I’ve always viewed my hair as a toy. It’s been pixie short to waist length and everything in between. It’s been blonde, pink, an almost black brown, and now silver. I’ve had combinations of green, blue, turquoise, purple, and pink highlights. For me, hair has always been a symbol of play, creativity, and celebration.
Now, it’s something more. It’s a symbol of motivation, of transformation. Today, I whacked it all off—a declaration of freedom, independence, and a commitment to move forward in power and positivity.
Let me explain. The past three years brought physical challenge after physical challenge that led me to live reactively, often in fear, rather than proactively, and positively as I typically do. Surgeries for a partially detached retina and an injured knee, pneumonia, vertigo, and breast cancer each forced me to slow down, to recover, and to face fear in ways I never had before. They left marks not only on my body, but on my spirit. I’ve been sad, fearful, and negative more often than for any extended period in my life. I’ve felt stuck! Worst of all, I’ve been mean to myself in the things I’ve thought and the judgments I’ve made about myself. I would never allow anyone to say the things I’ve said to myself.
Without making a conscious decision, I stepped off the reactivity path onto a path of choice and action a couple months ago when I started working out in the pool every day. So today, I did a thing. A powerful, meaningful, positive thing. I got my long gorgeous hair whacked off into a short, sassy style that I completely love. I collected my hair so that I can donate it to Wigs for Kids.
My hair has always mirrored my spirit. But when life pushed me into survival mode, my spirit dimmed. Today, cutting my hair wasn’t just a style choice—it was a line in the sand, a symbolic, liberating choice. Bonus: It’s also easier to take care of this way.
I know life will keep bringing me challenges. But today, I choose to meet them not with scarcity and fear, but with short, sassy hair—and a commitment to abundance and joy.
Sometimes perfect days happen with a lot of fanfare – celebration, music, good food, maybe some dancing, people coming together to honor a special occasion. A marriage. A graduation. A new job. A new baby. Celebrations that recognize major life events.
Sometimes perfect days are so quiet and calm and beautiful that you can miss them if you aren’t paying attention. Sometimes they’re about what you’ve done or will do. Sometimes they’re about just being in the precious moments.
I just had a perfect day. There wasn’t a lot that was extraordinary about it. It was just time spent getting little things done and also just being.
I woke feeling strong and grounded. I was going to start my walking plan so I went out for a relaxed, leisurely walk. I didn’t have any distance or time plans. I just wanted to walk as far as I was comfortable and then come home when I was ready. I walked .97 miles. I know for someone who used to do 6 miles a day that’s not a lot, but I felt powerful. I haven’t walked much by myself at this point. The distortion in my vision caused by the winkle in my left retina and everything I’ve gone through with the breast cancer, diagnosis, surgeries, and recovery have kind of put me off my balance game again. But this morning, I had it. I felt so free and it was so lovely outside.
I exited the condo to birdsong. I felt like I was being greeted and welcomed back into the world. Hummingbirds, mourning doves, and pigeons were the most vocal. But there were also robins, thrushes, and blackbirds raising their voices on this glorious morning. A neighbor was drying laundry and I could smell the warm, slightly scented air of fabric softener. I’ve always loved that smell. Snapdragons, pansies, and roses delighted my eyes, as did the xeroscape landscape with cacti and rock gardens throughout the complex. I was fully present in the moment and I loved it.
When I came in from my walk, I made my breakfast shake and sat down to wait for sales people to come and talk with me about flooring for our condo. We’ve been trying to get new floors in our condominium since before we moved in. It’s been a challenge because of HOA regulations. We’ve researched multiple places and just couldn’t find products that met sound requirements. Without much hope, I contacted a place that was having a great promotion, explained my needs, and requested that they only send samples that met the HOA requirements. And they did! I had 11 samples to choose from, all of which met the requirements. That was a delightful win!
Then Andrew and I went out to one of our favorite hangouts for lunch, talked, laughed, and played games together on his phone. It was lovely, a playful, happy time together.
Then we decided to get psychic readings done. I got them for Andrew for his birthday. It was fun. I liked how the reader saw Andrew‘s and my connection, our individual strengths, and the power of our relationship. While I was getting my reading, Andrew went to a popcorn store nearby and surprised me with my favorite popcorn – part caramel corn, part cheddar cheese. I learned about this combination years ago while in the Chicago airport heading to an academic conference. A friend recommended it to me. Yum! Then Andrew took me for a custard at an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It felt like the sweetest mini date!
