Last time I wrote, I was standing at a crossroads over the PET scan decision.
After a lot of thinking, researching, spiraling, unspiraling, and talking myself in circles—I decided not to move forward with it.
Based on my clinical picture and the low statistical risk, it didn’t feel like the right next step for me.
And honestly?
The second I made the decision, I felt peace.
Real peace.
Which, after weeks of medical anxiety and mentally preparing for worst-case scenarios, felt almost suspicious.
I was raised to respect doctors without question. My stepdad was a physician. My mom was a nurse. “Listen to the experts” was basically built into my DNA.
And I still believe that.
But I also believe you have to know yourself. Trust your gut. Ask questions. Advocate for yourself when something doesn’t feel right.
My dad always says that.
Turns out…he’s right about a lot of things.
The insurance company also denied the scan. Twice.
Even after appeal.
Apparently, they agreed this was medically unnecessary too.
So at this point, I’m taking that as the universe politely telling me to move along and focus on healing.
And honestly? I’m ready to.
The last couple of weeks have been packed with appointments.
Which, for someone with medical anxiety, feels a bit like exposure therapy I never signed up for.
I also had my DEXA bone scan recently.
The results came through while I was driving home, which honestly felt like a gift considering there was zero time for my brain to spiral while waiting.
The verdict?
Osteopenia.
Not exactly the gold medal result I was hoping for, but also not osteoporosis—so we’re calling it solidly middle-of-the-road.
Because apparently “middle-of-the-road” is becoming a recurring theme in my medical chart.
As part of the plan moving forward, I’ll start Zometa infusions every six months to help strengthen my bones.
The expected side effects sound a bit like a bad flu weekend, which feels rude but manageable.
There’s also a rare risk of osteonecrosis of the jaw—which is exactly the kind of terrifying medical phrase I’m actively trying not to hyperfocus on.
Instead, I’m focusing on the positive part:
Besides helping strengthen my bones, Zometa also helps reduce the risk of distant recurrence in the bones.
And that part?
I like very much.
But there have been milestones too.
I had my final fill on the left side yesterday.
Progress.
Although “fill” sounds much gentler than it actually feels.
Right now my chest feels tight and heavy—like someone replaced part of my body with overinflated pool floaties.
Very glamorous.
Apparently, this feeling will ease as things settle.
I’d just really like my right side to catch up so we can stop this current uneven situation we have going on.
Speaking of tightness…
My left arm is still not fully back to normal.
I have almost full range of motion, however reaching overhead or down toward the floor still feels tight and uncomfortable.
At my follow-up appointment, my breast surgeon told me I have mild cording—also known as axillary web syndrome.
Which sounds far more dramatic than it looks, honestly.
She felt I could work through it with stretching and exercises, and I’ve been extremely faithful about doing them twice a day.
My right side recovered beautifully.
My left side, however, prefers to be difficult.
Overachiever in all the wrong ways.
I’ve also had some swelling and lumpiness under my left arm where the lymph nodes were removed.
Totally expected.
Still annoying.
I’ve been doing lymphatic massage at home, which helps, but there’s still some lingering swelling.
Possibly mild lymphedema.
Which is one of those words that instantly sounds terrifying when you Google it.
The good news is—it may simply be temporary drainage issues while my body figures itself out.
So today I officially entered the world of OT.
Occupational therapy.
Something I had never personally experienced before, though it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar after seeing my mom go through OT over the years.
And honestly? I’m grateful I recovered well enough not to need PT too, because at this point I feel like I already have a part-time job in medical appointments.
The OT appointment itself was actually really helpful.
Less intimidating than I expected.
More massage and movement focused than clinical.
And yes—someone touching the weird underarm lumpiness while calmly explaining lymphatic drainage somehow makes it feel significantly less alarming.
Now I have new cording exercises to add to my growing collection of recovery homework and six weeks of OT appointments ahead.
Though, I may not need all of them—which we are absolutely choosing to view as a challenge and not a prediction.
Here’s hoping.
I also had my radiation simulation appointment today.
Which was…an experience.
You lie on a slightly padded table in front of a CT scanner while positioned in what can only best be described as an inflatable medical cocoon.
Arms overhead. Knees propped on a foam wedge. Feet strapped together.
Very relaxing spa vibes.
Once they get you perfectly aligned, the sides inflate around you so they can reproduce the exact same position every day for treatment.
Honestly, it felt a little like being shrink-wrapped for science.
I was incredibly thankful I had practiced the position at home as part of my stretching routine because holding my arms overhead and lying still for that long is no joke.
The radiation oncologist then places stickers all over you based on the treatment plan areas.
Then comes the CT scan itself.
Afterward, they do tiny radiation tattoos—small purple freckle-like dots that help line you up correctly each session.
I got four.
And surprisingly…those little tattoos hurt.
No one warned me about that part.
Tiny needle. Tiny burn. Tiny betrayal.
Now my oncology radiologist meets with the rest of the team to create the full treatment plan tailored specifically to my case.
That takes about 7–10 business days.
Then we begin.
Twenty-five treatments.
Five days a week.
For five weeks.
I’m expected to start the week of May 25th, and honestly? I’m ready to get moving.
I want to knock this milestone out and keep moving forward.
The expected side effects are fatigue, skin irritation that can feel like a sunburn, and potentially a sore throat from the radiation field.
That last one sounds particularly rude, so I’m hoping to avoid it.
Apparently, radiation side effects are cumulative, meaning they build gradually as treatment continues.
So the first couple of weeks should be the easiest.
At least there’s a small window of optimism there.
One moment caught me off guard today though.
The bell.
The one patients ring when they finish treatment.
My mom rang that exact bell.
With this exact doctor.
These exact staff members.
And seeing it sitting there brought everything rushing back.
I could picture her so clearly.
My breast cancer bear—the last gift from my mom—came with me today.
A quiet little piece of her beside me through it all.
And for a moment, all I wanted was to call her and tell her about today.
About the simulation.
About the tattoos.
About all of it.
Mother’s Day is this weekend too, which makes the timing feel especially heavy.
Life has a way of stacking emotions on top of each other sometimes.
But like everything else lately…
You keep moving forward.
Speed bumps and all.
