“Would you be interested in an art project today?”
The woman approached my recliner just as the infusion bag emptied and the final flush began to drip. Her name tag identified her as a volunteer. She carried a clear tote filled with tiny craft supplies: small cotton balls, glitter, ribbon. She held up the finished example, a clear plastic heart, painted and strung with ribbon, filled with cotton and sparkle to resemble falling snow.
“You’re supposed to make something like this,” she said.
I glanced around the infusion room. Most of the other patients, many in probably their sixties, looked tired and worn, focused only on leaving their chairs as soon as they were allowed. I imagined paints and crafts felt far from anyone’s mind.
“Sure,” I said.
I didn’t want her volunteer efforts to go unnoticed. She had shown up with intention, hoping to make the infusion center feel a little warmer, a little more human. A gesture like that deserved to be met with kindness.
“What colors would you like?” she asked.
“Blue and gold.”
“And the ribbon?”
“Orange.” I said.
As the nurse stepped in to remove my IV, I kindly asked the volunteer to hand the supplies to my husband. He had been beside me the entire time, working through a cryptic crossword puzzle, watching me closely through the haze of Benadryl I had worried about all week.
Today went well. It was week two, a lighter day. I received only one drug along with the pre-meds. The Benadryl dose was lowered after last week’s reaction that had knocked me out cold. This time, I felt okay.
“Do you know what the orange electrical outlet stands for?”
“I have no idea…though that looks more red than orange, don’t you think?” I replied to my husband as we sat in the doctor’s office waiting on the results of my latest labs.
“There’s a red switch too. Let’s find out,” he said, already pulling out his phone to Google it.
Labs again. I’d just had blood drawn two nights ago in the ER. My poor right arm—pricked one too many times this week. Still, it’s strong. It can handle needles. I’m continually amazed by how much information can be pulled from a few small vials of blood.
Sodium. White blood cell count. Anion gap. Terms I’m quickly becoming familiar with. On MyChart dashboards, I’ve turned it into a game—trying to land each number back in the normal range.
Sodium’s been low. I need more salt. Perfect. A bag of popcorn for later tonight.
You’re probably wondering how I ended up in the ER. Right…yes…. I was getting to that.
After my late evening journal entry, I couldn’t stop shivering. My temperature kept climbing. I’d been told to notify the on-call oncologist if I developed a fever of 100.4 after infusion. It reached 101.7. I called. They asked me to come in and get checked.
I’m glad I did. I felt awful.
The ER lobby was packed. I checked in, explained I’d had my first infusion, that my body ached, my throat was sore, I was shivering, and I felt unwell.
Test after test. They discovered I had tonsillitis.
“Was it caused by the infusion?” I asked.
Hard to say, they told me, but unlikely. More likely something lingering that fully flared up. It’s difficult to pinpoint.
They started antibiotics, gave fever reducers, ran a CT scan, throat swab, nasal swab, and more tests. Slowly, I came back to life. Eventually, they discharged me in the wee hours of the morning.
We walked out past a waiting room still full of people hoping to be seen.
Yesterday became a day of rest—focused on recovery, on feeling better. One nap followed another until sunset. I did manage to get out for my 45-minute walk, though it was hard. I’m proud of that one. After all, isn’t it when you feel the worst that training matters most?
“I found it,” my husband said at last. “Red electrical outlets mean they’re connected to backup generators.”
I sit here typing, shivering beneath a multicolored yarn blanket my mom knitted many years ago. My husband is in the far corner of the room, laptop open, headphones on…..present, steady, in his own quiet lane.
I kept my routine nutrition plan and completed my 45-minute outdoor workout.
I feel unwell. My body aches. My throat is sore.
I promised myself I would not complain through this, so as you read these words, read them as observations….facts recorded…..not as expressions of complaint or a request for pity.
I’ve been fortunate to tolerate only mild nausea, and when I say mild, I mean truly mild. That has been managed well with morning ginger tea and nightly peppermint tea.
Now I sit beneath a heating pad my husband brought over, the same one we used during his bike accident recovery. It’s striking how this year both arrived and is closing with its share of challenges.