We do wonderful, joyful things together all the time. But sometimes it’s really cool just to make it a date and to say that’s what it is and just do little things where we’re 100% focused on one another and ourselves. It was really special!
After we got home, we snuggled and watched silly TV for a while. It was such a delightful way to end the day. I love how easy and open and connected we are. Andrew works at 4 AM, so he goes to bed early. I never want special days to end, so I stay up late. I found myself not wanting the day to end, so I got up to game with Stef. My son is my late night WOW partner.
What a wonderful day of little moments and just being together, of being fully present. Sometimes perfect days aren’t made up of fanfare and celebration. They’re made up of simple, quiet moments of connection and love.
The last 2 days have felt magical. I have felt 100% like myself. I have felt present in my body, comfortable in my emotions, full of energy and love. I have felt like me. That is a big statement as I haven’t felt like me since I was diagnosed with breast cancer had a double mastectomy in May and went on cancer treatment meds in June.
I wrote about some of this before, but to manage the side effects from my breast cancer treatment, the first medical oncologist I saw last June, put me on anastrozole to suppress my hormone production and 75 mg of venlafaxine a day to manage hot flashes and other side effects of the anastrozole.
I should’ve asked more questions. I should’ve been more vigilant. I was a great advocate for myself in terms of not wanting some of the side effects that the anastrozole was likely to create. However, I was not vigilant enough about the remedy that he chose. 75 mg of venlafaxine, an antidepressant, changed my brain chemistry. In the words of my second medical oncologist, I might have thought I was treating hot flashes but my brain thought something else.
With her agreement, I decided to go off my cancer medications a month prior to our honeymoon cruise to the West Indies over Christmas and New Year’s. I wanted to see what it felt like to feel “normal”.
I know it’s dangerous to go off antidepressants cold turkey but I didn’t realize I was on one. What followed was a 12-day ugly-crying spree. I don’t think I’ve ever cried that much in my entire life, over anything. Those of you who know me well know both that I have gone through some pretty cry worthy experiences in my life (haven’t we all), and that I cry easily and with no shame. In the words of Jude Law’s character in Holiday, “I’m a major weeper”. I cry at poignant movies. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. You get it. I cry. But this was different. I felt so low emotionally and I cried uncontrollably, almost constantly. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I had an appointment with my medical oncologist and she informed me of my error, that I could not go off venlafaxine cold turkey. So I went back on it. Not what I wanted to do, but I also didn’t want to spend our honeymoon cruise crying.
On January 8, after returning from our cruise, my doctor and I came up with a plan to safely wean me off the venlafaxine. She shifted my dosage from 75 mg a day to 37.5. She wanted me to take this dosage daily for 21 days, then reduce it further to every other day. I completely weaned myself off the medication five days ago. The first couple days I had moments where I felt hyper emotional, but they were short-lived. I felt optimistic. I felt that I could do this.
And yesterday was the gift I had been waiting for. I woke refreshed, ready to start the day, and happy. No distress. This is how I typically wake up, at least I did until last April.
I don’t know what decision my medical oncologist and I will make when I see her this week about resuming my cancer medication. That will be largely determined by my tumor markers and my decisions about quality of life and the risk of cancer recurrence. Initially, my odds were very low. I hope that is still the case. I do know that feeling like myself is a godsend.
On our cruise
I want to be clear, this is not a tale of advocacy. I would never tell anyone what to do on their cancer journey. Everyone’s cancer journey is unique. Everyone’s experience with medication as unique.
This is a cautionary tale, a tale about asking the right questions at the right times and not making assumptions. Today, March 3, I feel normal. It took just shy of two months. I embrace this gift today. Today, I’m not worrying about the future. I’m just reveling in feeling like me.
Wow! Yesterday was a day! I’ve always thought of myself as a healthcare advocate—someone who asks the tough questions, navigates complex systems, and helps others feel empowered to make their own health decisions. Yesterday, I realized just how different it can be when you’re advocating for yourself.
What I learned is that having a healthcare advocate isn’t just important—it’s critical! You need someone in your corner who can look at a situation from multiple perspectives, who checks, double-checks, and follows up on every question, making sure everything is clear. I hope in sharing this experience I will help others avoid this pitfall.
Here’s what happened: In June, my medical oncologist in California put me on two medications—Anastrozole to suppress estrogen and progesterone and reduce the chances of the breast cancer coming back, and Venlafaxine, to help manage the hot flashes and other menopause-like symptoms caused by the hormone suppression. Venlafaxine is typically used as an antidepressant, but for me, it was all about managing side effects.
