Finding Flow and Grace During Chemo

If adaptation and patience are the nature of this game, then flow and grace are its cornerstones. 

I am six chemotherapy treatments in for Stage 2-B invasive ductal carcinoma, and cases of COVID-19 are surging in the United States, including my home state of California. The world is turbulent on many levels. There’s been a lot of adaptation and patience since I was diagnosed with breast cancer on February 3, 2020, at the start of the pandemic. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, everything from a cold, to low white-blood cell (WBC) counts have caused delays in my chemotherapy. Once again, I had low counts in early June, and my fifth infusion was delayed a week until my WBC came back up.

I enjoyed the extra week off, visiting the tidepools in Santa Cruz, California, during minus-tides, which is absolutely breathtaking. I love spending hours exploring the biota and geology of beaches, especially on California’s tectonically dynamic coast. I’m a Natural History fiend. I find a lot of flow and grace living where I do, and am exceptionally grateful to live here!

On Friday, June 19, I had my first Taxol (Paclitaxel) infusion. It comes with a higher risk of allergic reaction, so the doctors prime you with 4mg Dexamethasone pills (brand name Decadron) – five the night before, and five the morning of; they also prescribe Pepcid AC, and Zyrtec the morning of. Due to the July 4 weekend in a couple of weeks, they delayed my next scheduled infusion #6 to Monday, July 6, instead of Friday, July 4. 

During my infusion (Day 1), they closely monitored my blood pressure, heart rate, and checked in on me regularly for signs of allergy, but fortunately I didn’t react. The one thing I wasn’t prepared for was ice-packs for my hands and feet to help reduce the odds of chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy. I’d heard this was a possible side-effect of Taxol, but when my nurse told me it could become permanent, my nerves flared. I didn’t have any ice for that first Taxol infusion, which was a marathon infusion – 6 hours from check-in to check-out! Two full hours of cold-cap (30 minutes before infusion, and 1.5 hours afterward), plus three hours for the infusion itself…it was a very long day in the chair. I brought my awesome Geology book, though, and read it like crazy, which was an effective distraction; a way to flow through the appointment. I imagined myself in the mountains I was reading about; exploring the striations of folded rocks melded together by forces so colossal beneath our feet. Learning is one of the best tools for distraction and finding flow. It really helps to lose myself in a good book – especially one about my favorite subject, Science. The more time I invest in learning about the world around me, the smaller my problems seem. There is grace in perspective. There is always something more to learn, coupled with an incessant need to know more. Flow is procured by the pursuit of knowledge. 

I felt fine the next day (Day 2), and perhaps was energized from the steroid pills I’d taken the day before. I didn’t need to take the anti-nausea medicines, Zofran and Zyprexa, that I’d taken with the previous chemo cycles, as Taxol wasn’t known to cause bad nausea. I felt better knowing I didn’t need to take any pills aside from the ones I took before the infusion. The Zyprexa had even made me gain a few pounds, not that it really mattered. 

Later that day, I went for a long bike ride, which has been my saving grace throughout this journey. It was the Summer Solstice, and a beautiful day. The escape, fun, and confidence I get from being on my bike is impossible to articulate. It’s all about flowing with grace. I feel like a rockstar when I’m on my bike! 

It was also the ten-year anniversary of us adopting our beloved cat Beau, rescued from the streets of Santa Cruz by Ron. We spoiled Beau with treats and pets throughout the day, reminiscing through old photos of him as a Spring kitten. 


When I awoke on Day 3, I was sore beyond belief; not just typical post-ride sore, but creaking in my bones, slowly moving up and down the stairs like an old-lady kind of sore. I’d heard that musculoskeletal pain was common with Taxol, called arthralgias (joint pain) and myalgias (muscle aches), especially on Days 3-5, and here the pain had arrived, right on schedule. I felt like I’d run a marathon the day before (something I’ve never done before; 14 miles is my longest run yet). My knees felt like they had no cartilage; my ankles weak. My hips were as tight as a guitar string. It was pretty excruciating, but I knew sitting around the house wasn’t going to help, so I forced myself out for a short hike.

My legs felt heavy, and everything from my hips down to my feet ached like crazy, but it did feel better than sitting. Keep on moving! I may not be able to mountain bike everyday through chemo, but hiking, yoga, and merely puttering around the house and garden all help. That night, however, I was super uncomfortable just trying to get to sleep; I put a pillow between my knees because I couldn’t stand the pressure of my kneecaps touching. I cried a little bit from the pain, but managed to fall asleep. 

Sunday, June 21 was Ron and mine’s fourteen-year anniversary. Of all anniversaries, this one came with the least fanfare, understandably. I felt bad we couldn’t celebrate properly, but knew we’d make up for lost time eventually. 

Monday, Day 4, was the worst. It hurt to walk up and down the stairs of the house; my knees felt shaky and weak. Determined to keep on moving, I forced myself out for a hike at Big Basin Redwoods, roughly seven miles round trip up to Buzzard’s Crest. Again, it felt better to move than to sit still. It was my first time up here, and the views were incredible – Pacific Ocean to the West, Loma Prieta mountain to the East. This sandstone outcropping is evidence of the San Andreas Fault system which makes the mountains we mountain bikers so cherish here in Santa Cruz. I was pretty much limping by the time I went to bed that night, but I knew it was better than if I’d just sat around at home all day. I didn’t take any pain medication because I don’t like taking pills if I don’t have to, and I wanted to see just how bad the pain would be; I needed to know what I was up against. I like persevering through pain. 


Another weird side-effect of chemo? You’re toxic for a few days after each infusion. That means closing the lid and flushing twice after using the toilet; using separate eating utensils, cups, and plates, all which must be washed carefully; not sharing any food or drink; and washing my sheets and clothing on the sanitary cycle. On top of the fatigue, dry skin, sensitivity to sunlight, and hair loss, you’re temporarily poisonous. 

