Sleepless

Sometimes I get a night like this. It’s Saturday, well past 2am, and sleep just won’t come. My mind won’t settle either. It drifts through everything I’ve endured this year and the fact that I’m still standing at all feels strange. Mortality is a hard thing to stare down, and I’ve spent the past eight months living with that reality pressed against me every day.

This year wasn’t one bad moment. It was a cascade. One thing after another. The kind of year that shakes a person down to the studs. I lived in a state of constant fear for months, and my body still carries the residue of all of it. The lumpectomy changed me. Radiation changed me. The side effects linger and I’m still trying to understand them. The laparoscopic surgery hit me harder than anything I expected. And now I’m tiptoeing around a tooth that had to be pulled on top of everything else.

Monday I start Arimidex, and I’m not going to pretend I’m calm about that. I know what those medications can do. I know the toll they can take. After everything that has already happened, the idea of adding another set of side effects feels heavy.

What I keep circling back to, here in the dark, is this question of what comes next. Am I allowed to hope for a future that isn’t shaped by fear. Am I allowed to believe the worst might finally be behind me. Somewhere inside me, I’m still waiting for the next blow, because that’s what this year trained me to expect.

I think about my dad and how young he was when he died. I think about the health issues I inherited from him. And it leaves me wondering how long I have and what I’m supposed to do with whatever time I get. It’s not dramatic. It’s honest. These thoughts creep in on nights like this when the house is quiet and the world feels too still.

I’m tired. Deeply tired. And still, somehow, I’m trying. Trying to stay positive. Trying to stay focused. Trying to figure out how to live in a body that’s been through more than I ever thought it would.

Maybe this is what recovery actually looks like - not a clean line, but nights like this where I sit with everything I’ve survived and try to understand what it means. Maybe this is part of rebuilding a future, even when I’m still learning how to imagine one.

A Little Brightness

Today brought an unexpected bit of light into my house. A delivery truck pulled up, and the driver handed me a vase filled with fresh flowers. They were beautiful right away - fall colors, a sunflower, a perfect orange rose, even little sprigs of wheat tucked in like a Thanksgiving arrangement. I set them down on the table and reached for the card, trying to guess who would send me flowers on a random Monday.

It was from the very last people I would have expected.

The card was from my oral surgeon’s office - Dr. Thayer and his team. The message was simple and thoughtful, and I was honestly deeply touched. They were incredibly kind to me during my procedure on the 20th. They knew exactly how worn down I’ve been this year. They saw me crying in that chair, not from fear of the tooth extraction, but because this year has pushed me to the edge more times than I can count.

One of the nurses held my hand while the other worked beside the doctor. They were patient, gentle, and reassuring at a moment when everything felt like too much. I left that day grateful for how they treated me, and I wrote a heartfelt review on their Facebook page because they deserved it. Maybe that’s part of why they sent the flowers. Or maybe they realized I was a fragile person who somehow found the strength to endure yet another medical procedure. Dr. Thayer did tell me he thought I was brave enough to be a Marine!

Either way, it meant something. More than I expected.

I called the office right away to thank them and let them know how much the gesture meant to me. After the year I’ve had, a small moment of kindness feels enormous. And this bouquet - bright, warm, thoughtful - really did help lift my day. And what a lovely addition to my Thanksgiving table, a gift from a team who really helped me in a scary time  

Some days the world feels too heavy, but then someone surprises you with flowers and reminds you that there are still good people out there.

One More Thing

Today was - I hope - the last awful thing on my schedule for this cursed year. I had to have a molar pulled. A trip to the oral surgeon, just to put a cherry on top of the worst year of my life. I still can’t believe it. After everything I’ve already been dragged through, there I was again, lying back in another exam chair, bracing for another procedure I never wanted.

Right now I’m sitting at home with gauze in my mouth and an ice pack on my face. They were kind, they were gentle, they did a good job. But none of that changes the simple truth that I am worn down to the core. As soon as I sat in the chair I started crying. Not from fear of the tooth extraction, but because I am so exhausted from 2025. My body is still reeling from the laparoscopic surgery ten days ago. That one completely flattened me. I’m still struggling with this recovery - but it is improving. And then I had to walk straight into another medical appointment and brace for more pain. It was too much.

At least the surgeon told me I made the right decision. This tooth had an old root canal and the tip of the root had fractured. There was infection deep in the bone that would never clear without pulling it. And the one tiny piece of good news - it didn’t go into my sinuses. If it had, I’d be staring down yet another surgery. So that small mercy is something I’ll take.

