Guys. I made it. I FUCKING made it.

I’ve closed chapter one, two and three. The worst of the chapters. I survived diagnosis. 15 biopsy punches. Countless scans. Sleepless nights spent awake in fear of the unknown. I killed the gnarliest chemo routine on the market. I survived a mastectomy. Tissue expander surgery. I made it through the days and nights of watching my hair come out in clumps despite spending a small fortune on cold caps. Lost my lashes and brows. Dealt with crazy weight gain. Watched my veins darken and snake through my forearms. I lost almost everything that made me feel like ME .

but I fucking persevered and kept going.

Everyone tells me I’m strong, but I simply know inner strength rears it’s head when there is no choice. I’m strong because, as my 6 year old daughter would say- “just is”

I’m glad I found that strength in myself.

If you’d have told me five years ago that I’d find myself treading water after divorce, learning the art of single parenting, running a household by myself, while simultaneously grasping the the art of being financially and emotionally self providing…

…that… that…

I would be diagnosed with cancer?

I’d have laughed in your face.

My life just didn’t play out like that. 

Safe to say, I was wrong.

The years between divorce and cancer were both the best and the worst years of my time on this planet. I’m grateful for them. There is nothing I’d trade em for. They sucked but I had the best time of my life.

Here we are. 4 weeks beyond mastectomy. Two weeks past the second surgery for tissue expander placement. I’ve learned I will never be an opioid addict (bonus!) as I loathe painkillers. They do the job but they turn me into a blob formally known as Rhiannon. She can’t stay awake. She can’t remember anything. She has nothing to structure her day around. She lays in bed all day too exhausted to think of doing the dishes or picking up the mess of clothes and medical supplies on the floor. Sweating out the drugs – not bothering with life. She doesn’t return texts. Not having the will nor the care.

I kicked those things to the curb as soon as I could. I remember the day- a mere five days ago- where I stopped the painkillers. The first day I wanted to get up! To do things! To see the outside world! I cleaned my entire apartment and walked for miles. Ah. I then remembered what it was like to feel like a functioning adult. Maybe opioids make me depressed? Maybe they make me lazy? Maybe this whole cancer game has worn me out? Who knows? All I know is I don’t have patience for it.

Uncle Joey is dead. My premeditated murder was a success. 

We’re done. I talked to my surgeon and let her know I wouldn’t be doing the ALND. She agreed with my decision. No further trips to the operating room until late 2019 when I get my implant.

Physically? It’s time to put humpty-dumpty back together again. I watch my body hair return with fascination. I spot every new lash and brow that slowly spouts. I pull out my razor and tweezers. I stroke the tufts of hair sticking up in the air from spots that were bald last month. My skin looks healthy as I pile on more moisturizers. I think of haircut ideas. I don’t hate how I look in the mirror anymore. I’m committed to losing the last of the chemo weight in the next 30 days.

Mentally? I’ve landed in a good place. Things I might have struggled with in the past are inconsequential now. I just killed cancer, ya see? I slowly and deliberately killed everything about myself because it was my only option. You thought I was a force before? Watch me now. I can, I will… and I HAVE conquered everything life could throw at me. Unfuckwithable.

Chapter 4 doesn’t scare me. I go in on Monday to get tatted up for my radiation. I’ll do 5-6 weeks in that machine. Then I’ll face chapter 5. However, once again, I am taking a travel break. Two weeks in Portugal. They say it’s one step at a time, but I like to do the hokey pokey and turn myself around. I’ve had enough of the pause button.