Tuesday, Day 5, was a much better day. I was sore, but not in pain. Ron and I had an amazing day – our first date out together in months! We went to the Verve Coffee in Santa Cruz and got mochas to go; they had a strict No Cash policy, like many other stores these days. We went to Schwann Lake and checked out the beautiful families of nesting cormorants in the Eucalyptus trees, which was mesmerizing, before heading across the street to Twin Lakes Beach for a stroll, and a body-surf in the ocean for Ron.

Afterward, we went to the Crow’s Nest Beach Market and got take-out dinner, which we ate outside on a dock at the Santa Cruz Harbor. It felt amazing to be out with my husband, doing something normal. It also felt great to see other people out and about after months of shelter-in-place. And, my bone pain was fading. 

I woke up on Wednesday, Day 6, and felt totally fine. I’d made it through the hard part! I had a stellar bike ride to boot.

My Baby

Thursday, Day 7, June 25, I woke up early to go up coast for a minus-tide exploration at one of my favorite beaches. It is night and day how different the landscape looks between low and high tide! I slowly strolled the beach, always avoiding stepping on living things. That’s most important when exploring tidepools: never step on anything living! It’s not worth seeing a creature if you have to step on even one barnacle to get there. Biota is lava! Don’t step on it. Tidepools can be severely impacted by hoards of people carelessly trampling them, so it’s imperative to Leave No Trace when exploring them. I spent five hours from the morning until afternoon, happy as a clam, in my element. These are some of the moments I live for.

Ling Cod Washed Up


Coastal California
Minus Tide

That night, I had my first social event in months – since my last day at work on February 13, to be precise. Our awesome school principal, Mary, was resigning after nearly twenty years, taking a promotion over the Hill. We wanted to celebrate her years of dedication despite the pandemic, so a few wonderful teachers organized an outdoor gathering at a teacher’s home in Santa Cruz with a huge backyard. I was so excited driving over there; it didn’t occur to me how much I missed socializing until I was on my way! People! I would get to see people in a group, who I knew well and whose company I enjoyed. Friends! Camaraderie! Oh, Joy!

That evening was so uplifting. There were about twenty of us there, and we maintained social distancing quite well in the backyard. It was so good to catch up with each other, especially since I hadn’t seen any of them in over four months since I went on my leave-of-absence. I was giddy. I went home that evening feeling as though I’d been wrapped in a warm, cozy blanket. I’ve known many of my colleagues for thirteen years, so it definitely feels like family!

Friday, June 26 was equally fantastic. My spectacular father, Laird, came to visit me. We went out to lunch for our first time in months at one of my favorite restaurants in the San Lorenzo Valley – Casa Nostra. They have a huge outdoor patio for seating, where we enjoyed a leisurely lunch with perfect weather. I really cherish these dates with family, especially my dad. He was the first man to take me out to a really nice dinner back when I was a teenager, after all. We went back to my house afterward and relaxed outside in my garden, just talking for hours. It was one of those special days that simply evolves ever so beautifully. I felt so much love around me – from seeing my colleagues the day before, to this splendid day with my father. 

That weekend, I got out on my bike to Demo, one of my favorite places to go for a long ride; I rode Flow Trail, the perfect name for what I need right now in my life. 

I also went to the grocery store, which probably needs no further explanation; needless to say, it reminded me of the stressful times we are living in. I felt like I needed to get away from it all, to change my scenery and get out of town. Ron and I hadn’t been able to go anywhere out of the county for over four months (except doctor’s appointments in San Jose, and I made a trip in June to see my folks up in the Bay Area for the day), and I was really feeling like I needed a break. I have a positive attitude most of the time, but I’m human, too; this is a hard time I’m going through. Furthermore, we hadn’t enjoyed a hot tub in over four months, since February 25, the night before my mastectomy. We both love hot tubs, and usually take them often, but haven’t been able to go to our usual spot with SIP restrictions. 

We resolved that it was time to get out of town for the night – somewhere not too far away, but far enough to change perspective, and certainly get a hot tub in. We also were due to celebrate our anniversary from the week before. 

Monterey fit the bill perfectly. About an hour’s drive South of us, we set out on Monday, June 29 for what would be an idyllic two days spent amid ubiquitous beauty. It was sunny, fog-free, and glorious. We explored many different beaches, driving as far into Big Sur. We got scrumptious takeout from Rosine’s in downtown Monterey before returning to our hotel, which had its own hot-tub. It was absolute heaven – worth the escape in its own rite. It felt so amazing to finally take a hot tub!


Big Sur

The next day, we rented kayaks in the morning and paddled out of Breakwater Cove around Fisherman’s Wharf and the Monterey Bay Aquarium, making a beach-landing on a secluded cove for a snack. It was just perfect! Rafts of sea-otters rolled in kelp beds nearby; salps floated near the surface like aliens encased in pods. Fish schooled near the surface, as seabirds dive-bombed them for lunch. Monterey Bay is a remarkable habitat, deserving of its status as a National Marine Sanctuary. It was the best two days we’d spent since February 3, and helped add some flow and grace back into our lives. We wore masks when we went out, and barely interacted with anyone.


Later that week, I headed up to my mom and stepdad’s house in Walnut Creek for the day to see my sister and her awesome three kids from Carlsbad, and my dad; it was the first time we’d all been together in months! We spent the day outside exploring Las Trampas Creek behind their house, and really enjoyed seeing each other.