I know I will get better. I am confident in my recovery. I look forward to having this cancer out of my system. Oh and if you got this far, I Thank You for reading.
We made the 30-minute drive to the cancer center and checked in about three minutes late. Within moments, they had me back for vitals and then guided me to the infusion area. I was assigned a nurse and asked to take a seat in a comfortable recliner. Given my age, I first had to complete a pregnancy test…standard protocol. Once that was done, we were ready to begin.
The nurse walked me through the plan- first, pre-medications—anti-allergy meds and steroids to reduce the risk of reactions. Then an injection in my left thigh containing two treatment medications. Finally, the main chemotherapy infusion through IV.
She explained everything carefully, including the common reactions to each medication, and then we started.
The first anti-allergy medication went in without issue. The second one hit hard. Suddenly, I felt faint—like I might pass out. I reached for my husband, who was sitting nearby, and then I was asleep.
When I woke, I could hear several nurses around me. They lowered my recliner fully, placed an ice pack on my back, and checked my vitals. My blood pressure was stable, but my heart rate had dropped. Someone mentioned that I looked pink and asked if I had cotton mouth. I did.
They started a saline bag, and within about 30 minutes, I came back—still woozy, but alert.
At one point I asked my nurse, half-jokingly, if I’d be judged for pulling a stuffed animal out of my bag. She smiled and said, Absolutely not. You should see what people bring in here. She told me one patient brings a weighted stuffed animal. I asked my husband to hand me my Stitch. I set him beside me and immediately felt calmer, grounded, comforted.
My nurse let me know she’d be contacting the care team to adjust the dosage of the medication that caused the reaction. I had been given a high dose in preparation for the chemo to follow.
Next came the injection. She warned me it would burn for about eight minutes and apologized in advance. I told her it was ok. When it started, I felt some burning—but nothing unmanageable. Eight minutes later, it was done. The best part? I won’t have to do that one weekly.
Then came the main event.
The nurse returned carrying a bag clearly marked with toxicity warnings. She wore thick gloves and a blue protective cover over her scrubs. I remember thinking, That’s being handled with serious care… and it’s going into my body.
She hooked it up and told me she would sit directly in front of me for the first ten minutes to monitor for reactions. She reassured me that if anything went wrong, she had medications ready to counteract it. I gave her a thumbs-up, still drowsy from the earlier meds, fighting to stay awake.
Then she said, It’s okay—you don’t have to be awake for this.
I stopped fighting.
As I drifted off, I glanced at my feet stretched out in front of me—wearing my Salomon Speedcross 6 trail shoes. The same shoes I plan to take with me to the Gobi Desert March in 2027.
I slept deeply—no dreams, just darkness.
When I woke, the nurse told me the infusion was almost complete. She reviewed aftercare instructions with my husband: nausea may start around day three; try medication A first, then medication B if needed, and message the care team through MyChart if symptoms persist. That’s about all I remember.
We left the infusion center, and I waited in the lobby while my husband brought the car around. I fell asleep again in the passenger seat and woke as we entered the garage at home.
Day 1: done.
I’ve decided to start a personal challenge—my own version of 75 Hard, which I’m calling 85 Strong.
I won’t be able to go as hard as I normally would, but the discipline matters. The structure matters. I have 81 days of treatment in Phase I, and this challenge will help keep my mind focused on the process.
The rules are the same as 75 Hard, with one added requirement: no complaining.
I’ll continue both indoor and outdoor workouts—adjusted as needed. This is mental training as much as physical. Preparation not just for treatment, but for what comes after.
Had an echocardiogram today, watched my own heart moving across the screen, sound waves bouncing through my chest to form a real-time portrait of the strongest muscle I have. It felt surreal… hearing the blood flow and the rhythmic opening and closing of valves through heart chambers.
December is the month where treatment begins. Dates are still unfolding, but this week is all about baseline diagnostics, the groundwork before the action officially starts. One step at a time.
Moving forward, this blog becomes my journey log. A space to process, to share, and to stay grounded in the present…..the focus is one day at a time.
