disease is no longer detectable, but it could still return. It is commonly used with invasive cancers or advanced-stage cancers, where there’s a higher chance that microscopic cancer cells might still be hiding somewhere in the body. Doctors often monitor patients closely during remission to see if the cancer comes back. So when someone is in remission, they are not necessarily done with cancer. They are in a kind of medical waiting period.

But remission doesn’t really apply to me.

My diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), which means the cancer cells had not spread beyond the walls of the milk ducts. This is considered non-invasive. My surgery removed the DCIS with clean margins, and my sentinel lymph nodes were clear. There was no invasion and no sign that the cancer had spread anywhere else. The radiation treatment helped reduce the risk of it ever coming back, and I’ll be taking hormone therapy to reduce that risk even further.

Because of all this, my doctors don’t say I’m in remission. They say I am cancer-free, I am cured.

Not “hopefully cured” or “maybe someday cured.” Cured right now. Of course, like anyone who has had cancer, I’ll stay on top of follow-up visits and monitoring. But I am not in limbo. I am not waiting to find out if the treatment worked. It already did.

I am past the cancer. It’s over. That is the best news I could ever share.

The Good News Is… I Have an Amazing Team (And I’m Part of It)

From my surgical team to my radiation oncologist, my medical oncologist, and the nurses who guided me along the way, my care team has been outstanding. But here’s something I learned through all of this.

I’m part of that team too.

I asked questions. I read my reports. I advocated for myself. I showed up. I took care of my body and my heart as best I could. I did the work. And I’ll keep doing the work, because surviving isn’t passive. It’s a choice you make every day.

The Good News Is… I’m Healing

Every day, I’m healing. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. There have been some really hard moments, and I know there may be more ahead. But right now, I feel strong. I feel loved. I feel grateful. I feel hopeful.

That, too, is very good news.

Rest, Recovery and the Road Ahead

Lately, I’ve been dealing with a lot more exhaustion than I anticipated. There have been a few days where I’ve slept 16 hours or more - long stretches of rest that my body clearly needed. Thankfully, I’ve been able to sleep. I’m grateful that I have the ability and time to rest as much as I need right now. Most mornings I’ve slept late, and instead of feeling guilty about it, I’m trying to feel thankful. Sleep is healing, and I'm letting it do its work.

I also knew this phase was coming. Everyone warned me that post-radiation fatigue would hit like a wave - and it has. But because I expected it, I haven’t been overly worried. My husband has been incredibly kind and understanding. He sees this for what it is: part of the healing process.

The good news is, I really am healing. Every single day I feel a little better. Physically, I'm bouncing back faster than I expected. The irritation and soreness are fading. My skin is calming down. Emotionally, I’m in a surprisingly good place too. I've found myself almost pretending none of this happened. Not in a delusional way, but more of a way to stop dwelling and over-thinking. A little selective denial goes a long way towards feeling normal again.

I’ve been making an effort to keep up with protein intake, which isn’t easy for me. I don’t eat meat, so I’ve been leaning heavily on protein drinks and smoothies. It’s not ideal, but it’s manageable. I've never had the best relationship with food - and honestly, if I could just ignore food altogether, I probably would. But I know my body needs fuel to recover, and I'm doing my best to give it the support it needs.

There’s still a long road ahead, but I’m taking it one slow, sleepy, healing day at a time.

On Wednesday, I went for my two-week post-radiation skin check. The cancer center was a bit chaotic - I pipe burst and there were areas closed off and a big cleanup crew was hard at work -  thankfully I was still able to see the nurse.  She said everything looks great and I’m healing beautifully.

On my way I out, I saw my doctor for just a minute as I passed by her office. She had the picture I gave her and she was showing me where she was thinking of hanging it up. I was touched! She is such a wonderful doctor and such a nice person, I'm lucky to have found her.

In brighter news: we are taking a trip! We're heading out to visit our daughter while she's working in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The flights are booked, the hotel reserved and a rental car is ready. It’s a quick trip - just one week - but it gives us a chance to see the work she’s been doing. I'm beyond excited for a little adventure in such a beautiful place!

And from what it sounds like, I don’t have any worrisome restrictions now that radiation is behind me. I’ll need to be cautious of lymphedema and swelling due to the pressure of the flight and the altitude in Jackson, but other than that, I’m free to live my life and feel normal again. And that's exactly what I intend to do!

On Second Thought

Maybe I was being a little melodramatic and overly emotional in my last entry. Maybe my feelings are still a bit raw, and that makes them hard to interpret clearly. I’ve spent a lot of time over the past few days just thinking about how lucky I’ve been. Feeling gratitude in the face of it all.