For Independence Day weekend, Ron and I spent both days playing in the waves at the beach in Santa Cruz. We felt like kids together, reminiscent of when we first got together, when I was just 25 and he 36. We also had our first real dinner-date in months at one of our favorite restaurants, Chocolate, eating at one of their sidewalk tables outside on Pacific Avenue. It was an ideal weekend; one of those perfect Santa Cruz Summer days. 


It capped off over a week of a somewhat return to normalcy; to socially-distanced socializing, and getting out a bit more. It would also spark a spike in COVID-19 cases, as we weren’t the only ones happy to get out after months of restrictions. 

At the end of the weekend, I got my blood drawn in preparation for chemo, and alas, my bloodcounts were low. My WBC tanked to 2.7 K/uL (2.7 thousands per cubic kiloliter of blood, or 2,700), my lowest number yet; my platelets and neutrophils were low, too. On Monday morning July 6, the day I was scheduled for my sixth infusion, my oncologist informed me she was delaying my infusion by a week, until July 12. 

At that point, I voiced concerns over so many delays: eleven days delayed for my first infusion due to a cold I had, and got a negative test for COVID-19; seven days delay for low bloodcounts; another seven day delay for low counts; and now, she was proposing a nine day delay since I’d already been rescheduled from July 3 to July 6 for the holiday weekend. I understand that delays are part of the process, and data reigns supreme. Patience is the nature of the game, but I was going on a month of combined delays. I’d come across some articles online citing reduction of survival odds when chemotherapy regimes aren’t followed on schedule, when there are too many delays, and despite my oncologist’s attempts to allay my worries, I was pretty bummed by the prospect of another delay. 

My doctor heard me loud and clear, and suggested I take a stronger Zarxio injection for two days to boost my numbers; I’d re-test Tuesday July 7 in the afternoon to see if my numbers were up. Fortunately, they spiked rather freakishly, with my WBC all the way up to 57! I was cleared for chemo on Wednesday July 8, though, and was relieved at not having to wait another week for my sixth infusion.

Chemo #6 went okay; my nurse gave me ice-packs for my hands and feet this time, saying she didn’t want me to develop neuropathy. I assured her I’d bring my own ice-packs for the next two infusions, and thanked her profusely for her thoughtfulness. The day was long again, nearly six hours from start to finish, but I was happy to be progressing along. I even came home to a gorgeous bouquet of flowers from a sweet friend. If all goes to plan, I should have two more infusions of Taxol left. I preface that with an if simply because it’s likely my treatment plan will be adapted again, and there’s really no guarantee that the chemo will work at all. 

You won’t hear me saying, “I beat cancer!” or “I’m kicking cancer’s butt!” because I know the odds aren’t necessarily that great in the long-term. Humility is important here. I’ve read enough research, and personal stories, to know that cancer can come roaring back, and when it does, it’s almost always incurable. I’ve told Ron before that he has to be ready for that news, should it ever come, because it’ll mean I’m looking at an extension of life, not curing my cancer. People can live for years with metastatic breast cancer these days, by far longer than years past, but there is still no cure – yet. If this beast comes back, I realize it’ll be a whole different ball game. While I try to celebrate the positive progress I’m making in my treatments, I know it’s just a shot in the dark for good odds. It’s like an alcoholic or drug-addict; you’re never really cured of your disease, but you learn to live with it and, hopefully, avoid triggers. You must remain vigilant for the rest of your life, and can never let your guard down all the way; which is why adapting, having patience, and gleaning flow and grace are paramount to my happiness right now.


I’ve written about it before, but I feel I’ve been blessed with many graces in my journey so far: the ability to take a leave-of-absence from work so I can truly focus on my treatment; getting my surgery done before such operations were delayed from the pandemic; a loving, rockstar husband who has gone above-and-beyond taking care of me emotionally, spiritually, and physically; a supportive, loving family, and a network of friends who check in on me, send me actual hand-written cards and letters, and even beautiful flowers; a roof over my head and food to eat; living in the Santa Cruz Mountains. And mountain biking! My gosh, it’s been a saving grace, deserving its own category. The more time I spend on my bike, the better I feel; it’s true therapy. Gratitude is key, and the list goes on for things to appreciate. 

I was blessed with an exceptional birding experience recently, right in my own backyard. As I was reading the book What It’s Like to be a Bird by David Allen Sibley, aptly given to me by my father, I was soaking in the pages about hummingbirds, and how their neck feathers are iridescent, flashing brilliant color directly at whomever’s looking at it. As I’m reading these pages, a gorgeous Allen’s Hummingbird buzzed the Salvia blooms right next to my garden chair. I sat motionless, squinting my eyes and closing my mouth to blend in further. The last thing a bird wants to see next to it is a pair of large eyes and a big mouth facing it – clear signs of a predator. Over my years of birding, I’ve gotten pretty good at blending into the background so as not to startle them. I took Ornithology classes in college and got into birding at UC Santa Cruz, my alma mater, but I learned so many interesting facts from this book.

As I sat there watching this beautiful bird gather nectar from flowers, it surprised me by flying right up in my face to check me out. I was wearing a bright, orange ball cap, which probably caught its attention, as its main color is orange. After inspecting me, it flew right next to my left arm resting on the chair. I didn’t move a muscle as it buzzed right by my arm, close enough to feel the wind of its feathers, within maybe half-an-inch of me. This was the closest any bird has ever gotten to me. I cherished the moment before the little hummer took off for the next Salvia plant. It was such a special experience! 

I’ve also been graced with a boon of celestial events: a pink Supermoon back in March; a mind-blowing meteor shower of the Eta Aquarids, with slow-flying meteors gracing the sky every ten seconds or so; and many stargazing night hikes in the Santa Cruz Mountains. We livestreamed the solar eclipse on the Summer Solstice, which wasn’t visible in North America, and watched the recent penumbral lunar eclipse on June 13, albeit barely visible. I love how small I feel when I look into the sky; it is so comforting! 

