Normal is Boring, Cancer is Weird
It’s been longer than I hoped, but here we are again. A lot has happened, and at the same time, it feels like nothing has changed. But that’s life when you’re in the midst of a battle that’s as unpredictable as cancer. So, let’s dive into the latest, shall we?
Let’s start with the physical therapy saga. Cording has become my new nemesis. Imagine a tightness that pulls through your armpit into your arm, restricting your reach like some invisible puppet master. And… you can actually see it, like a tight piece of string under your skin. In therapy, they massage these tight cords, hoping for a release. But the release is like a popping sensation that makes you question every life choice that brought you to that moment. It’s like a glow stick—rigid at first, but when you snap, crackle, and pop it, it suddenly becomes flexible and fluid. The human body is weird.
The struggle with necrosis continues, because why would anything be straightforward? I had a section of my left nipple removed, which sounds as delightful as it was. My plastic surgeon, was basically staring at my tissue expander—the medical-grade water balloon I mentioned last time—while stitching me up with six stitches and tossing me back on antibiotics to prevent infection. Still healing from that lovely ordeal, I experienced my first fill. Honestly, it was pretty uneventful, except for the part where my boobs magically grew bigger as I laid down.
Speaking of my boobs, let’s talk about the bizarre combination of feeling and not feeling. With the removal of my breast tissue went my nerve endings. So, while I can still feel pressure and touch, I have no sensitivity. You could burn me, freeze me, or cut me, and I wouldn’t feel it. Weird, right? It’s like my boobs are there, but they’re not really there. I mean, they’re present and accounted for, but the connection’s kind of on the fritz.
Remember that trial I mentioned before? Well, I was randomized into the control group, so it’s six more months of immunotherapy for me, which kicked off again this past Wednesday. It’s not the outcome I was hoping for, but hey, it’s still the standard of care, so I’ll take it. I’m meeting with the radiation team this week to figure out my next steps. Because I was node-positive at my initial diagnosis, radiation is the usual path. But there are studies questioning if radiation is necessary for someone who’s node-negative at surgery. So, who knows? I might be entering another study—stay tuned.
In more exciting news, I’m getting my first haircut this week! Beautiful You, an incredible organization dedicated to helping cancer patients feel pampered and a little more like themselves, is making this happen. I can’t express how thrilling it is to finally have enough hair to even consider a cut. It might never be the same, but it’s a big moment for me, and I’m here for it.
Speaking of hair, here’s a fun fact: if you’ve had laser hair treatment, chemo doesn’t bring the hair back everywhere. The areas that were treated have minimal regrowth. But the hair that’s coming back? It’s changed my skin in the weirdest way. My previously smooth skin now has inflamed hair follicles on my arms and legs. I’m hoping this is just a phase, and once the regrowth settles, my skin will go back to normal—whatever that means.
But at the end of the day, who’s to say what’s normal? Normal is boring, and it’s our differences that make us unique. Trying to fit into a box or be a cookie-cutter image is a surefire way to always wonder if you missed out because you did what you thought people would accept instead of what fueled your passion. I’ll come out of this journey never being normal, but forever changed. Cancer—it’s something that steals our time, our energy, our loved ones, and our lives. But you know what? Cancer has got nothing on me. So here’s to embracing the weird, the different, and the beautifully abnormal. Because that’s where the magic happens.