Yes, it’s horrible that this happened. It’s awful that I had to go through cancer and all the treatments. Cancer is a heavy word to carry, no matter the size or stage. But I’m also acutely aware that it could have been a million times worse. From the very beginning, my situation was relatively straightforward. It was caught very early. It was always stage 0. I didn’t need chemotherapy. My surgery went well, and radiation seems to have been a success. Through it all, I managed to keep my sense of humor and my positive attitude. My husband has been beside me every step of the way, and I haven’t had to shoulder the added burden of financial stress. I’ve had support, stability, and - thankfully - healing.

I think it’s okay to admit that I’ve had moments of self-pity. That’s human. Processing something like this isn’t neat or tidy. And the deep emotions I expressed before are true. But I also want to keep things in perspective. What I went through was serious, and it changed me in ways I’m still discovering - but it was also survivable. Treatable. And right now, it looks like I’m cured - cancer free.

Still, I can’t help but notice how shaken I’ve been. I wonder if I might have a form of PTSD or something. The medical part is over, but it was an insane whirlwind of unexpected fear and pain. I get waves of anxiety over nothing. I spiral in the quiet moments. I can’t stop thinking about what I’m allowed - or not allowed - to do, eat, or drink. The new rules for survival. I keep bracing myself for bad news, even when there isn’t any. My body got through this, but my mind feels like it’s still stuck in panic mode. The fear of recurrence is real, and it’s always close.

It’s strange how even when everything goes right, cancer still leaves a mark. People sometimes downplay early-stage diagnoses, as if they’re not real cancer. But there’s no such thing as a light version of facing your own mortality. Even the best-case scenario is still scary, still painful, still life-altering. I mean - no cancer is always better than any cancer.

I hope this is it. I hope I never have to face cancer again. I know my situation was better and easier than what many others go through. And now that I do know what other people go through, I’m grateful that I was spared those nightmares. So while I’ll always wish this hadn’t happened to me at all, I’m deeply thankful that it happened the way it did. That I got the easier version of a very hard thing. A highly treatable version of one of life’s scariest diseases. That I get to be here now - healthy, healing, and moving forward.

Living in the After

I think the hardest part of all of this has been the unknown. The what-ifs. But it also feels like a different hard part might come after that's all over. Now that I am past diagnosis, treatment, and even past bracing for side effects or praying for clean margins. The new hard comes later - when the appointments slow down, when the machines fall silent, and everyone around you exhales with relief. That’s when a new fear settles in, the bigger unknowns.

What if it comes back? What if it never really left? What if it shows up somewhere else? What if the next time, I’m not so lucky?

During radiation, it wasn’t just the treatment itself that was difficult - it was the constant fear of side effects, of damage, of something going wrong. It was the dread that this might turn into something worse. That maybe I wouldn’t be okay after all.

You try to move on. You try to feel normal. And on the outside, maybe you do. You’re healing well. You’re getting stronger. But inside, something’s shifted. You’re not the same version of yourself. And no one prepares you for how permanent that feels.

Now, every choice feels heavier. What you eat, what you drink, how you sleep, how you move. It’s like you’re living under a microscope - your own. Every day becomes a quiet calculation of risk.

And even now, while I’m healing and starting to feel better, I still don’t feel like myself. Not the self I was before. I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t think I’ll ever fully relax again. Because now I know too much. I’m forever changed.

I think constantly about what I need to do to protect myself. What can I change? What can I cut out? How do I make sure this never happens again?

At some point, I started thinking of cancer like a lottery. Not the kind you want to win.

Every choice we make in life, everything you do either buys you another ticket - or it doesn’t.

• Drinking alcohol? Extra tickets.
• Smoking? More tickets.
• Eat sugar? That’s a ticket.
• Family history? Even more tickets.
• And in my case, a genetic mutation? That’s a whole stack of tickets handed to me without asking.

The more tickets you have, the higher your chances of being picked. But even someone with only a few tickets can get unlucky. There are people with no tickets at all who get sick - and others holding a whole fistful who walk free for decades. It’s random. Unfair. Completely out of our control.

And yet I still find myself wondering… Was it me? Did I invite this? Is this somehow my fault? I want to believe I didn’t. But guilt has a way of slipping in when no one’s looking.

That randomness is what makes it so overwhelming. I’ve never smoked. I don’t use drugs. I’ve never eaten meat. That should count for something, right?