Now it’s Thursday, July 9, 2020. I’m bracing for the musculoskeletal pain to kick in tomorrow, lasting for a few days, but I’ll see. Hopefully it won’t be too bad, and I won’t develop neuropathy in my hands and feet. I hope I can complete my last two infusions on schedule, finishing early August if all goes to plan. 

The Paxman Coldcap is mostly working, but I’ve lost well over half of my hair by now. My part and crown are thinning dramatically, and I have bald patches above my ears. Adriamycin, the chemotherapy drug I had for my first four cycles along with Cytoxan, almost always makes you lose your hair, so I am grateful for the hair I do have. Taxol is also known to cause hair loss, but the odds of the coldcap working on it are better than Adriamycin. Creative styling helps to cover my part in the meantime. It is too hot, and I’m too athletic to wear a wig, so hopefully I can make it through treatment without having to cut it all off. I’ll just have to wait and see. My eyebrows and eyelashes have also thinned quite a bit.

I’m due to return to work on August 24 for the first day of school, whatever that will look like. We have a few contingency plans in place for a hybrid schedule of part home, part in-person schooling, but it all depends on what the data for COVID-19 shows. We are all living in a world of uncertainty and waiting, a world in which adaptation and patience are the nature of the game, just like breast cancer. Who knows what August will bring? I’m due to start five weeks of radiation therapy after chemotherapy, something I’ll likely be doing after school each day. 

For now, all I can do is focus on all that’s good in life, for there is still far more good than bad. There’s a lot of gratitude, patience, adaptation, flow, and grace to be found. Though it’s somewhat deserving of its Bummer Year status, 2020 ain’t all bad. We’re all just adapting to some kind of new normal


Hoping for the Grace of Good Odds

Risk is as abundant as air in our daily lives: we live under a cloak of uncertainty, with regular threats to our well-being and survival. We are adapted to such a reality, to the point that we don’t even notice these risks. We drive our cars, zipping along at high speed head-on into others doing the same thing; what we have no control over is whether that person is texting, toying with their car’s navigation screen, or fixing their hair in the mirror. We hear stories of gruesome automobile accidents, see the statistics on traffic fatalities year after year, and then we brush them off, continuing to drive, just hoping for good odds. We hope that this one trip won’t be the time we become a statistic. 

Transportation is just the tip of the iceberg. From microscopic viruses like Covid-19, to the pervasive reach of forever chemicals like PFA’s in our raingear, we live in a world full of peril. There are punctuated catastrophes, like hurricanes and earthquakes, that can alter our landscapes, if not end our lives, should we be unlucky enough to lie in their paths. Over the long-term, the bioaccumulation of those chemicals we’ve become so permeated with living in the age of Better living through chemistry combine with the odds of poor genetics, or lifestyle choices, to predispose us to the ticking time-bombs of cancers, illness, and disease. 

Then, there are all of the people we interact with, from those we share the road with, to those we share a place in line with at the grocery store, everyone of whom we have no control over; everyone of whom could potentially cause an accident, or worse, intentionally do something, to hurt or even kill us. And don’t forget the freaky, unpredictable nature of life, where strange things happen all the time; where bad things happen to people without any rhyme or reason, any sense of justice.
Need any more reminders of the risky world we live in? Probably not, as it only makes you think of every other danger I haven’t yet mentioned. 

I don’t live in this state of mind very often, but when I was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year, it brought me back to an old adage that keeps proving itself: Life isn’t fair. I don’t mean this in the entitled, complaining manner someone might bemoan after not getting their way; I mean it in the most serious, life-changing way. It’s been said by millions of people – Life isn’t fair! – usually when we are at the receiving end of some seemingly impossible bad luck, wondering why our good merit hadn’t spared us the pain of tragedy. We compare our hands in life to others, from strangers to our closest family, keeping score of who’s got it worse, who’s got it better, who we think has it so easy. We are naught to compare ourselves to each other, to wonder why a good thing happened to a bad person, or why a bad thing happened to a good person. For life isn’t fair to everyone – we all die someday, and you know the other old saying, everyone’s crap stinks. No one is inherently better than anyone else. 

It’s simply a matter of how unfair life will be to us, and whether it will demand the ultimate price from us: our lives. We live everyday just hoping for the grace of good odds; hoping that today isn’t the day we get the phone call of a cancer diagnosis, or the phone call of a death of a loved one, or the phone call of losing a job we depend upon. 

Pain and suffering imbue a wide spectrum of grief. Another’s hardship may seem worse than ours, and our own challenges can always seem worse than someone else’s. There are unequivocally worse troubles that no one would deny are harder than something less severe; there are shades on the grief scale that, no matter our perspective or life experience, clearly reflect an unsullied color that cannot be muted or distorted. There are stories so harrowing that we cannot deny the breadth of their impact, the scars to be left by such an ordeal. It is this shared experience of grief, however intense and life-changing, that unites us on a basic human level. We all know suffering on some level, at some point in our lives. We can empathize, at least on some level, with others even if we haven’t experienced their unique suffering. 

Take the history of slavery in the United States, for example. Its indelible mark persists today through the many branches of systemic racism, from our schools, to our police departments, to our criminal justice system, to name just a few. No matter your race in this country, it should be self-evident how much injustice and persecution Black and indigenous people have endured throughout our history. Though I know not the weight of such discrimination as a white woman, am certainly no expert on the history of racism, and will never know how it feels to live as a Black person, I can imagine the pent-up frustration one might feel, living to see a man like George Floyd, or a young woman like Breonna Taylor, murdered by law enforcement, and I can empathize with the pain and outrage that follow such loss. You simply need to be human to empathize with such atrocities. 