Even with that, I’m beaten up. I feel mauled by 2025, like I’ve been shoved from one crisis into the next without ever catching my breath. And I’m afraid to hope that this is the final hit. Every time I’ve thought the worst was over, something else has slammed into me.

I keep wondering what I did to deserve a year like this. Maybe nothing. Maybe the universe just picked a target and I happened to be standing still. This year feels cursed. So if someone has my voodoo doll or put a hex on me, I’m asking for a break. And today, with a swollen face, stitches in my mouth, and a body that still feels rearranged from surgery, that’s all I want. A break. A real one.

Surgery Day

The big day finally arrived. I was genuinely relieved when they changed my check-in time from 5:30am to 11am. Instead of stumbling around in the dark and racing out the door half awake, I was able to move through my morning calmly. I showered, got dressed in soft, easy clothes, and packed a little tote bag with a few comfort items. Aaron drove us to the hospital in the Tesla, which helped keep things feeling normal and routine instead of stressful.

Check-in was quick, and I was called back to a room not long after. The room itself was fine, but it was right next to an exit door and a bathroom door, so it felt like busy. Every time footsteps approached, I would perk up thinking, is that my nurse, is that the doctor, is it time for me. But it never was. My official check-in was at 11am, but no one came for me until about 2pm. Thankfully, I had woken up that morning at 4am and chugged a protein shake, because if I had waited all the way until afternoon without anything in my stomach, I would have been miserable.

Eventually they came to wheel me up. Once they started the medications, things moved fast. One moment I was talking, and the next I was waking up in the recovery room. My nurse there was very kind. I think his name was Travis. We chatted a bit, even though I could tell my brain was still sloshed around from the anesthesia. I always worry I’m saying ridiculous things and don’t realize it. But I’m sure those nurses hear a lot of wild things in that recovery area!

After surgery and spending some time in recover, they brought me back to my room where I could rest some more. Aaron handed me a red apple he bought from the cafeteria and I felt so happy to eat something fresh right away. The doctor came in with the surgical update. Everything looked good, the procedure went smoothly, and he told me I could go home whenever I felt ready. Hearing that lifted a weight off my shoulders.

Once I was able to get up, go to the bathroom, and prove that I was reasonably functional, they discharged me. We went home, and I settled into my spot on the recliner sofa with an ice pack over my abdomen. It did not take long before I felt fairly normal again. Sore and uncomfortable, yes, but not what I would consider true pain. I am always amazed at how my body can go through something so major and not leave me in agony afterwards. I took a couple of Tylenols and was eventually able to eat a little more.

Just like the last time I had surgery, sleep refused to cooperate that first night. I was not panicked about it, I just tried to rest and hoped my body would drift off eventually. I even took one of the strong pain pills mostly in hopes it would knock me out, but it barely made a difference. I think I finally started getting patches of sleep around 5am. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

Now it is the next day and I actually feel pretty good. I am up and walking around because the nurse reminded me that moving helps dissipate the gas they use to inflate the abdomen during laparoscopic surgery. The soreness is manageable and I can already tell that each hour feels a little easier than the last.

I had to be careful with the cats, though. They love to jump on me or try to sleep directly on top of me, which is adorable on any other day but definitely not ideal when you have fresh incisions. If I shut the bedroom door, they would just stand outside and meow like tiny, determined alarms. So I had to be a little more aware about them, and I’m sure that didn’t help with sleep.

And one funny thing. I brought my mice with me to the hospital, and while I was back in the OR, Aaron did a full photo shoot with them in my room. When he showed me the pictures later, I laughed - Leave it to him to turn a stressful medical day into something sweet and ridiculous.

All in all, surgery day went as well as I could have hoped. Now I just focus on healing, moving, and giving my body the gentle care it needs so it can recover fully.

Facing Monday

Monday, November 10 is surgery day. Bilateral oophorectomy due to the BRIP1 genetic mutation. I keep telling myself not to worry, not to let my mind run ahead into fear, but the truth is that I am scared. I think anyone who is about to go under anesthesia feels the same. There is something deeply vulnerable about placing yourself in someone else’s hands and trusting that everything will go the way it is supposed to.

I am trying to focus on the idea that this is the final step in the long and chaotic road I have been walking all year. At my pre-op appointment, I reviewed every detail with my surgeon, asked my questions, signed all the papers, and made sure everything was set. After that, I went downstairs to the hospital lab for blood work and a urinalysis. There is nothing left to prepare. All I can do now is wait for Monday to arrive.