If you’re here because you’ve ever wondered what this path looks like, welcome. I was once like you a normal person going about my day now a patient tattered by the label- cancer patient. Let’s walk through this together and see how the story unfolds. God knows what is ahead, but I’ll remain optimistic.
The Oncologist told me I’d be losing my hair once treatment starts. It wasn’t something I wanted to hear. My hair has always felt like my life force….my own version of Samson’s strength…..and imagining myself without it felt devastating.
But after the initial sting, I did what I’ve been doing with everything lately, I gathered myself, and figured out how to be prepared. My husband and I visited a local wig shop, a world I never imagined I’d step into. It was a small hair salon with a well-lit mirror and two chairs.
A row of wigs lined a shelf from different colors, length, and style. Faux hair crafted to meet a woman at one of the most vulnerable moments of her life, offering her a soft shield as perhaps toxic chemicals enter her bloodstream, destroying sick cells along with everything else in their path. It struck me that behind every wig is someone’s battle, someone’s story. Mine will soon join them.
The shop owner, kind enough to come in on a Sunday, greeted me warmly. She studied me for barely a second before saying, “You’re definitely a 1.” I blinked in confusion until she explained the color scale: 1 is the darkest, 60 is pure white. I had no idea hair shades were cataloged so clinically.
She brought out boxes from another room…with shoulder-length styles, bangs, layered cuts and taught me how to place a wig on properly. Find the side tabs, line up the edges, lift them by the strands, not by dragging the lace. She said it as if she were training me to handle something sacred and maybe she was.
Then came the eyebrow conversation. I hadn’t even thought about that. “Once your hairline goes, remember it’s four finger-widths from your brows,” she said. “And if your eyebrows thin, you’ll want to fill them in, otherwise the wig won’t look right.”
Makeup has never been part of my life. She gently showed me a small box of powders, explaining stencils and shading, another skill I never expected to need.
In the end, I chose two wigs, one short with bangs for convenience, and one long…. closer to how I look now, for comfort. My husband nodded with that steady approval he gives when he knows I need reassurance.
We left with instructions on cleaning, brushing, storage… an entire new chapter I hadn’t planned on spending my weekend learning. I imagine countless women have walked this same path, each one wondering, as I did, how did I get here? The mind searches for reasons. Maybe it was the few years I smoked to survive night shifts. Maybe it was my old diet, the chemicals in my workplace, or simply the randomness of biology. I’ll probably never know. What I do know is this, I’m here now. It was caught early.
My Gobi March registration has been deferred to 2027. The race director responded with kindness and understanding. I look forward to crossing that finish line someday, dust-covered, exhausted, transformed with my long black hair tied back. But first, I must prepare… mentally. One step at a time.
Over a week of coughing up phlegm, speaking through a stale, worn-out voice. The flu is finally passing.
Today, I ran a half-marathon just to quiet my mind. To breathe. To try to hold myself steady before the storm of this coming week. Soon, I’ll learn what comes next, treatment, work, life. The shape of my future.
I hate being in this space of not-knowing. There’s comfort in normalcy and routine, and yet I feel severed from both. Everything I do feels like it’s for everyone else. What I want always feels just out of reach. So, I keep moving through the motions, numb and muted, the inner world tucked somewhere I can’t quite access.
Everything for others, rarely for myself. Except when I’m running. That’s where I still recognize me.
I started watching Breaking Bad again. Somehow it feels fitting now, with this diagnosis looming over everything. Maybe I’m trying to channel a bit of Heisenberg…. Walter White…. someone who seized control when life threatened to define him. It’s strange and comforting to see Albuquerque again, the city we once left to escape crime and heaviness.
This week I find out what happens next. Please let it be bearable. Please let it be something I can carry.
I can’t help but think…. I hate this. All of it.
Life feels sharp and unkind right now and that’s just the truth.
Gadolinium, a rare-earth element forged in the violent deaths of ancient stars, will enter my bloodstream tomorrow. It feels surreal to think that something born billions of years ago, long before Earth even existed, is now being used to help diagnose what’s happening inside me.