The Black Lives Matter protests around the nation over the last few weeks only seem due given the continuing discrimination and injustices being perpetrated against Black people. This seems like an example of when life isn’t fair, but not because of the randomness of it all; on the contrary, it’s because of the deliberate acts of people who have created a hostile environment of racism for people of color living in our country, from slave-owners, to those who gunned down Ahmaud Arbery, or the scores of other Black men and women killed simply because they were, essentially, just living while Black. 

It is a non-negotiable that black people have disproportionately struggled, and died, at the hands of racism in this country. This is an injustice in which every citizen in our country is tasked to take ownership of to ameliorate; this is an instance of life not being fair, but we can do something about it to change it. We can’t undo the past, but we can do better moving forward into the future. Life didn’t need to be unfair, and doesn’t have to continue to be, to any minority group. When we witness such wrongs, we ought to take action to fix them; it is not the time to claim, Life isn’t fair. It’s time to roll up our sleeves and take ownership of our role in the problem, to educate ourselves further, and to try to make the situation better, no matter the color of our skin.

Environmental problems demand our attention and accountability with a similar urgency. We’ve been manipulating, polluting, and destroying our natural resources for so long that we accept it as part of our reality; we have not been fair or just with the ecosystems we live among. The cognitive dissonance most of us have – being educated on the seriousness of climate change, while driving our cars and eating meat from a factory farm – is astounding. We go about our lives, making sacrifices here and there, but most of us, myself included, continue to use resources unsustainably, whether it’s the food we eat, or the electricity we use in our homes, or the remarkable amount of waste we generate. 


We all have a big impact on the environment. It’s not fair that we destroy habitat for the animals we share the planet with, basically choosing which species will go extinct forever, and which might have a fighting chance. It’s not fair that we pen in thousands of animals into close quarters, pump them full of chemicals, and then slaughter them for us to eat, complaining when The chicken is too dry, or This T-bone isn’t tender enough. Everyone must follow their own compass when it comes to diet; there is no one-size-fits-all way to eat. However, when you have nearly eight billion people on the planet all competing for resources, perhaps we ought to consider other ways to nourish ourselves that don’t involve increasing greenhouse gases and strain our natural resources, from cow burps of methane, a legitimately big sources of the gas, to the amount of water needed to grow feed to support such livestock. The food web is a complex system, and it’s understandable that people may want to eat meat. What’s different now, however, is that we’ve become so overpopulated; there’s too darn many of us on this planet. Our old ways may not serve us so well anymore; we may consider a more thoughtful approach to how we eat, and the natural resources we consume. 

When I hear stories about there only being some fifty-seven Amur Leopards left on the planet, I know in my gut that isn’t fair, and it’s a direct result of human actions. It confounds me that we allow the take of entire species in the name of economic development. There are so many environmental injustices worsening on a daily basis, and these are the fights that need fighting. It’s yet another example of when we shouldn’t just throw our hands in the air and declare, Life isn’t fair. There are so many problems that don’t have to be that way; that someone, or ourselves, has the power to change. There are a multitude of issues around the world that deserve our care and fight. I could go on.

It’s usually pretty obvious when an issue isn’t fair because of a group of people’s actions. It takes more wisdom, however, to know when life just isn’t fair – and despite all of our hoping for good odds, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. 

It’s hard for us to accept that something random and bad has happened to us or a loved one. We are sidelined by something we didn’t expect, and something we definitely didn’t think we deserved. We cry out in protest, Life isn’t fair!, and it makes no difference to the situation at all.

These are the times when we needn’t point fingers at others, especially ourselves, for befalling such poor luck. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year, I definitely felt that way. I went over my life with a fine-toothed comb looking for any clue of where I’d possibly set myself up for such disease. I am still learning to let go of this rumination, to let go of what’s done, and accept the mystery of cancer, that I’ll likely never know what caused it. 

One thing that keeps proving itself? Life isn’t fair. At some point, life will be unfair to us; we just hope we don’t have to die for it, although that’s often the case. There’s no point in comparing our plight to others. Life catches up with all of us when we die. During the blessed time we’re granted to live, though, we will all experience some level of life not being fair to us. Some may have it worse, some may seem to have it better; the only thing we have control over is how we respond. Though we may look upon others with envy, thinking they may have life so easy eating with a silver spoon, or seeming to have it all, we never really know what lies beneath the surface, what goes on behind closed doors. None of us are perfect. 

We need to be compassionate to each other during hard times; we all go through hard times that test our faith and patience. Though I’m going through a challenging time right now with chemotherapy for breast cancer, there are people suffering worse than me: people dying from Covid-19, or losing loved ones from it; people who are working through their own cancer treatments because they must put food on the table; people who live without a dependable source of freshwater and sanitation infrastructure. The spectrum of grief is wide, and I can see my privilege on that scale even as I fight cancer, albeit someone else may look at me and wonder why I have it so hard, and how much it must suck to be going through this during a pandemic. It’s all relative, and that’s why I try not to compare myself too much; why I try not to pity myself, nor gloat my good graces, for someone always has it worse. 

Recently, a tragedy rattled our small mountain town of Ben Lomond, driving home just how unfair life can be. On Saturday, June 6, 2020, Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Sergeant Damon Gutzwiller was murdered responding to a call of a van full of explosives and weapons, only to be ambushed by the deranged shooter. Two neighbors’ heroic actions, and that of his dog, detained the active Air Force member turned shooter until police could arrest him. There is a lot more to this story, as more details are yet to be revealed in this active case. The immense loss – of a husband, father, family member, friend, sergeant – erupted within the San Lorenzo Valley community like a volcano, its violent lava flows taking an innocent man’s life, and its toxic gases and ash permeating the lives of so many who knew and loved him, leaving some breathlessly choking for air, and others downwind with the singe of sadness, knowing such tragedy took place here in SLV. It was a huge reminder that life isn’t fair. 