Normally, I’m incredibly thorough when it comes to my healthcare. I research every option, weigh the side effects, and think carefully about alternatives. But this breast cancer journey has been different. I’ve been trying to keep up with it all while leaning on my amazing husband Andrew, my fantastic medical and surgical teams, and the open, collaborative conversations we’ve had. Even so, I learned yesterday that I don’t always ask the right questions—and it’s made these last two weeks feel way longer than they should have.
I didn’t love the side effects of these medications, so I talked to my Las Vegas medical oncologist about going off them for about a month. With our honeymoon/Christmas/New Year cruise coming up, I wanted to feel like myself again, free from side effects. She agreed, saying I should know what “normal” feels like and we’d reassess after the cruise. At least, that’s what Andrew and I thought she said.
Turns out, we weren’t quite on the same page. She saw Anastrozole as my cancer treatment and Venlafaxine as an antidepressant. I saw them both as part of my cancer treatment—Anastrozole to treat, Venlafaxine to manage side effects. So when she said to stop “the meds,” I assumed she meant both. She didn’t.
Two weeks ago, I went cold turkey off both medications, thinking it was the logical thing to do. If I didn’t need the Anastrozole, I wouldn’t need Venlafaxine, right? Wrong. What I didn’t realize was that stopping Venlafaxine suddenly would lead to intense withdrawal symptoms—way worse than the side effects I’d been trying to avoid. The past couple of weeks have been awful. I couldn’t sleep (or if I did, I had vivid nightmares), I was constantly bouncing between feeling too hot and too cold, had headaches, nausea, dizziness—you name it.
I’ve supported friends and family through antidepressant withdrawal, so I know how important it is to taper off these medications. But I wasn’t thinking of Venlafaxine as an antidepressant; I thought of it as a tool to handle side effects from my cancer treatment. It didn’t even cross my mind to ask about withdrawal effects, and my doctor didn’t bring it up either. She just told me I’d feel better and to enjoy the cruise.
Fortunately, I had an appointment with her yesterday and I realized my mistake. As soon as I got home, I started taking Venlafaxine again because I don’t have time to taper off safely before the cruise. I’m already feeling so much better and should be back to normal in a couple of days.
This has been a tough lesson, but I’m taking it forward with two new questions to ask: “How long do I need to take this?” and “What happens when I stop?” I’m hoping these questions will save me and others from this kind of experience in the future. For now, I’m focusing on feeling good and making sure our cruise is everything Andrew and I want it to be—magical!
When I started my breast cancer journey, I promised to be open and transparent about all of my experiences. The last few months I have been uncharacteristically quiet. The reason is that this is a truly difficult experience.
But let me set the context first, I literally could not have had better outcomes. After my double mastectomy, test results indicated that they got all the cancers with clean margins and no lymph node involvement. My oncotype score, which indicates the likelihood of cancer recurrence, is very low. I didn’t need chemo or radiation and I only have to take aromatase inhibitors for five years. If I don’t take them, there’s a 5% chance that the cancer may come back in the next nine years. If I take them for the full five years, there’s a 3% chance. I could not ask for better odds.
That said, this is a slog. I am very aware that other people’s experiences and outcomes are harder and more difficult than my own. I feel for them, and I wish them success in their journeys.
I’ve come to realize that no matter whether you are on the worst end of the spectrum or the best end of the spectrum, this journey should not be about comparison and it’s difficult regardless. The fight for life from cancer is always a big deal. It’s clearly a big deal at the worst of times. In my case, it’s also a big deal at the best of times. After my first surgery, I had a lot of pain and recovery was difficult and complicated. I was in the hospital for three days for what was supposed to be an overnight visit because they could not get my pain under control. This was largely a matter of nursing staff not being concerned about being timely in the administration of pain meds. Unfortunately, when you break the cycle of pain medication, you have to start over. My worst pain was searing pain across my back from my right side around to the center of my chest on the left. I wrote about this pain in an earlier post. I defined this pain as a red fire dragon. It stayed with me for months. In addition to that, my whole body ached. Everything hurt.
Over the next 6 weeks, I slept a lot both to manage pain and to deal with the reality of what I had gone through, what felt like a betrayal by parts of my body I had valued. I also wrote about this in an earlier post about saying goodbye to my breasts.
