The second MRI was completed this afternoon—the one that will tell us whether the chemotherapy worked. What am I hoping for? A pathological complete response, or pCR: the absence of all invasive cancer cells in my tissue samples after neoadjuvant treatment. Achieving pCR indicates a strong response and is a key marker of improved long‑term survival.
Now we wait. We’ll know soon enough.
The first phase of cancer treatment is complete: chemotherapy—fifteen weeks of it. Oncologists chose the neoadjuvant route, and now we wait for the scans to show how the cancer responded. Those results will determine the type of surgery and what comes next.
I didn’t have much motivation to write during treatment. It felt like I was suspended somewhere between an incubator and a prison cell—just waiting for release. That release came on Friday, and it was a powerful feeling.
Now, I turn toward phase two: surgery.
Someone once compared this journey to a triathlon. If that’s true, then I’ve finished the swim. Next is the bike, followed by radiation, the final run. It’s a fitting analogy. This hasn’t been a pleasant experience, but I’m deeply grateful for the support that carried me through.
Today, I’m calling it Week One of The Rebuild.
Why rebuild? Because in these past weeks, I gained ten pounds, lost my hair, and lost my ability to run. What used to be an easy three-mile jog now takes real effort. But chemotherapy is behind me, and this is where I begin again.
We’ll see what comes next.
For now, the focus is simple: rebuilding.
“Are you ready for me to give you your shot?”
Kyle, my infusion nurse for the week, stood in the doorway of the cramped infusion room where I sat reclined, staring somewhere between the ceiling tiles and my own uncertain future.
“Let’s do it,” I said, pushing my reclined chair upright.
“I think this one goes in the right leg.” He said.
“Yes, you’re right,” I replied. “I still remember who gave what and where. Week 1 – Nurse Jenna did the left leg. Week 4 – You did the right. Week 7 – Nurse Amber injected the left. And now you get the right again. This is the last one, correct?”
“Yes, this is it,” Kyle confirmed. Then he added, “But you’ll still have the Zoladex shot.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “At least that one isn’t cardiotoxic like this one. From what I understand, though, this drug is the most effective for the type of cancer I have… or hopefully had.”
He pulled up a stool in front of me as I rolled down my pant leg, exposing my right thigh.
I sat.
Ready.
“Ok” I said. “Let’s go.” And I looked away.
He started the timer. Five minutes to slowly push the medication in.
The initial puncture stung. I pulled my focus away from the needle and into the distance….into the future.
This is it, I thought. I’m almost done with this phase of treatment.
What comes next? With my life, I mean.
I’m at the heaviest weight I’ve ever been. My resting heart rate is higher than I’ve ever known it to be. Food makes me queasy. My energy is foreign to me…. muted, dulled.
All I know is that I want this to be over.
Will I beat cancer? I don’t know. I hope so. But hope and certainty are not the same thing.
They say I caught it early. Lucky.
Lucky.
If I were lucky, I wouldn’t have gotten it at all.
I still can’t believe I got cancer.
It’s almost over, I reminded myself. Soon I’ll be able to travel again. Maybe visit my parents. Maybe sit across from my mom again.
Maybe, someday, I’ll look back and think That wasn’t so bad.
I shouldn’t say that. It isn’t over yet.
Four more weeks.
At least I’m done with this shot.
I hope my heart tolerated it well. I’ll find out next week when an echocardiogram is performed.
My life has changed. For the better? I don’t know.
What I do know is this:
I’m still here.
Right now, that has to be enough.
“Ok. Ms. Dantes, Times up” Kyle said and pulled the needle out my right thigh and quickly pressed a bandage over the puncture wound.
“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.
No reaction to the main chemo drug again.
I was grateful.
“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.”
Day 3 has been the toughest.
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.
It was a good day…..better than I expected.
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.
Yes, I still have my heart set on Gobi.
Onward and upward.
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.
Journaling was Recommended 