I cannot imagine the stress, terror, and adrenaline all responding law enforcement officers had that day; some forty agencies responded, from all over the greater Bay Area and Central Coast. With that response came an incessant barrage of sirens, starting around 2 p.m. I live in Ben Lomond, less than two miles South of where the incident took place. Highway 9, the main artery running North to South through SLV, is about a quarter-mile West of our house, so we always hear if there’s a siren, or particularly loud motorcycle, for that matter. 

As my husband Ron and I were puttering around the house doing chores, we noticed there wasn’t just the usual one or two sirens; several more wailed at full volume, and we could hear their engines roaring up the road with urgency. We both sensed something serious was going on immediately. Then, more sirens. Even more sirens. It became a steady scream of tension, and we could hear ever more units coming in the distance. The valley echoes sound really well, and all we could hear were sirens. 

Gripped by the onslaught of arriving law enforcement, wondering what was going on, we were rapt with awe, staring out our windows, knowing all well we couldn’t see anything relevant, but we were at least looking in their direction. We went online to check the local news sites; nothing was up yet. I tried to pick up a book, but it was pointless trying to read. I knew after about twenty minutes of constant sirens that something really bad had happened; I felt it in my gut, and started tearing up. Someone’s died, I sensed. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to infer this, but I felt so saddened; who had died? Had they suffered? Was there a killer on the run? I imagined whomever had died, and thought about their loved ones; did they have family? A spouse? Children? I imagined those people getting the worst phone call of their lives. I am an empathetic person, but this time I just let myself cry for whatever had happened, details of which I still didn’t know. 

I’d never heard so many sirens in my life. Then, the helicopters showed up. Highland Park is about a half-mile North of our house, and it’s where all the Medivacs land if there’s a bad car accident or injury up in the Valley. We’re used to hearing them on occasion, but combined with the sirens, we knew it was a serious injury, or death, this time. After one landed and took off, another one came in. There seemed to be another yet circling low, as if in search of a suspect. In their rotations, they would pass directly over our house, rattling the windows, their sound quite amplified. The cacophony of high-pitched, stress inducing wails quickly became both gripping, and distracting. I could not bring myself to do anything else but stand outside and listen, growing more anxious. 

It had been about an hour by now, and Ron was busy looking online for information, when he found early details of an officer involved shooting with a possible fatality. It was an active shooter situation with possible suspects on the loose, and the town of Ben Lomond was advised to shelter-in-place until further notice. They had closed off the Highway and main road around our house. We definitely weren’t going anywhere. 

More sirens came. It seemed endless; I couldn’t imagine how many cars were speeding up to the scene of the crime. More helicopters. I realize how pitiful I must sound talking about the sirens, the noise, and the stress of hearing all of this, when real officers lived this in real life, and one had paid the ultimate price. But this was one of the most tension-filled afternoons I’ve had in a really long time. I could not distract myself with anything. I stood, paced, looked online for information, and then paced some more. 

At some point during the afternoon, we learned that a deputy, only 38 years old, had been shot and killed, and that a man with explosives and guns had shot him, but few other details were clear. Knowing an officer had been murdered broke my heart. I cried for the thought that this man had shown up for work that day, just doing his job with integrity, and now he was never coming home again. I didn’t know much about him, yet, but I imagined how his family was feeling. Surely there were some who had gotten the news amid the roar of sirens and helicopter blades piercing the air like swords; someone was having the worst day of their life, compounded by the audible symbol of the unfolding tragedy that had just taken their loved one. I thought about the dirty clothes in the laundry that he had worn, waiting to be washed; the breakfast plate that may have been left in the sink; the last Goodbye that he may have shared with his loved ones. I just lost it crying for this person I hadn’t the honor of meeting; in our small town, I think many others cried, too.

Life isn’t fair, I lamented angrily. Why do bad things happen to good people?! 

It wasn’t until around 7 p.m., about five hours after the approximate start, that the sirens started tapering off. Suddenly, there was a quiet gap of thirty seconds or so with no new sirens, only to be replaced by several more trickling in. By around 8 p.m., things were all but quieted down, but the tension for so many was most certainly not. I barely ate dinner, and couldn’t fall asleep until 4 a.m. that night; I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about life in general, about my cancer, about everything. The next morning, I had a terrible tension headache, neckache, and threw up. I’ve reacted from stressful situations in this way before, so wasn’t too concerned and went back to sleep until 6 p.m. the next night. 

As I read more details about what had occurred, I felt so sad for his wife, who is pregnant, and their two-year old. It was not fair that they were left behind. I imagined how crestfallen the Sheriff’s department must have felt; how robbed his family and friends were of future memories. It just wasn’t fair. For whatever reason, he suffered terrible odds that day. He never deserved to die like that. Though the shooter is in custody and currently facing nineteen felony charges, including murder, no amount of criminal justice will ever make this tragedy right, nor bring back Sergeant Gutzwiller, may he rest in peace.

Life simply isn’t fair, and we live day-to-day just hoping for good odds. We hope that life isn’t too unfair to us, that statistics are on our side. All it takes is one event, one moment, to change everything. We live our lives accepting this risk everyday, making peace with the chances we take. We hope for the grace of good odds, that we make it through another day unscathed. 