I try to do things right. I really do. But I am only human. So I do drink alcohol. I eat sweets. And recently I realized exactly how much cancer runs in my family. I’ve gained and lost weight over the years. Maybe I’ve used the wrong deodorant or taken vaccines or wore the wrong bra. But also, I lived in a world full of chemicals and plastic and stress.

Now that I can breathe and think more clearly, I don’t want to fall into guilt or depression - but it feels like it’s just under the surface. There’s this strange sensation of, is this my fault?

The weight of survivorship - especially when the adrenaline of diagnosis and treatment fades - can bring a surprising kind of emptiness.

Now that the dust has settled, I keep thinking I should feel relieved. I should be grateful. And I am. But beneath that is a restlessness I can’t quite shake. Like I’ve crossed some finish line only to find… there’s nothing waiting on the other side.

Life feels quieter now. Flatter. Boring. A little bit hollow. Facing a cancer diagnosis can take the light out of your life.

When my kids were younger, there was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone who needed me. Everything felt more vibrant. Life was fuller, busier, messier, more alive. There was always something to plan or celebrate or discover. The days had shape and color and motion. But now, the hours blend together - laundry, errands, figuring out what’s for dinner, and then doing it all again tomorrow. And yes, this is part of my existing “empty nest syndrome.” I can’t blame cancer entirely for this feeling, but still, I catch myself wondering… What am I even fighting for anymore?

Even if you’ve walked alongside people facing illness and death, even if you were deeply empathetic and thought you understood what they were going through - it’s not the same when it happens to you.

There’s a point when it stops being philosophical. It’s no longer the distant idea that “everyone dies someday.” Suddenly, it’s you. Your body. Your life. Your death. The thought crashes down like a wave: I could die. I could vanish from this world. I might not finish this story. And there’s no way to talk yourself out of it. No back door to slip through. No one can save you. It’s a quiet, inescapable horror - to realize that your body, the one you’ve lived in all your life, can turn against you.

It’s not just a diagnosis. It’s an existential rupture. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Survivorship, it turns out, is a strange kind of limbo. You’re no longer sick, but you’re never exactly well. You’re just… aware. Aware of how fragile everything is. Aware of the shadow that follows you. Aware that joy now comes with strings attached.

Because even the good things - especially the good things - feel dangerous.

• A cocktail with dinner? - Alcohol is a carcinogen.
• A bite of something sweet? - Sugar feeds cancer.
• A soft body with a few extra pounds? - Fat creates estrogen. Estrogen fuels tumors.

It’s endless. The warnings, the rules, the judgment disguised as advice or concern. And suddenly, being alive starts to feel like a game you’re not allowed to enjoy. Every pleasure becomes a threat. Every comfort, a calculated risk.

And that’s the part no one talks about.

How exhausting it is to live like that.

How it chips away at your peace, your spontaneity, your sense of safety in your own skin.

How it makes surviving feel like something you have to earn over and over again.

And hovering over it all is this fear of cancer coming back. Like a shadow that never leaves. Here I am, supposedly “cured” and “cancer free,” yet I already find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s a strange kind of punishment. As if surviving means I’m supposed to live smaller, tighter, more afraid.

And how sometimes, when the house is quiet and the world is still, you wonder - if this is what survival looks like, how do I make it worth it? Because sometimes, this just doesn’t feel like a very livable life.

Still Catching My Breath

I’ve been thinking a lot about what just happened to me. It still doesn’t feel real. I never had any symptoms. I wasn’t sick. I felt completely fine, and then all of a sudden I was on this horrible roller coaster. One day I was living my normal life, and the next I was scheduling surgery, meeting with oncologists, and getting tattooed for radiation.

It’s hard to explain. Things have slowed down now, enough for me to breathe, but I still can’t believe it all actually happened. I don’t feel like a “cancer survivor.” I don’t feel heroic. I feel like maybe it was a weird misunderstanding, or it wasn’t really that serious, or maybe I just haven’t fully processed it yet.

And yet, I did go through it. I had the surgery. I completed all 33 radiation sessions. I kept showing up, even when my skin was struggling and my energy was low. I did it all, and somehow I’m healing incredibly fast. Just days after finishing radiation, my skin almost looks like it did before. The tan is fading, the irritation is gone, and my body is bouncing back like it never even happened.

I’m planning to have these radiation tattoos removed. I don’t want the reminder. I don’t want to carry this around on my skin forever. I did what I needed to do, and now I’m ready to move on.