I couldn’t lift my arms for weeks. I also wasn’t allowed to shower for a month. That meant that my husband had to wash me, dress me, brush my hair, brush my teeth, anything that needed to be done with my body, I needed his assistance. The only way I could leave the hotel was in a wheelchair and the only walking I was permitted to do was from my bed to the door of the room and to the bathroom. And I wasn’t allowed to do laps. 😊 My doctor figured me out pretty quickly. He knew that I would push to recover as quickly as I could. As it turned out, there was no quickly. I couldn’t push. I had to give my body the time it needed to recover and heal.
I’m lucky. My husband is so loving, compassionate, and caring, he could not have made me make feel more comfortable and loved throughout this adventure.
Following my reconstruction surgery, the pain has been less, but the side effects from the aromatase inhibitors, the meds I have to take for five years, are intense.
I’m tired all the time. I have a pretty constant headache. My body is fatigued. I’m nauseous a lot. I have joint and muscle pain. And while I am in less pain, it’s somewhat more frustrating because I feel that I should be able to do more. My biggest lesson on this journey has been patience. I need to give myself grace as I go through this process.
No. I’m not my usual self. I’m more focused inward than usual, but that’s necessary. I reach out when I can, but that’s much less than usual and that’s one of the most difficult things for me to accept. I know that I will be myself again. It hasn’t even been six weeks since my second surgery and I’m still healing and on modified house arrest. I am allowed to go out and walk a bit, but I’m still wrapped and wearing binders, until next Tuesday.
I’m an optimist. Yesterday my husband took me to my favorite Rose Park. I walked a bit, but mostly, I just sat and breathed in the sunshine and the beautiful Vegas, autumn weather with my favorite seasonal Starbucks beverage. As usual, I came home and took a nap. I will get through this.
To anyone else who is on this journey, the most important thing I have learned is that there is no roadmap for cancer recovery. I have looked for one almost nonstop. I find myself wondering if what I’m going through is “normal”. There is no normal. Listen to your body. Stay patient. Give yourself grace. Notice the beauty around you. Breathe.
Playing with the portrait function on my new phone
I know I’ve been a lot quieter since we got home to our condo on July 1. To be honest, I’m having a little difficulty integrating this cancer diagnosis and treatment into my day-to-day life at home. I also think that some of the medication that I’m taking is making me really tired all the time. I run out of steam pretty quickly every day. Sometimes I wake up completely exhausted. I’m hoping that I’ll get my stamina back as time goes on.
To make things worse, it’s over 100° every day here. My happy place is outside walking. I can’t do that when it’s over 100°. I’m hypersensitive to heat right now, so I have to stay away from it as much as possible. Sunrises, sunsets, bodies of water, flowers, the twitter of hummingbirds, the laughter of children playing, all make me recognize the beauty around me and feed my soul. It’s rough not to be able to get outside and experience and explore. 
That said, this morning it was only 92° at 9 o’clock in the morning, so my husband and I (still getting used to saying that 🩷🩷🩷) got up and spent an hour walking in our favorite park. It was still too hot, but it was glorious to be outside!
I also modified how much HHC I took to sleep last night and I woke up feeling much less drowsy and much more like myself. Even if my energy is low, if I feel like myself, it’s a better day. Simple pleasures.
I’ll write more later about some of the things that have been difficult, but for now, I just wanted to explain that for a while I still may be a little less engaged than usual. A diagnosis of cancer and the journey afterward is absolutely not for the weak at heart. This stuff is hard! And I will persevere!
As always, I appreciate your love and care. Thank you! And enjoy these lovely #flowersoftheday
Today it’s two months and one week since my double mastectomy surgery. I’ve learned so much about so many things during this time. Words like oncotype and aromatase inhibitors, breast expanders, fat grafting.
I recognize how fortunate I am to have the diagnosis I have, to have the quality of care I have received from my medical team, to have an incredible support team of family and friends. I realize how lucky I am to have good insurance.
I am lucky. I also recognize that this is ridiculously hard. It all happened so fast. I didn’t really have an opportunity to think and plan or prepare. My opportunity was simply to relax into the realities, to trust my healthcare team, and to walk the path I had chosen through this breast cancer journey. I have done those things with confidence and certainty. 