We must fight for what isn’t fair that must be changed; to right the wrongs of our past, and the wrongs of our present. Whatever your passion or cause, if it’s for the betterment of people or the environment at large, or everything in between, stand up for that; give it a voice. You don’t need to be the loudest person in the room to make a difference, but genuinely caring and being informed are a good place to start. There’s no need for things to be unfair that can be rectified. This includes standing up for yourself when someone isn’t treating you well, or you’re the victim of discrimination, or you’re witnessing the mistreatment of another person, or animal. With the support of others, we’re capable of affecting catalytic change. 

For all the things we can’t control, for the poor odds that might strike us with tragedy, there is no comfort that can fix it, or magically make things right again. What we do have is compassion, love, and the shared experience of our friends and family. We still have the good memories we’ve lived, and all of the ways that life was more than fair to us in the past. Tragedy doesn’t negate what’s already been lived, but some things will never feel fair, or justified. We can only control how we respond to them, should we be blessed enough to live through them. May we live with the grace of such good odds. 



Life 12-Weeks Post-Mastectomy

It’s been over twelve weeks since I had a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction, and I am three infusions in for chemotherapy. I am overall happy with how I am healing, though I still have a ways to go in my treatment. I recently took off my surgical tape and saw my scars for the first time; I waited ten weeks to remove the tape, as my doctors recommended leaving it on as long as possible for the best cosmetic result. They were definitely right – I am pleasantly surprised by how minor they are. Granted, I will have to almost repeat this process once I have surgery to replace my expanders with implants, and will have to go through the healing process once again, but I am feeling really positive about the results and celebrate the success of my surgery. I have full mobility and strength, just a slight numbness in my left armpit that feels like it’s half-asleep.


Thus far, chemo is going rather well – at least compared to what I had initially expected. Chemo – the word evokes thoughts of skeletal, vomiting patients, beat down with fatigue like a fly from a swatter. At least that’s how I imagined it. Sure, I’d read how anti-nausea medicines and careful dosing had improved over the years, but I feared the bottom would drop out on me once the toxic yet life-saving sera would be injected into my jugular vein via my PowerPort. 

My first infusion brought one brief episode of vomiting, but aside from that, I haven’t been sick with nausea. I am taking the anti-nausea medications as prescribed: for three days after each infusion, I take Zofran twice a day, and Zyprexa and Decadron once a day. Thus far, the regimen is working well for me. I also administer Zarxio for seven days via a shot in my stomach to stimulate white-blood cell production, although my neutrophils and white-blood cell counts tanked after my second infusion, and they had to delay my third infusion by a week, giving me five more days of Zarxio to compensate. My numbers rebounded, but every two weeks when I get tested, we’ll keep a watchful eye on those numbers. I have nine more rounds to go; I am 25% through my scheduled infusions. With the risk of contracting Covid-19, now is the time when I am immunocompromised, and should be especially careful. 

I am using a Paxman Cold Cap, which I talk about in the video below. I have lost quite a bit of hair, as to be expected even with a cold cap, and still have more infusions to go. We’ll see how long I get to keep my hair for, but I am extremely grateful for what I’ve still got. Hair loss is most pronounced above my earline, but it’s thinning everywhere else.

Heartburn has been a bit strong for a few days after each infusion, but my appetite has been strong, and I am eating well. That’s a side-effect I wasn’t expecting, though I was forewarned: ravenous hunger for a few days after treatment. I am intensely, tear-down-the-house famished sometimes, and have been eating more than usual! That skeletal, starving image of a chemo patient I had? Knocked out of the water. I am thrilled to be nourishing so completely, as I visualize the apoptosis of my cells – generating waste from their organelles, stopped cold in their mitotic division, desperate for the nutrients to rebuild themselves. 

With all that waste production, water becomes paramount. I have always drunk a lot of water; I may drink upwards of 300 ounces of the life-giving elixir throughout the day, depending upon the intensity of my activities. Thirst is a pet-peeve of mine; I abhor a dry mouth. As a teacher, I am used to speaking often throughout the day, and having a well-hydrated palate is essential to keep my oration flowing. My students know me for walking around with a giant 64-ounce Kleen Kanteen water bottle in the classroom, always encouraging them to do the same. Water is a basic necessity for life, but when you’re going through accelerated cellular death within your body, it becomes even more essential. I find myself incessantly thirsty, always needing more of it these days. 


Dry skin will make you crave more water, too. I’d been warned, like all of the side-effects I’m feeling, that my skin would shrivel and crack like a sun-baked prune. I invested in my favorite L’Occitane Shea Butter, and shea-butter rich lotion. My skin drinks them like milk everyday, and it helps fend off the advanced aging my skin is undergoing.

The biggest side-effect has been fatigue. It’s not like I am sleeping long hours, or taking lots of naps, but there are times I just feel spent. I really notice it when I’m exercising, something I’ve built my life upon. I am in excellent cardiovascular health, which was probably a good place to start going into treatment; however, I fatigue significantly faster than normal now. When I’m climbing uphill on my bike, I may take several breaks to let my heartrate go down and catch my breath. I get winded, like I am maxed out. I’m not in a hurry, so I take breaks as needed, but I definitely feel the difference. 

There’s also mental fatigue. I don’t know if it’s chemo brain or not, but sometimes I have to rest my cogitation of complex information. I love reading about Science – online, in books, and of course by reading the natural world around me. As a Science teacher and Environmental Studies major who took a lot of Science classes in college, my curiosity for learning more about cancer and my treatment is like an urgent alarm. I can’t help but want to understand more, though I certainly don’t understand it all, as someone who didn’t major in Biology or a similar field. One of my favorite websites is the National Center for Biotechnical Information, NCBI. This is where I find articles related to my recurrence and survival rates, whether radiation is unequivocally recommended for a patient in my situation (there’s some controversy), and how variables like supplements and nutrition may or may not influence the efficacy of my treatment. It is fascinating, and endlessly interesting; a great escape, albeit a harsh dose of reality at times. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that the information will still be there later, and put that reading aside because my brain feels oversaturated and exhausted. While not overwhelming, I can feel myself tiring out on pithy topics more than usual lately. 