People talk about having a “new lease on life” after something like this, but I don’t feel that either. I mostly feel sort of confused. Like I got dropped into a storm, handled it all on instinct, and now I’m trying to figure out what just happened. I’m so thankful that I’m smart and organized and independent. I was able to line everything up, manage appointments, ask the right questions, stay on top of things. I understood the treatments. I made the best decisions I could at each step. I did the work.

But it still feels like a strange detour. Not a collapse. Not a crisis. Just a bizarre, exhausting, emotionally intense interruption. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe thinking of it that way helps me reclaim my life without giving cancer too much power. Maybe not calling myself a survivor helps me feel less like a victim.

Of course, it’s not over yet. I still have to meet with the medical oncologist. I still have to decide about hormone therapy. I still have to schedule the surgery to remove my ovaries because of the BRIP1 gene mutation. There’s more ahead. But the big wave has passed, and I’m still standing.

This has been, and will be, a huge year for me. So much to carry, and yet I don’t feel crushed by it. I keep telling myself that next year will be better. Next year, all of this will be behind me. Next year, I will feel lighter.

At the same time, I feel this urge to fix everything. Go to the gym. Lose weight. Eat better. Cut back on alcohol. Meditate. Journal. Be a whole new person. I want all those things, but I’m also kind of tired. Not broken or defeated. Just tired. And maybe it’s okay not to overhaul my life all at once.

Right now, I’m just lining up the dominoes and knocking them over. One at a time. That’s my pace. That’s my plan. And for now, that’s enough.

And I know this blog isn’t changing lives or even being read much at all. But it does help me to have a place to keep it all. A place to put it all down. It gives shape to everything I’ve been through, even if it is barely looked at.

I am always so thankful for my friends and family. They cared and worried right along with me. And my husband is just the greatest man. He couldn’t go with me to all the appointments, but he did go to the ones that were most important. And his good job and good insurance have allowed me to sail through this experience without worrying about money the entire time. The Tesla he got for me made the entire experience easier, and the daily drives were actually something I looked forward to.

Throughout all of this nightmare, I do feel so grateful and in many ways, lucky.

I think I will be a better person after this year. Because I never fully understood what people went through. I never knew what any of this meant. Of course, I was always supportive or kind or understanding when someone I know was going through something like this. But I didn’t really get it.

But I get it now.

The End - #33 of 33

The custom cookies I ordered for today!

Me and my doctor

Me with the funny graduation hat they made me

My husband me and my son

All my punch cards are done!

My tiny emotional support mouse friends 

The picture I made of my doctor as a superhero

Tuesday, September 9 – 33 of 33

I Rang the Bell

It’s done. I finished my 33rd and final radiation treatment today.

I can’t even describe how surreal it feels. I walked in with a heart full of nerves and excitement - but nothing could have prepared me for how the day unfolded.

My husband came. My son came. One of the sweet friends I made in the waiting room came. Even my nurse navigator showed up. I was so surprised. So touched. It felt like a secret celebration was happening around me, and I was the guest of honor.

Throughout treatment, my sister came with me once. My mom came once. And my best friend came once. Each visit meant the world to me. It was so meaningful to share this journey with the people I love. Having them there turned a scary medical experience into something personal and connected - like I wasn’t doing this alone.

I had brought thank-you notes and custom cookies to share with the staff, the techs, and the people who made these past weeks bearable - even beautiful. I handed out the little gifts I had prepared, and it felt so good to be able to say thank you with something thoughtful. I even gave my doctor a special gift: a portrait I had made of her, styled as a superhero. Because that’s exactly what she is.

I was floating all day. Giddy. So relieved. I could hardly focus during the final treatment. Even talking to the doctor afterward, my brain was all over the place. But she checked my skin and was genuinely amazed at how fast I’m healing. She said it almost doesn’t seem possible - but it is. That was the best news I could have asked for.

And then… I rang the bell.

The same bell I passed every single day. I would glance at it, sometimes longingly, sometimes cautiously. And now - it was mine to ring. The nurses gathered around. Everyone clapped and cheered. And I just… rang it. Laughing. Smiling. Nearly in tears.

It felt unreal. Magical. Wild.

I was so glad I had prepared everything ahead of time. That I had time to make today not just about finishing, but about gratitude. It was a celebration in every sense of the word.

When it was all done, my husband took me out to eat at a unique and lovely restaurant. It was exactly what I needed. A quiet exhale after so many weeks of holding it together.

And one more thing - I brought all my tiny mice with me today. I lined them up and took a group photo. Because of course I did.

Today was perfect. I feel elated. Changed. Lighter. Like a brand-new version of myself.

I rang the bell - and I’ll never forget how that felt.