At various points I have thought that the journey was over. When my cancer surgeon said “You are cancer free.” for example. When I got the drains out of my chest, when the plan for injections into my expanders was finalized. One of the most important days was when I got my oncotype results back and discovered that I wouldn’t need radiation or chemotherapy and that the odds of cancer recurrence was 6% in nine years if I don’t take aromatic inhibitors, 3% if I do. I saw what I thought were endings. They were not.
I’m still in pain a lot. I’m still really tired. Some nights I get reasonably good sleep thanks to the HHC supplements I take. Some nights I get almost no sleep because of muscle and joint aches which are side effects of the medication I’m on, the aromatase inhibitor (which I will take daily for the next 5 years) and the medication to reduce hot flashes.
As my injured nerves heal, the searing pain across my back has moderated into a deeper ache, which is much more manageable. My fire dragon sleeps more often than not now.
Before we returned home after the month and a half we spent in California, I had hoped to have a timeline and a plan for what comes next. I didn’t want to bring this experience home without clear next steps.
Unfortunately, my expanders are not yet dropping into my chest the way my plastic surgeon wants them to. That means we’re in a holding pattern at least for a few months until they do. Then reconstruction can begin. He assumes that will require several more surgeries as he will have to not only replace the expanders with silicone implants, but also do significant fat grafting in several areas.
My experience of the expanders under the muscles of my chest continue to range from slightly irritating to moderately achy to sharp and stabbing, depending on the moment. The last three days they have strongly committed to stabbing pain every time I move my left arm. I know this is a good sign. It means my expander is finally starting to move into the position we hope for. It is also painful and limits my movement and capacity. And I know that my right breast cannot be far behind because it has to shift down as well. I’m really not hypersensitive to pain, but this process has been consistently painful. Pain is tiring.
While all of these things are true, and sometimes they overwhelm my perception, it is also true that I am living my life. The picture in this post is of my husband and me celebrating our one month wedding anniversary. Several nights ago we took my daughter and her partner to dinner to celebrate their birthdays. We had a fabulous time! Good food, laughter, and delightful conversation. We cruise Costco or the mall. We watch movies. I drove twice this week. I love my life.
I know that I am fortunate. I know this is all a process and I just need to stay patient and engage in self care. I know a year from now all the parts that can will be behind me. I know that in this moment it’s still a lot some days.
I sit outside at a table with an umbrella on this cool, lovely, sunny morning. i’m wearing long yoga pants and an Oceanside sweatshirt that my daughter got me. Around my neck is a hummingbird necklace gifted to me by my son as I started this adventure. A breeze gently blows through my hair and caresses my skin. It’s good to be alive.
I’ve always believed that every day was a gift and on this journey, I am more convinced than ever that this is true. It’s also true that some moments are incredibly rough.
With all the accidents and injuries I’ve had in my life I thought I had a pretty good pain tolerance. That said, I was not ready for the pain involved in a breast cancer diagnosis, a double mastectomy, starting reconstruction, and just managing healing. There’s pain on so many levels, physical, emotional, spiritual (so many different types of physical pain). My identity feels squishy and somewhat nebulous, but I recognize that’s due to the moment I’m navigating. I am who I am. That will not change. I am strong. I am optimistic. I am independent. I am a warrior. To paraphrase the immortal words of Commander Taggart in Galaxy Quest, “(I) never give up and (I) never surrender.”
Some things happened this week that were frustrating and disappointing. My plastic surgeon decided that my expanders were still sitting too high in my chest, so he didn’t want to do my last full expansion this week. He only did half. And rather than planning for my reconstruction for two months from now, he wants to wait. Apparently if my expanders relax on their own, it’s a much simpler surgery. If they don’t, he has to deal with readjusting scar tissue, and the outcome, I guess, will be less positive. So I’m digging down and finding my patience to wait, to realize that I am just at the beginning stages of this whole process.
I have the most incredible support system. I am so blessed with family and friends who love me, who reach out to me, who provide expertise and information, who provide shoulders when I’m sad or overwhelmed. On this journey, whenever I have needed something the person who had the ability to provide, it has appeared. Breezy, one of my new daughters (by marriage) gifted me with a wonderful cushion vest that I can wear in the car to protect my chest from the seatbelt. Fortunately, for me now, she works at a bra spa and is helping me navigate the kind of support I need now that I don’t have to just use ace wraps any more. That whole concept has been overwhelming to me and having someone in my corner who is an expert is such a gift.
I’m just sitting here, pondering the idea that we can be underwhelmed and overwhelmed, but we can’t just be whelmed. I think I’d like to be whelmed for a while.