The waiting is the part that gets inside my head. I feel stressed and nervous, even though I keep trying to steady myself. I hope I will come out of this surgery as well as I have come out of the others. I remind myself that my body has carried me through before. Still, I am afraid of pain and I am afraid that something might go wrong. Surgery never feels casual, even when the doctors call it routine.

I did get one unexpected bit of news today. The doctor’s office called to tell me that my surgery time has changed. Instead of checking in at 5:30 in the morning for a 7:30 procedure, I now need to arrive at 11:00 for surgery at 1:30. In one sense it is a relief. I had been stressing about the very early morning and the scramble to get ready before dawn. Now I have more breathing room. At the same time, it feels strange and a little unsettling because the later time means more hours of waiting. I asked if I could eat or drink and they told me I could have something up to eight hours before surgery. I am planning to wake up at five and drink a protein shake before the cutoff. It gives me at least a small sense of control on a day that otherwise feels out of my hands.

All of this is scary. I can admit that. But I am also hopeful. Hopeful that this is the final step in the hardest year of my life. Hopeful that when I open my eyes in recovery, this chapter will finally be behind me. Hopeful that the next part of my story will feel lighter than everything that came before.

For now, I am taking things hour by hour. I am scared, but I am still moving forward. That has to count for something.

Visit My Travel Blog

So Thankful for a Getaway

I’m deeply thankful that I was able to take a vacation after everything that’s happened this year. We recently traveled to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to visit our daughter, who’s working there as a stargazing and wildlife safari tour guide.

After all the challenges I’ve faced, it felt wonderful to have a truly carefree vacation - a rare stretch of time without constant worries or appointments. The days in Jackson Hole gave me space to breathe, reflect, and just enjoy being surrounded by nature and family.

I also keep another blog where I share more about my travel adventures. I’d love for you to visit and join me in celebrating some lighter, happier moments:

👉 mitzigee.blogspot.com

Heading Toward the Final Step

The Eve of the Final Step

Earlier in the year, I found out that I carry a pathogenic mutation in the BRIP1 gene. It was discovered through genetic testing after my breast cancer diagnosis. BRIP1 is linked to an increased risk of ovarian cancer. My doctor and the genetic counselors explained that the safest course of action would be a risk-reducing surgery to remove my ovaries. It’s technically called a bilateral oophorectomy, and while the name sounds intimidating, it’s actually a fairly simple procedure.

I already had my uterus and fallopian tubes removed during my hysterectomy back in 2014, so this operation is the final step - the last preventive measure to lower my cancer risk as much as possible. It feels strange that something so small can carry so much weight.

This entire year has felt like one long nightmare of medical appointments, scans, results, procedures, and waiting. Each time I thought I could exhale, something else appeared on the horizon. The breast cancer diagnosis was already more than enough, but the genetic mutation felt like an extra layer I never asked for. Still, I keep reminding myself that this is the final step. When I wake up from this surgery, this chapter will finally be closed.

It’s almost time for my surgery, and I’ve been trying to let that fact sit quietly in the background instead of letting it take over my thoughts. I’ve already had enough of that kind of worry this year. Surgery day is November 10, just two months after my final radiation treatment.

I’m choosing not to worry about this too much. I’ve already been through so much trauma this year, and I don’t want to spend any more time being afraid. Even though this is a surgery, I keep telling myself that I’m not worried and I’m not stressed.

I found this surgeon through a web of trusted people: my old doctor, my nurse navigator, and others at the cancer center. They all said the same thing: he’s one of the best. He doesn’t use the DaVinci robot, but it sounds like this procedure is fast and straightforward, so it probably isn’t even necessary.

Back in 2014, my hysterectomy was done with the DaVinci robot, and I remember how amazed I was by how smoothly it went. No pain, no complications. My new doctor says this recovery should be even faster, which seems hard to believe, but I’m hopeful.

Mostly, I’m just ready to be done. This year has been overwhelming in every possible way, and this feels like the final step toward closing the book on it. After learning about the BRIP1 mutation, I’ve carried this weight of what-ifs for too long. Once this surgery is behind me, I’ll finally be able to move forward without wondering what else might be waiting.

And just to finish the year strong, 7 days after surgery I will start taking Arimidex and then 10 days after surgery I have to get my tooth pulled. More stuff to check off the list, more reminders that I’m wrapping up everything that’s been hanging over me.

It feels like the right decision. And I’m ready.