As a kid, I loved rollercoasters.
The slow climb up, the drop, the twists, the upside-down moments where your stomach ends up somewhere near your throat. I remember my Dad riding all of them with me—and now, as an adult, I’m honestly impressed he kept up. That kind of stamina deserves recognition.
This journey?
Also a rollercoaster.
Just one I didn’t buy a ticket for…and would very much like to get off.
Since finding the lump, it’s been a series of climbs and drops. Some expected. Some not. And some that hit harder than I was prepared for.
I finally had my moment this week.
Not that I’ve been holding it together perfectly this whole time—far from it. There have been plenty of moments along the way. Biopsies. Diagnosis. MRI. Surgery. Lymph node results. Seeing my chest for the first time. Waiting on oncotype.
I’ve cried. I’ve been scared.
How could you not?
Especially when you already come into this with a healthy dose of medical anxiety.
But overall, I’ve stayed pretty grounded. Logical. Focused. (Thanks, Dad—I know I get that from you.) I’ve tried to lead with hope. With a bit of a fighter mentality.
And then I met with my medical oncologist.
And everything shifted.
When a doctor calmly tells you your tumor size and lymph node involvement put you in a “higher risk” category—and that she’d like to run a PET scan to check for spread to your bones, lungs, liver…
There’s no avoiding that kind of fear.
She said it was my choice.
In that moment, I said yes.
Because of course you do. If there’s something there, you want to catch it early. You want every advantage.
But then I went home and did what I do.
I researched. I learned. I tried to understand what that “yes” really meant.
And that’s when things got heavier.
If cancer has spread—it’s considered metastatic. Stage 4. Not treated with curative intent, but managed long-term.
And here’s the part that’s hard to sit with:
Finding it earlier doesn’t necessarily change the outcome.
The medications they would start with? Already part of my planned treatment after radiation.
The path just…changes.
Medications first. Monitoring. Then radiation. Then reconstruction—much later.
And the idea of living with expanders for that long?
Absolutely not my dream scenario.
(We’ll get to those in a minute.)
That’s when I hit my breaking point.
I sobbed.
The kind where everything you’ve been holding together just…doesn’t anymore.
I lost hope for a minute. Let fear take over. Started asking the questions no one wants to ask.
How much time?
What kind of life?
It was a hard place to land.
And now I’m at a crossroads.
Do I still go through with the scan?
There’s about a 5% chance it finds something based on my case.
Five percent.
Which, if you think about it, is also about the chance any of us has something going on we don’t know about yet.
So is it worth it?
The anxiety. The waiting. The possibility of more tests, more delays, more stress?
Or do I move forward with the plan already in place?
Focus on healing. Radiation. Reconstruction.
Focus on moving forward.
Because that’s what I want.
I’m tired of the in-between.
This version of me—somewhere between fills, radiation, and surgery.
Not quite who I was…not quite who I’ll be.
I also met with my radiation oncologist this week.
Same doctor who treated my mom.
Which felt…meaningful.
He’s great. Easy to talk to. Confident in the plan.
My simulation is scheduled for May 6th. Five weeks of radiation—five days a week—starting mid-May.
We talked about the PET scan.
And his take?
“Overkill.”
He said he’d be shocked if it showed anything.
Not dismissing my medical oncologist—just offering a different perspective.
One that I’m holding onto.
Insurance hasn’t approved the scan yet either.
Day four of waiting.
They have up to seven.
And honestly? If they deny it…I might take that as my answer.
A little nudge in a direction I was already leaning.
He also said something that stuck with me.
“This is supposed to be a speed bump in your life—not your whole life.”
That’s exactly how I want to see this.
A detour. Not a destination.
Something I move through—not something that defines everything.
And in the middle of all of this, life keeps showing up in small wins.
I can take my dogs out again.
I can lift my arms over my head (with some stretching and a little discomfort, but still—progress).
I’m back to doing some daily chores, even with the 10-pound restriction.
I went back to work.
I can put a shirt over my head again—goodbye, exclusive button-down era.
And today?
Jeans.
Real jeans.
That felt like a big moment.
Now…let’s talk about expanders.
They are, in a word: awful.
I had this idea they’d be like balloons. Soft. Stretching things gradually.
Nope.
They’re more like firm, silicone devices with tabs, magnets, and ports. Very…mechanical.
Very not part of my body.
They poke. They shift. They slosh.
Yes—slosh.
Which is as unsettling as it sounds.
Every time I move, my body is basically like:
“Hi. Just a reminder…this doesn’t belong here.”
And my nerves?
Agree. Very loudly.
They also don’t look like breasts.
Better than completely flat? Yes.
But still…a work in progress.
I had my second fill this week—left side only.
Turns out, the right side can’t be filled further until after radiation.
So now I’m officially uneven.
And it’s only going to get more noticeable.
Which, at a time when I’m already feeling a little body-conscious…is not ideal.
Also—not allowed to wear a bra for another month.
My mom’s memorial service is in a month.
So yes, I’ll be stuffing one side.
Full circle moment back to teenage years, apparently.
No one prepares you for this part.
And because life likes to keep things interesting—
On the day of my first fill, I felt good enough to go out to dinner for the first time post-op.
Big step.
As we were leaving, I felt something cold and wet on my chest.
Immediate panic.
Did something leak? Is that even possible? What is happening?
Turns out…
I dropped an ice cube down my shirt.
So.
We’re doing great.
Honestly, you have to laugh.
I’m also trying to focus on what’s ahead.
Planning things. Looking forward.
I’ll miss our family vacation this June, so we’re already talking about 2027 in Northern Michigan.
My best friend suggested a trip next spring—so now we’re casually planning that.
And Garrin has Vegas on the list once I’m fully through reconstruction.
It’s been 14 years.
Apparently, we’re due.
Food. Shopping. Spa. Pool. Maybe a little gambling.
Something to work toward.
Because this journey?
It has bumps. Detours. Moments you never saw coming.
And you don’t always get a clear map.
You just…figure out how to keep going.
Hope isn’t gone.
Even if it feels a little quieter right now.
It will come back.
It always does.
I’m strong.
And standing at this crossroads…
I’ll figure out which way to go.
Because cancer hasn’t beaten me yet.