So on this beautiful Friday morning, I sit out by this lovely pool surrounded by palm trees and flowers, and I breathe, content in the knowledge that I am, content in the knowledge that I will be, content in the knowledge that I have all the resources I need to get through this. Thanks for listening!
I just talked with my best friend Mary this morning. It was extremely therapeutic. Like many people, she’s curious about what’s going on with me, so I don’t burden her when I tell her. Unfortunately, that’s still a hurdle I have to get over in my mind before I call her. I wonder why that is. I wonder why my being there for other people is never an inconvenience, but I’m always convinced that my needing someone to be there for me will be. I don’t want to make people feel bad. I don’t want to dampen the joy of their day. I don’t want to be a burden.
This morning I was feeling, overwhelmed, frustrated, and a bit defeated. Apparently being off house arrest and able to walk around more freely doesn’t mean I’m ready for a marathon. It doesn’t mean I’ll have energy or the stamina to do what I want to do. It means I can slowly and gently start the process of regaining capacity.
Talking to my friend allowed me to release my emotions, ground in where I actually am, and find a level set for my day.
I know one issue for me is that all my news in this process has been extraordinarily good. Everything I’m going through could be so much worse. While all of that is true, this is still incredibly difficult, much more painful than I expected, and basically it sucks.
That doesn’t mean that what other people are going through doesn’t suck worse. It means that it shouldn’t be a comparison. I shouldn’t feel bad about feeling bad. What I’m going through is valid and legitimate. In my mind, that’s hard to accept sometimes.
Breakfast in the atriumSitting by the pool#flowersoftheday
A diagnosis of breast cancer is scary! I wrote the message below over a week ago, but thought the points of collaboration, responsive healthcare, openness about my concerns, in short, claiming my voice were important and might help others. So I decided to share it now.
Providence St Jude rock garden
Today has been an interesting day. When we took a shower this morning my waterproofing around my right drain lifted and the padding underneath got wet, necessitating a call to my plastic surgeon. He thought Andrew and I could safely change it. Before we got the chance, my left drain inflated indicating an air leak. With 2 issues I felt we needed the doctor.
He met us at his office on a Saturday afternoon. He removed the packing and waterproofing on my right side, cleaned the area, then moved to the left side.
It took a while, but Andrew figured out that the effort to seal the slice in the tube leading to my drain (it was accidentally clipped as they were changing my dressings 2 days earlier) wasn’t working. The 3 of us then collaborated on a strategy to find and seal any leaks that included replacing the bulb and the stem on that side. This still didn’t do it, so Andrew posited that we needed to close the slice in the tube and tape it closed. I appreciated how collaborative my surgeon was in sorting everything out. In my experience, many physicians aren’t collaborative or creative problem solvers. Dr Lin is a wonderful exception. Once the leak was patched, Dr Lin instructed Andrew on how to manage both issues should they arise again and loaded us up with supplies just in case. Our goal was to keep the left drain working for another 1-2 weeks until it could safely be removed. The only alternative was to do a second surgery and replace the drain, an option we all hoped to avoid.
Then Dr Lin injected 120ccs of saline solution into each expander, bringing my total to 180ccs. The ultimate goal is 550-600ccs. (Since then I’ve reached 460 ccs.) Dr Lin thought this would both get us back on track and help reduce my fluid output. Our bodies create fluid to fill spaces and with more space taken up by the expanders, my body doesn’t have as much space to fill. This will hopefully facilitate drain removal.
I also talked with Dr Lin about his PA whom I really like, but who has also made a couple concerning mistakes, including clipping my drain tube. He set my mind at ease, and affirmed my perceptions. I then asked that he encourage trainees/interns to introduce themselves to patients when they enter rooms as a gesture of acknowledgement and respect. He thanked me for my feedback.
Here’s the interesting thing. I feel more grounded, more peaceful, and more myself today than I have to this point. I also feel more optimistic. It’s an awesome feeling.
I have an amazing medical team, an amazing support team, and I have this cancer situation. I know I will likely float in and out of this feeling of assurance and confidence, but I’m grateful for this feeling today.
A cancer diagnosis is an emotional roller coaster, as is treatment and follow up. But like any healthcare situation, openness, responsive, collaborative healthcare providers, asking questions, and claiming your voice are critically important to the success of treatment. I have more decisions coming up, so will have more to say on this topic. In the meantime, wishing you health and happiness.
Deborah's Deliberations 