I always looked forward to the New Year. It felt like a clean reset, a chance to begin again, to set fresh goals, to believe in infinite possibility. Now it’s 2026, and I can’t say it feels the same. I’m grateful to be here, truly, but the familiar spark is muted. The enthusiasm doesn’t arrive as easily.
Cancer treatment has a way of taking ownership of time. Planning feels fragile, provisional, almost borrowed. Yet when I sit with that thought, I realize nothing has really changed since years passed. I have always only had the present moment.
What feels different now is awareness. The sense that moments are numbered, that the once-infinite horizon has narrowed into something more finite, more defined. Yet, that too, is perception. The limit was always there…I just didn’t notice it. There were never more than moments. There have only ever been moments.
I don’t know why bitterness visits me right now. I know others would long for the prognosis I’ve been given. I know this is a gift, and that gifts are not meant to be squandered. None of us should squander them.
Yet still, it is hard. It is hard to live with pain, with uncertainty, with the constant effort to fill a void. Gratitude and bleakness can exist in the same breath…..and lately, they do.
There are moments when you realize life will never return to what it once was. The moment itself is brief, almost unremarkable, but the awareness stretches far beyond it, settling in and refusing to leave.
I don’t pretend to understand life. I move through it the only way I know how, by following the rhythm of days, keeping pace with what comes next. Not because I have answers, but because stopping isn’t an option. Giving up isn’t on the table. So, I do the simplest, hardest thing there is: I keep going.
The holidays have a way of slowing time just enough to make you look back. They invite reflection—on years when life felt fuller, when meaning arrived more easily, when the future didn’t feel quite so loaded. Those memories surface without asking permission, bringing both warmth and ache in equal measure.
These days, life feels less about building and more about enduring. Not in a dramatic sense…….there is no grand despair here. Just the steady act of survival. Showing up. Moving forward. Allowing the days to pass, one after another, trusting that persistence itself holds its own purpose.
“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.
If I’m going to put myself through treatment, I might as well make it worthwhile. I decided early on that if my experience can help someone else in the future, then I’ll gladly contribute. So, I volunteered as a test subject, agreeing to follow a prescribed workout regimen throughout treatment and undergo periodic physiological testing for a cardiovascular research study.
Baseline Visit 1 began with something I’ve always wanted to do… a maximal heart-rate test. Of course, first came the preliminaries. A baseline echocardiogram confirmed I was clear to participate, followed by a general physical and neurological exam. Everything checked out. I was good to go.
“Alright,” the researcher said, “we’re going to place this mask over your face. You will bite down on the mouthpiece and make sure it seals over your gums. Your nose will be clipped so all breathing comes through the mouth. There is a drain piece for saliva, make sure you don’t swallow it. We’ll monitor your pulse oxygen and blood pressure throughout.”
Then came the instructions. The treadmill would speed up until I reached my age-calculated maximal heart rate. Once there, speed would stay constant but the incline would be increased by about 2.5% every few minutes. I’d need to point to a chart to indicate how hard I felt I was working. Thumbs up if you’re good, Thumbs down if you’re not and open hand swiped by throat to indicate Stop.
Perfect, I thought. “Two Thumbs-up Let’s do this!”
The mask slid over my head, the tube connected to the machine at the right of the treadmill. I centered myself on the machine and matched the belt stride for stride.
“We’re almost at your calculated rate. How hard are you working?” they asked.
I pointed to – Very Light.
“Pulse ox?” The researcher asked the intern positioned to the left of me at the treadmill. “98%,” she reported.
“Great. Beginning the test in 5…4…3…2…1.”
The incline rose. I kept a steady rhythm, hearing the doctor murmur with curiosity in the background as he observed the computer monitor. Five people were in the room: a doctor, a clinician, two researchers, one intern. With the treadmill facing a plain beige wall. Everyone behind me. So that’s what I focused on – the beige canvas.
After the first minute: “How hard are you working?” The researcher asked me. I pointed to “Light” on the laminated chart presented to me by the intern. Blood pressure was yelled out – 144/78. “We’ll increase again. How are you doing?” Thumbs up. Still feeling good.
Round after round, the incline inched upward. My arms began to pump, my breathing deepened, but I still felt strong. “I could keep this pace for six hours,” I thought.
“Pulse ox?” The researcher asked
“97%” replied the intern.
Eventually, the sweat came. My heart thudded against my ribs. My face flushed behind the mask as I gulped air through the tube. “Keep going… every second counts… Can you give me more time?” the researcher asked. Thumbs up. I wasn’t anywhere near passing out.
“How hard are you working?” I pointed to “Very Hard” this time.
Another incline. I heard the doctor gasp in the background. The clinician whispered, “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“Pulse ox?”
“It’s reading 91%!”concern flickered in the intern’s voice.
The clinician moved toward the echocardiogram machine, positioned to the far right of the room, preparing for the moment I stepped off. My vision began to vignette….darkness creeping inward. The beige wall shifting toward gray.
“The segment is almost over. Can you keep pushing?” Thumbs up again. If I wasn’t completely out, I could keep going. I thought.
Now drenched, heart hammering, lungs burning…. but still moving.
“Keep going… keep going.. every second counts” The researcher cheered. I held on until the end of the segment. Then the treadmill stopped.
I stepped off the belt, grabbed the handrails, and the second researcher quickly removed the mask. They all guided me back to the exam bed for the final echocardiogram. I lay still, eyes closed, letting my senses return to normal. As the clinician quickly removed the velcro straps on the black cotton shirt exposing and my left chest wall to press down with the transducer beneath my left breast. I could still feel my heart beating.
“So… how did I do?” I asked, while she observed the monitor.
“You did amazing,” the clinician said. “Your heart rate was up there.”
“What about my VO₂ max reading?”
The clinician looked at the researcher. “Can she know it?”
“No,” they said. “We’ll share results at the end of the study.”
“Well… does it match my watch? I have a reading of 40.”
She smiled. “Close. Pretty close.”
The final echo looked good. The test was over.
And me? I felt electric….flooded with energy.
I was asked to change into my regular attire and walk out of the room. I couldn’t help but try to take a peek at the reading glancing at the treadmill monitor and could have sworn I saw a VO2 reading of 36.
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.
Despite everything, I’m still here feeling grateful.
I believe I’ll be ok…but I’m also learning to make peace with the possibility that things may not always go that way, and, well……. that’s part of the journey too.
Today my mind wandered to memories I didn’t expect. Just a year ago, we brought Mom home from the memory-care facility. Now Dad cares for her every day.
A year ago, I ran the Turkey Trot with my brother and had breakfast with him and the baby afterward. This year, I find myself in my home office, typing, feeling a strange mix of numbness and reflection…. Looking back at moments I usually try not to revisit.
I’m learning to rest on what’s here, right now.
I’m grateful for this connection.
I’m grateful for this space to write to process.
I’m grateful for another year.
I’m grateful even for the inevitable, whatever it may look like.
I’m grateful for the flexibility my employer gives me.
I’m grateful for the support of my new friend.
I’m grateful for my spouse and everything he carries and gives.
I’m grateful for the ability to hope and dream, because that’s what truly keeps me alive.
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.
Journaling was Recommended 