It will arrive already chelated, safely held in a molecular cage so it can move through my body without reacting. Once inside, it will subtly change the way water protons relax after being excited by radio waves, creating brighter MRI scans so doctors can see abnormalities more clearly.
I’ll admit… I was nervous at first. I’ve never needed this procedure before. Learning the science behind it….the physics, the chemistry, the careful design… helped. Knowledge can have a calming effect sometimes.
I became curious about where this element comes from. Gadolinium isn’t called “rare” because there’s so little of it, but because extracting it is difficult. If my contrast agent turns out to be Bayer’s Gadavist or Bracco’s ProHance, odds are the gadolinium was mined at Bayan Obo Mine in Inner Mongolia, the largest rare-earth element mine on the planet.
Inner Mongolia and Outer Mongolia were once both part of the greater Mongol Empire under Genghis Khan in the 13th century. Outer Mongolia declared independence in 1911, later solidified with Soviet support in 1921, while Inner Mongolia remained under Chinese control for its proximity to China. Still, both regions share deep cultural and historical roots. I didn’t expect my MRI prep to lead me through this history… yet here I am.
Tomorrow, I’ll lie still for about 45 minutes, listening to the rhythmic pulse of the machine. I think I’ll picture the gadolinium moving through my veins, guiding my mind across the region where it was mined. I’ll imagine the hum of magnetic resonance blending with the low, resonant tones of Mongolian throat singing. Somehow, this image brings me peace and I’m not even in the machine yet.
It’s strange…. almost comforting…..to think of this element’s journey: born in exploding stars, trapped in ancient rock, mined, refined, chelated, packaged, transported halfway around the world… just to arrive here, inside me.
It feels like a thread……something cosmic……. woven through time, now intersecting with my own story. I don’t fully understand the bigger design, but I hope there is one. Tomorrow is just another step, to help me heal.
5:30 a.m. I woke up and checked my email before my eyes were even fully open. A new test result has been posted…read the alert.
I reached for my glasses on the nightstand, opened MyChart, and there it was….. the pathology results I’d been waiting on all weekend.
Invasive carcinoma…… Not the words I wanted to see.
I woke my husband and whispered, “They posted the results… carcinoma.” He didn’t need any more explanation. He just held me. “I’m sorry” he said
I made a joke……because that’s what I do when things get too real. “Well… can I finally get the long-haired dachshund I always wanted?” “Yes,” he said. “We can get a dog now.”
Small victory.
I pictured an elderly rescue…..one who just needs somewhere soft to land for his final years. Definitely a boy… I have no energy for a dramatic little girl dog.
Around 10 a.m. the physician called. I pretended I hadn’t read the report already. “Do you have time to talk?” “Yes.” I said. “It is cancer. Not benign.” She said.
“Ok.” I answered. She paused……. maybe waiting for emotion I didn’t have yet. I wasn’t sure what the correct response should be… so I stayed quiet.
She then proceeded to tell me the MRI would be moved up and went through the details of what happens next.
“We’re still piecing everything together.” I listened, and then I drifted…..”She does this every day…” I thought.
Delivering life-altering news to strangers. I couldn’t do what she does.
So… the waiting is over. Now it’s one day at a time……… But then again. It’s always been that way, hasn’t it?
I don’t want any of this. I wish things could simply unravel the way nature intended.
Or maybe nature did intend this.
I don’t know.
Life makes no sense to me.
But…. there’s an adventure waiting for me next summer, so I’m choosing to move forward with whatever…. I can’t say I really care at this point.
If I’m being honest… I’d rather die in the desert anyway.
But for now—today—I’m still here. So we keep going. I’ll just have to shift my mental focus… that’s all.
This is where I met a man named Niles at reception. His nameplate gleamed under the soft lobby light as he greeted me and asked for my name. I was forty minutes early……pacing at home had done little to pass the time, so I left home just to get this visit over with.
Niles took my last name and handed me an iPad. The screen walked me through the usual verifications before unfolding into a detailed health questionnaire… women’s health, menstrual cycles, pregnancies, family history of cancer, vision, urinary issues. It felt like a full-body audit. Nothing out of the ordinary for me.
