2025 with the Tiny Mouse

I started this blog during the most frightening period of my life. I didn’t begin it with an audience in mind, or with any clear idea of what it would become. I started it because I needed somewhere to put thoughts and feelings that were too big, too constant, and too heavy to keep contained. Writing here was a way to breathe when everything felt overwhelming.

This space gave me a way to share updates with friends and family without having to repeat myself or manage conversations when I didn’t have the energy. It also allowed me to not be such a “bummer” to everyone in my life. No one wants to hear constant talk of fear or anxiety, and no one had answers that could truly calm my nerves or make things better. This was new territory for me, and it was just as new and frightening for my husband, my kids, my family, and my friends. I needed a place where I could pour everything out without burdening the people I love. Somehow, that was enough to help me survive and keep a good attitude.

More than anything, this blog gave me a place to be honest. I could write about fear, uncertainty, anger, grief, and the constant background anxiety that comes with serious illness without needing to soften things or make them sound better than they felt. That mattered more than I can easily explain.

There were moments when writing was the only way I could make sense of what was happening. Putting words to fear made it feel slightly more manageable. Seeing my thoughts on the page helped me find a path through days that felt impossible at the time. This blog became a record of survival in real time, not a polished story told after the fact.

As I move forward, I find that I don’t need this space in the same way anymore. That doesn’t mean the experience is behind me, or that it didn’t change me. It means I’m no longer writing from a place of constant crisis. I’m not closing this blog, and I’m not erasing what’s here. This writing mattered. It helped me get through something I never expected to face.

I’m also aware that this blog may outlive its original purpose in another way. Someday, someone may stumble across these entries while going through their own terrifying diagnosis or period of uncertainty. If that happens, I hope they find honesty here. I hope they see that fear can be spoken, that confusion is normal, and that it is possible to keep moving forward even when the path is unclear. I hope they can see hope, change, growth, and potential for themselves while reading about my journey.

This space existed because I needed it. If it can help someone else feel less alone, even once, then it will have done more than I ever expected. I have always hoped I could help someone going through something like this. At one point, I even considered applying for a job at the cancer center. Instead, I think I will look for a more local group to be part of. I want to give something back after everything that happened to me, everything I learned, and how much I have changed as a person.

On December 30, literally the final day I could see a doctor before the year ended, I visited my oncologist to go over a medication I am being asked to take for the next five years. I was experiencing side effects severe enough that I had to stop, and in February we will revisit the plan and decide whether something else might work better. It felt like a fitting end to a terrible year - one final trip to the cancer center.

The funny thing is that I was genuinely happy to go. I was glad to see everyone again. So many of the people I met there were kind, warm, and truly good at what they do. It felt nice to catch up, even briefly, and to walk through those doors feeling stronger than I had before.

For now, after just 62 entries, The Diary of a Tiny Mouse will be quiet. If I write here again, it will be because I want to, not because I need to survive the next moment. And that feels like a hopeful place to be.

December

Yesterday I had an appointment scheduled with a cosmetic and reconstructive surgeon in Jacksonville. He is not the usual type of plastic surgeon. He does advanced reconstructive work, microsurgery, and procedures that support lymphatic drainage. I had booked the visit because I thought it might be time to learn what my options were, both for reconstruction and for anything that might help my lymph system. To basically learn and maybe plan.

While I was getting ready to leave, I decided to call the office because I had received a text the day before saying the visit would cost more than three hundred and fifty dollars. At this point everything should be covered, since I have met all my deductibles. The girl at the desk tried to get my insurance information to load properly, but nothing she did worked, so the appointment had to be canceled.

And wow, I did not expect the wave of relief that followed. The truth is that I am tired. I have spent most of this year walking in and out of medical buildings, sitting in waiting rooms, taking calls, hearing results, and bracing for the next step. The idea of not adding another appointment to that list feels like a small breath of freedom. Maybe I can coast a little through the end of the year.

I am going to physical therapy tomorrow to help my lymph system, and I am hoping to get several sessions in before the year ends. I have some rib pain and swelling that linger from radiation, and I want to get ahead of it before it becomes something harder to manage.

One thing that irritates me is something simple and frustrating. Before all of this happened, I was doing well. I was losing weight, I felt stronger, and I finally had a little momentum. You would think that going through extreme stress and medical upheaval would make the weight fall off, but you would be wrong. Instead, I gained some of it back. Weeks of rest and recovery from surgeries and radiation have left my body feeling weaker than before. It feels unfair and discouraging.

I keep telling myself that next year can be different. I want it to be the year where my body is not in crisis. I want space to focus on getting stronger, losing weight again, and feeling healthy. I want a stretch of time where I am not recovering from something. Hope feels fragile, but it is still there.

On Tuesday I got my hair cut. My hair has been so long that even taking off around four inches still leaves it long, but it felt good to have some of the weight removed. As it turned out, the girl who cut my hair went to high school with my daughter. I recognized her as soon as I saw her.

As we talked about how our year had gone and I told her what has been happening to me, she said something that shifted the whole conversation in an instant. Just before she graduated high school, she was diagnosed with stage two lymphoma. She went through chemotherapy and lost all her hair. We ended up talking for a long time about radiation, surgeries, fear, recovery, and how disorienting it is to have your life rearranged by a diagnosis. There was this unexpected sense of understanding between us. She knew exactly what it feels like to live through something that forces you to confront your own body in a way you never prepared for. It actually felt good to talk to someone who has been there and is still happy and thriving.

I will always be grateful that I did not have to go through chemotherapy and that I was able to keep my hair. Hearing her describe what she endured made that gratitude sharper. I also cannot imagine being only eighteen years old and having to face something that terrifying. She is incredibly brave. And somehow, after everything she survived, she is about to have a baby in just a few days. Life finds a way to keep moving forward.

January 18 will be my 60th birthday. I sometimes cannot believe it. I do not feel old, but the number sits in front of me as a reminder of how quickly life moves. I still cannot believe that all of this happened to me. The surgeries, the radiation, the fear, the endless waiting for results, the effort it took to stay strong and keep perspective while trying to live my life at the same time.

And now it is essentially over. I survived it. I am still here, standing in my own life. Yes, I will be taking medication for five years, and I will keep seeing the medical oncologist, but hopefully that is all that remains. Hopefully the worst part is behind me.

As I move toward sixty, I am starting to understand something I never fully grasped when I was younger. Life does not pause for us. It pushes forward whether we feel ready or not. I cannot control what has already happened to my body, but I can choose what comes next. I can decide how I want to live the time that is still mine. I can choose to care for myself, protect my peace, and rebuild strength slowly and steadily, without worrying about for the pace.

I survived an experience I never expected to face. I stood up to every terrifying thing placed in front of me, and I am still standing. That truth alone feels like its own beginning. I am ready for days that feel lighter, for a body that feels stronger, and for a future that feels steady and bright. For the first time in a long time, I can picture it.

In the end, what matters is that I made it through. I am still here. I am still healing. And I can feel the possibility of a calmer, healthier stretch of life opening in front of me. I am ready for that.