Tough Twinkie

The Wicked Witch is Melting When the cancer journey began the tumor was measured at 3.2 cm. That was in February 2025,  back when I still had defined eyebrows and a smidge of patience.  Somewhere along the speed-dating circuit with oncology teams, a nurse casually mentioned it was 3.9 cm. My finely tuned BS detector—honed by years of politely nodding through unsolicited advice—immediately called it: false. That was the first and last time I heard that number, and no one else seemed inclined to defend it. Now it's July 2025, and four chemotherapy infusions later— drumroll, please —the wicked witch is down to 0.3 cm. It is melting!  Chemotherapy, despite its daily circus of side effects,  is working. And for that, I am relieved. Two more infusions to go. Then this Tough Twinkie will finally wave goodbye to chemo like a high school reunion that I have no intention of attending. If  cancer taught me anything, it is to be way more intentional. So high school? Yeah… n...

Cancer is an Experience When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was thrown into a hot seat. A tumor was growing inside of me, and yet I needed to separate myself from it. From the very beginning, I recognized:  I am not cancer. Cancer would be something that I moved through — cancer would be an experience, and not an identity. Cancer does not define my humor. It does not carry my compassion. It does not extend the kindness and love I show others. That is because cancer is not my character . It may have taken shelter in my body but my spirit is kicking it out. Most days I feel like a 5’10” crumb. Emotionally I am drained. Physically I am strained. Energetically I am zapped. Chemotherapy brings a full circus of side effects. It is relentless with every infusion and I do not “bounce back” easily. I ask you to hold that truth with me because honestly, I don't feel great, and I need you to assume that is the baseline. If you recall the Pepto Bismol jingle line, “nausea, heartburn, in...

An Honest Reply from a Cancer Patient Insight from Chemotherapy Infusions: I usually pause when someone asks me, “How are you?” The pause is to reflect on whether they really want the overstuffed, slightly-questionable, and loaded enchilada; or would they prefer a bite-sized version, such as, “I’m hanging in there”? The simple answer is that I haven’t been great. Although for those genuinely curious, here’s the messy and loaded enchilada. The lingering anxiety after the scare about a  pulmonary embolism  (blood clot) didn’t help. Details of that in the post, Stand & Spiral . Plus, mix in the usual post-infusion ‘specials’ (constipation, diarrhea, and bloody noses) but now my thigh muscles? They  feel like anchors. I squat to grab the ball for Juniper and it’s like the anchors pin me and then fling me back up like a clumsy rubber band. My thighs burn every day. Not the motivational kind like, “Feel the burn!” It’s more like a stubborn protest. And what the heck is up w...