I took a seat in the waiting area, opened the book I’d brought, and briefly glanced around. Six other women waited quietly, all lost in their own thoughts. My husband sat among them, the only man there….steady, patient, supportive. When they finally called my name, I stood and gave him a quick glance. “You’ve got this,” he said with a smile.
The nurse took my weight, asked the standard questions, and measured my blood pressure: 120/68, same as always, I think. Then came a few more questions… prescriptions, smoking history, family cancer cases? She then asked me to change into a gown: “Opening in the front. Uma will be in shortly.” and she walked out of the examination room.
The gown was pink, actually, No, it was fuchsia. I remember the color, because I once had a middle school teacher who drove a fuchsia Saturn and was relentlessly teased for it. Yes, this gown was the same exact lilac pink shade.
Five minutes later, Uma walked in. Petite, maybe around my husband’s age, fluorescent pink Crocs, white coat. I stood to greet her and shook her hand. She apologized right away. “I’m sorry…. you were probably wondering why we said everything was fine at first, then called you back in.” “Yes,” I replied, “but no need to apologize. I wasn’t sure what was going on.”
She explained that ultrasounds are most reliable when a radiologist is on site, apparently, the center I’d visited no longer had one since being sold to new management. She opened the mammogram and ultrasound images and began reviewing each slide with me.
“You have dense breast tissue,” she explained. “Both sides are full of cysts.” She pointed out dark circles on the screen, showing which were fluid-filled and which were harder. Then she compared the solid ones to….of all things……..cement.
The word caught my attention immediately. “Cement?” I echoed in my mind.
She explained how a hardened cyst can cause pain when surrounding tissue shifts against it……“like when a cement filled nodule starts to move among other things” I smiled, finally realizing she meant concrete or perhaps even mortar.
A common mix-up. I didn’t correct her, of course. She was kind and thorough, describing every image, each black-and-white swirl gradually taking form in my mind.
Then she paused on one particular area. “This gray wall here, between two dark circle. We can’t be certain what that is. We’ll monitor it closely. I recommend every six months.”
Next came the actual physical exam. “So,” she said conversationally, “what do you do for a living?”
I laughed. “Funny you should ask. That cement analogy? Pretty fitting….. I actually work in the cement industry.”
She burst out laughing. “No way! and here I was, guessing you were an accountant!”
We both laughed as I stepped on to the examining table. Then she began the exam…..right side first, No issues.
Then the left. I tried to stay calm as she pressed firmly, but a few winces gave me away to a noted pain and discomfort.
“I noticed that upper side’s gotten larger since this past September” I said. “Yes,” she nodded. “That’s the fluid-filled cyst. But this other one—this is the one we’re keeping an eye on.”
I thought….”Of course, that’s the same one I have been complaining about…. the one I’ve had since last November…. the one that appears to be getting more firm and painful.”
She returned to her computer chair and sat. “We’ll order an aspiration for the fluid-filled cyst that has enlarged since last September. While we’re there with the needle, we’ll also look at the one in question.”
She asked me to get dressed and stepped out of the room.
A few minutes later, she returned with my risk assessment. “Because you’re over thirty and haven’t had children, that increases risk slightly. And since your paternal aunt had breast cancer, that adds more. Altogether, you’re considered high risk.”
She recommended adding an MRI screening, alongside ultrasound and mammograms. “Of course,” she said, “this could change once we have the aspiration results.”
Before I left, she mentioned she’d be retiring in January. “Don’t be surprised if your contact changes,” she smiled. “I’ve been doing this since the seventies……started at Trinity Health when I was seventeen.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed and for a moment, I thought about how many patients over the decades had heard her cement analogy and how many probably imagined little sacks of gray powder like I did.
All jokes aside, she had incredible bedside manner. I felt safe, informed, and oddly very calm.
Now, I wait… for the radiology team’s call…… for the next test…….for more data.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…….. Why did she picture me as an accountant?
Journaling was Recommended 