It has been almost three weeks since I rang the bell.
My sore throat disappeared about a week after radiation ended. The fatigue has improved too, although it still likes to stop by occasionally—usually when I have decided I should be operating at full speed again.
Apparently, my body did not receive that memo.
I was fortunate with my skin reaction.
Of course, I also crossed every T, dotted every I, and followed my skincare routine as if Aquaphor were paying me.
Aloe vera after treatment.
Aquaphor every night.
So much Aquaphor.
My skin still darkened significantly, especially under my arm, and there was some redness. But I avoided the severe burning and peeling I had feared.
This week, I officially graduated from Aquaphor to Bio-Oil.
A happy milestone.
No more nightly greased-monkey routine.
No more clothing sticking to me while I sleep.
No more sacrificing Garrin’s T-shirts to the cause.
Today, I finally noticed some improvement in the darkened skin too.
A small change.
But an important reminder:
This is temporary.
Ringing the bell, of course, did not mean the journey was over.
It simply meant radiation was over.
I gave myself one full day of freedom before starting Anastrozole.
One day.
Apparently, I know how to celebrate.
Anastrozole is an aromatase inhibitor that blocks estrogen. I will take it for at least five years—and possibly ten, assuming my body and I can come to some sort of long-term agreement.
Two weeks in, negotiations are not going particularly well.
The menopause symptoms arrived quickly.
I had already been dealing with hot flashes since stopping hormones in February. Anastrozole apparently looked at that situation and thought, You know what she needs? More fire.
So now I get to enjoy heat waves during both the day and night.
Very inclusive.
Sleep continues to be elusive because I wake up almost hourly in my own personal furnace.
Blankets off.
Blankets on.
Fan on.
Fan higher.
Repeat until morning.
I am trying vitamin E twice a day to see whether it helps. If not, Dr. Varghese can prescribe medication to counteract the hot flashes—although naturally that medication comes with its own list of possible side effects.
Because apparently every medication in cancer treatment arrives with several additional medications waiting in the wings.
On day four of Anastrozole, I woke up and told Garrin I felt as though I had aged ten years overnight.
My fingers were so stiff I could barely move them. My hands and feet felt arthritic.
Within a few days, my legs decided they would also like to participate.
Nothing says good morning quite like trying to negotiate with your own knees before getting out of bed.
Warm water helps.
Movement helps.
Exercise helps.
The small catch is that all of those things require getting out of bed first.
Thankfully, I am goal-oriented and stubborn enough to keep moving.
We are calling that perseverance.
Then there is the brain fog.
I have always been fortunate to have an excellent memory.
I could remember conversations years later. It served me well throughout my career as a project manager, especially when creating detailed meeting minutes and action lists.
Of course, everyone uses AI for that now.
But I was still proud that my own internal filing system worked so well.
Lately, that filing system appears to be undergoing maintenance.
I walk into a room and forget why I went there.
Then I leave, remember, walk back in—and occasionally forget again.
Apparently, some tasks now require multiple laps.
At least, I am getting extra steps.
I sometimes stop in the middle of a conversation because the thought I was about to share has simply disappeared.
Gone.
No forwarding address.
Brain fog is a known side effect, but unfortunately there is no simple medication to counteract it. The advice is to keep exercising the brain through work, activity, reading, games, puzzles, and physical exercise.
Basically, my brain has now been assigned homework too.
My body may adapt over the next three to six months, and the fog may improve.
In the meantime, I will keep working at it and try not to become discouraged.
Frustrated?
Absolutely.
But not discouraged.
Mood swings are another possible side effect.
Perhaps mine will swing toward excessively cheerful.
A girl can hope.
One bright spot came last week from a place I was not necessarily expecting.
Occupational therapy.
Radiation had tightened everything back up again, so I returned for my evaluation assuming there would be another stretch of work ahead of me.
Instead, after checking my range of motion, my therapist gave me good news.
I had already regained what I lost during radiation.
I was discharged.
Apparently, I have been collecting graduations lately.
Radiation.
Aquaphor.
Now OT.
I will keep doing my stretches at home because cording has a way of reminding me it is still around, but for now, another appointment has disappeared from my calendar.
That is a milestone I will gladly celebrate.
Speaking of appointments…
At my meeting with Dr. Varghese, Kisqali came up again.
Kisqali is a CDK4/6 inhibitor that may reduce the risk of distant recurrence by roughly two to four percent in patients with certain higher-risk features.
My results place me in a gray area.
Large tumor.
Grade 2.
One positive lymph node.
The medication also comes with frequent monitoring—bloodwork every two weeks at first, followed by every three weeks and eventually monthly.
Potential serious side effects include lowered white blood cell counts, heart rhythm problems, and increased liver enzymes.
The more common possibilities include fatigue, higher cholesterol, and generally feeling unwell.
A charming little résumé.
I am still not convinced that I want to add it to my treatment plan.
Dr. Varghese agrees that the decision is mine. I could try it and stop if I do not tolerate it well.
Before deciding, she is ordering a Ki-67 test on my tumor tissue. This measures how actively the cancer cells were dividing. A score of 20 percent or higher would make her more inclined to recommend Kisqali.
So once again…
I wait for another test result.
Cancer testing is completely backwards from everything we learned in school.
The goal is not an A.
The lower the score, the better.
For once in my life, I am enthusiastically hoping to fail.
Bring on the F.
I also saw Dr. Pittlekow this week.
He said I am healing very well and seemed genuinely happy to see me.
He has become increasingly personable with every visit.
Apparently, I am slowly winning him over.
The recommended wait after radiation before reconstruction is about six months.
Not the timeline I had hoped for, but I want to give my skin and tissue the best chance to heal properly.
The good news is that this surgery should be easier than the first.
No drains.
Outpatient.
About two and a half hours.
Roughly one week away from work.
There will still be six weeks without lifting, pushing, or pulling more than ten pounds, because apparently my freezer and garbage can will once again have to learn to live without me.
The plastic surgery office should be placing me on the December calendar soon, and I will have some input on the date.
I return in about three months for another healing check and preparation appointment.
And honestly?
I am excited.
Or at least as excited as anyone can reasonably be about surgery.
This one represents getting the expanders out.
That alone is worthy of enthusiasm.
Next week, I also receive my final fill on the right side.
After months of being uneven, I will finally match again.
Today, I put on a sundress and felt confident wearing it.
That might sound like a small thing.
It was not.
My arms moved the way they were supposed to.
My skin looked a little better.
My shoulders felt like my own again.
None of those things happened overnight.
Every stretch.
Every appointment.
Every tube of Aquaphor.
Every little milestone added up.
And somehow, without realizing it, they brought a little more of me back.
The bell was not the end of the road.
Anastrozole, decisions about Kisqali, fills, and reconstruction are still ahead.
But today my skin looked a little better.
Last week, I graduated from OT.
Next week, I will be even.
And sometime in December, these expanders should finally be evicted.
So I will keep moving forward.
One heat wave.
One forgotten thought.
One test I hope to fail.
And one sundress at a time.
