Thirty days.
One whole month on anastrozole.
Not that I’m counting.
Actually…
I’m very much counting.
Time has become one of the strangest parts of cancer.
Some days disappear before I realize they’ve started.
Others feel long enough to qualify as their own fiscal year.
This month somehow managed to do both.
A few days after starting anastrozole, I told Garrin I felt like I’d aged ten years overnight.
The last week?
Probably twenty.
Apparently, estrogen was doing much more behind the scenes than I ever gave it credit for.
My joints now creak and pop like an old wooden porch every time I stand up.
Getting off the floor has become a strategic event that requires both determination and momentum.
If anyone happens to be watching, I’d appreciate them pretending not to.
Exercise is still my best medicine.
Ironically, the very thing my body complains about doing is also the only thing that makes it feel better.
So every morning we negotiate.
My body says no.
I say yes.
Eventually one of us wins.
Usually me.
My hands may be protesting the loudest.
Which feels particularly unfair because we ask so much of our hands.
Typing.
Cooking.
Buttoning clothes.
Jewelry clasps.
Zippers.
Opening jars that apparently were sealed by Olympic weightlifters.
Some days even the simple things have become…less simple.
The brain fog is still hanging around too.
I’ve always had an excellent memory.
I could remember conversations from years ago.
Project management was practically built for my brain.
Now I occasionally walk into a room and forget why.
Then walk out.
Remember.
Walk back in.
Progress.
Dr. Varghese told me to exercise my brain.
So naturally I informed Garrin that jigsaw puzzles are now medically prescribed.
I also realized these blog posts count.
Writing has always helped me process life.
Apparently now it’s physical therapy for my brain too.
I’ll take it.
The last month has also brought more emotion than I was hoping for.
My best friend Carol lost her dad.
Ray wasn’t just Carol’s dad.
He was another dad to me.
His house holds some of my favorite childhood memories.
Weeknight dinners.
Christmas trees.
Midnight Mass.
Trips Up North.
Homecoming.
Graduation.
His laugh.
His jokes.
His love of polka music and Stroh’s.
Yesterday Garrin and I drove to Beulah for the funeral.
It was one of those days where laughter and tears somehow coexist.
Carol told me that even near the end, Ray continued asking how I was doing.
That touched me more than I can put into words.
Before we left, Carol handed me a small wooden acorn box.
Ray had made three.
One for Carol.
One for her sister.
And this one.
The last one.
Now mine.
It felt incredibly fitting.
Carol has always been my other sister life forgot to officially give me.
Now I have something made by the man who helped shape so many of my happiest memories.
Then something unexpected happened.
Carol pulled out an old middle-school yearbook.
Let’s just say…
Some hairstyles are better left in the past.
Mine definitely qualified.
Then she handed me something I hadn’t seen in decades.
A copy of Teen World.
The magazine I started as a kid.
I’d completely forgotten about it.
My dad and stepmom printed copies for me.
I actually had subscribers.
A very small publishing empire.
But an empire nonetheless.
Reading through it made me smile.
It reminded me that long before cancer…
Long before careers…
Long before responsibilities…
I was a dreamer.
A writer.
Someone who loved creating things.
Cancer may have changed a lot.
But it doesn’t get to take that part of me.
There have been celebrations too.
The first illustrations arrived for the sequel to my children’s book.
I finally received my last fill.
I’m officially even.
No more stuffing one side of my bra like an awkward thirteen-year-old.
I never thought I’d celebrate symmetry quite this enthusiastically.
I’ve now gone a couple of weeks without a medical appointment.
That almost feels suspicious.
Peppermint received excellent results from her appointment at MSU.
My cording has stayed stable.
My arm continues to move well.
And Garrin and I celebrated twenty-seven years of marriage.
Twenty-seven years.
Looking back…
That seems impossible.
Thirty days ago I wasn’t sure how I’d tolerate this medication.
I’m still not exactly enjoying it.
But I’m managing.
One day at a time.
One puzzle.
One walk.
One blog post.
One heat wave.
One forgotten thought.
One celebration.
And one flashback at a time.
Because if this month reminded me of anything…
It’s that memories don’t just belong in the past.
Sometimes they quietly remind us who we’ve always been.
And that’s a pretty good person to hold onto.
