It has been a couple weeks since I last sat down to write.
I recently hit six weeks post-op, which means many of my restrictions have finally been lifted.
I can open the freezer.
I can take out the garbage.
I can push, pull, and lift more than ten pounds again.
Which sounds like a ridiculous list of accomplishments until you’ve spent six weeks unable to do those things.
It’s funny how you can miss daily chores.
One thing cancer changes is your relationship with ordinary moments.
Before all of this, taking out the garbage wouldn’t have even registered as part of my day. Now it feels oddly satisfying.
Not because I’ve suddenly developed a passion for household chores.
Let’s not get carried away.
But because every little thing I can do again feels like proof that I’m moving forward.
And lately, I’ve been realizing that some of the things I used to consider small aren’t really small at all.
My Mom’s service was last Saturday.
It was emotional.
It was beautiful.
And it reminded me how much the little moments matter.
My brother, Ian, and my Aunt Carole both spoke. My Dad, stepmom, and sister traveled from Maryland. My best friends, Carol and John, came from Minnesota. Family, friends, and people who loved my mom gathered together to celebrate her life.
Funerals aren’t happy occasions like weddings.
But there is something comforting about seeing how deeply someone was loved.
Nurses who worked with my mom at Sparrow attended. Others reached out with kind words and memories. So many people took the time to remind us who she was and the impact she had on their lives.
The support meant the world to me.
And while many people came to honor my mom, I also received countless well wishes for my recovery.
It was one of those days that leaves your heart feeling both heavy and full at the same time.
Speaking of kindness, a couple of my clients sent personal emails knowing radiation starts next week.
They suggested I leverage some of the magic pixie dust I apparently sprinkle on their shipments and use a little of it on myself over the next few weeks.
I laughed.
Other than my small direct team at work, these customers are the only people in my professional life who know about my diagnosis.
Over seven years, we’ve built relationships that go beyond orders, spreadsheets, and shipping schedules.
Their support meant more than they probably realize.
I’ve never been particularly good at needing people.
Being the helper has always felt easier than being the one receiving help.
Cancer has challenged that.
The meals.
The cards.
The texts.
The thoughtful gifts.
The emails.
The people who keep showing up.
I’ve learned there is a tremendous amount of kindness in this world if you allow yourself to see it.
My family’s visit was especially meaningful.
We had dinners on the deck, enjoyed local restaurants, and spent time together doing completely ordinary things.
My Dad and I both love eating outside this time of year.
Garrin played grill master, as usual, and did not disappoint.
We saw the new Star Wars movie.
Visited Potter Park Zoo.
Learned about bongos and okapis, two species I had never seen before that are unfortunately nearing extinction.
We laughed.
Talked.
Made memories.
Before my family left, my stepmom—who has always been a second mom to me—told me she was proud of me.
She said she knew this experience had changed me.
But that I was still me.
Those words stayed with me.
Because sometimes I wonder about that.
Whether cancer has changed me too much.
Whether grief has changed me too much.
Whether all of this waiting, healing, and uncertainty has somehow made me a different person.
And then came the goodbyes.
The kind that linger a little longer than usual.
The kind where everyone suddenly finds something very interesting to look at besides each other.
There were tears.
Including from my dad, who rarely lets those moments show.
Which, of course, immediately made the rest of us cry too.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized something.
I’ve spent so much of this journey focused on getting to the “after.”
After surgery.
After pathology.
After radiation.
After reconstruction.
After cancer.
I’ve been waiting for the finish line.
Waiting for life to feel normal again.
But life keeps happening now.
Not later.
Now.
Cancer may have barged into my life uninvited, but it hasn’t stopped life from continuing around me.
The dinners still happen.
The conversations still happen.
The laughter still happens.
The sunsets still happen.
And if I’m paying attention, those moments matter just as much as the milestones.
Maybe more.
Today was another milestone.
Radiation simulation day.
The final rehearsal before the actual production begins Monday.
Every day they’ll start with a mini CT scan before treatment. The machine rotates around me while I lie in my inflatable cocoon of medical science.
The team at Dr. Chapman’s office has been wonderful, which brings some comfort heading into this phase.
Five weeks.
Five days a week.
Twenty-five treatments.
That sounds like a lot when I say it out loud.
Especially considering time has somehow moved both incredibly slowly and incredibly quickly since cancer entered my life.
Radiation is strange because the side effects are cumulative. They build as treatment continues and can linger after treatment ends.
I’m determined to work through it and ring that bell.
My breast cancer bear—the last gift from my mom—will be making the trip with me every day for luck.
July 3rd should be my last treatment.
Just in time for Independence Day.
And honestly, there is something fitting about becoming independent from daily radiation treatments right before a holiday that celebrates independence.
I’ll take that symbolism wherever I can find it.
Of course, this journey wouldn’t be complete without a little waiting.
When scheduling the fills for my right side after radiation, I received two pieces of disappointing news.
First, Stacey, my nurse practitioner, is taking a well-deserved vacation after July 4th.
Which means my fills are delayed another ten days.
A minor delay in the grand scheme of things.
Still annoying.
At this point, waiting has become such a permanent resident in my life that I probably shouldn’t be surprised anymore.
The second piece of news was harder.
I was told reconstruction may need to wait six months after radiation.
Six months.
Potentially eight more months with expanders.
I would like to formally object.
These things are miserable.
I have a consultation with Dr. Pittlekow on July 21st, and I’m hoping the original three-month timeline may still be my reality.
I would really love for 2026 to mark the end of the major treatment road.
A fresh start.
A celebration.
A year where cancer isn’t managing my calendar.
But like so many things on this journey, I’ll have to wait and see.
There has been some good news too.
OT continues to help.
My range of motion before the cording pain starts has improved, and the lymphatic congestion under my arm has noticeably decreased.
I also learned something I wasn’t expecting.
The cording itself may always be there.
Not exactly the answer I was hoping for.
But the goal is to improve it to the point where it no longer causes discomfort in everyday life.
Things like reaching overhead.
Stretching.
Or picking up Peppermint and Dasher and setting them back down without feeling that tight pulling sensation.
Those may seem like small things, but they’re the kinds of moments that make up a day.
So I’m hopeful.
And grateful I took this step.
And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this.
There are still appointments.
Still treatments.
Still uncertainty.
Still waiting.
Plenty of waiting.
But there are also dinners on the deck.
Family visits.
Kind emails.
Movies.
Zoo trips.
Dogs.
Laughter.
And milestones worth celebrating.
So while I wait for the next step, I think I’ll keep paying attention to the little things.
They’ve been carrying me farther than I ever expected.
And for now, that feels like enough. ❤️