Emotionally, I’m lethargic as well. Though I’m leaning into this experience, warts and all, I’m tired of feeling so much – feeling uncertainty, sadness, worry, and a pervasive inquiry of What did I do to bring this upon myself? The blame-game is real, and it’s not productive. When I first was diagnosed, I was grasping at straws trying to find a culprit for my young diagnosis; doctors have all been quick to stop me in my tracks and force me off of the blame-train. You will probably never know why you got cancer, so stop beating yourself up, is what they said. No point in ruminating over every imperfect decision I’ve made, over the plethora of chemicals I’ve been exposed to as a child of the eighties and an adult of the millennium, over the catechins from green tea I didn’t drink, or the children I didn’t have when I was younger that would have likely lowered my risk of developing breast cancer.

That’s probably been the hardest part for me to reconcile with – the mystery of cancer. There are times when I feel like it’s my fault, or I’m damaged goods somehow, but those moments of self-pity are almost immediately replaced by the gratitude for what isn’t damaged, what isn’t cancerous, or imperfect, or faulty within my body. I have to focus on all that is working well, all that is miraculously still thriving each day. Death is the great equalizer of life, and all of us will get there someday. While we’re here, we owe it to ourselves to appreciate life and our bodies, faulty as they may be. 

Thus, when people ask me how hard this has been, and how am I really doing, as if I’m not being forthright otherwise, I can honestly tell them I’m doing well. Well is good enough; wellness is health, and without that, we have nothing. Turning my energy toward wellness as a simple yet vital baseline, recognizing the path I’m on is one toward increasing wellness, hopefully. Because at the end of the day, the biggest fear I have is dying young. That fear probably won’t ever go away, but I believe I’ll adapt to live with it without letting it overwhelm my perspective for the long-term. 

Am I ready for a break? A real vacation? An escape from dealing with cancer amid a global pandemic? Yes, infinitely so. I would love to get out of town and have some fun, go in a hot tub, swim in a big pool, order room service. Though I am a big fan of relativity – from the scientific theory itself, to the idea of finding comfort in the fact that someone always has it worse than you, and someone always has it better, so best not to compare yourself too much to others – there are moments when I accept the solemnity of my situation. Yes, things could be worse, but it sucks to get breast cancer, especially at thirty-nine years old, near the prime of my health; to imagine the next ten years of my life taking Tamoxifen, throwing my body into early menopause; to imagine the gravity of a metastatic recurrence, of a prognosis of months or years to live. I long for the bliss of carefree life pre-cancer. None of this is fun! I would love to take a break from all of this, from this new job I was enlisted in against my will. 

I’m doing well considering what I am going through. I’ve always been one to make the best of a situation, as I think is innate within all of us, but I’m also a pragmatic realist who doesn’t like to sugarcoat or bury anything. I am trying to seize everyday as best I can, learn all I can through this experience, and hopefully, continue to live a happy, healthy life for as long as I can. I feel incredibly grateful to be sheltering-in-place in one of the most beautiful places, Santa Cruz, California. From the beach to the forests, there is no shortage of natural wonders to keep things in perspective.

Keeping active helps me flow through this torrent of rushing river rapids. I feel like a rockstar when I’m on my bike, like I can do anything. The pure act of play becomes ever more important when going through a hard time. Keep on moving – some of the simplest yet best advice I’ve heard. It’s not just physical, but mental, too. Keep thoughts and feelings moving, keep learning, keep deepening your understanding. Stay curious. 

I try to keep moving as much as I can, but there are times when it’s okay to just float among the flow of the world, to surrender yourself to the currents of factors more powerful; to accept that while we have some control to keep moving, sometimes we have no control over where we are going. I try to make peace with that, and not drive myself crazy worrying about where the next rapid or waterfall may lie on the river of life. 

We have no guarantee of time, but I can guarantee the world will keep on going whether I’m here or not; I find solace in that. A mote of dust among the abyss of the universe, made of the same simple elements, I’ll drift along suspended in the rich breath of life, until I become the seed for a raindrop, condensing into a water molecule, precipitating with a gentle splash back into the watery realm of Earth.

Which reminds me – I need another glass of water.

Recalibrating Gratitude

The art of gratitude is something we’re never done with; there’s always room for deepening our appreciation. There are marked times in your life that most certainly demand your full attention – to what is going well in your life, to what is good, helpful, and sustaining. We all want to live in daily reverence for life’s simple blessings, but we’re also human, and days can blur into weeks, into years, before a major hurdle comes our way, beckoning us to find the silver linings as we stand under the inevitable passing of life’s occasional rain clouds. 

There are some events that, despite our aversion to their occurrence, end up teaching us more than we could ever have anticipated; that shift our thinking in directions only possible under such duress. One example of such adversity is cancer. 

I’m in the early stages of a 16-week chemotherapy regimen for Stage 2 breast cancer. It’s been two months since my mastectomy, and I’m two infusions in. No visitors are allowed right now, so I’m bringing books to keep busy during the appointments. I am coping fairly well with the side-effects so far, save for a few bouts of nausea the first round, and some fatigue. I get pretty tired sometimes and need to rest or take a nap. 

Then, there are the shots in the stomach for seven days, which I’ve gotten the hang of; technique matters, of course! Squeezing the skin, injecting quickly at a 45° angle, followed by a slower injection seems to work well so far. There’s also a slight numbness and tingling in my left armpit and upper arm that feels like it’s half-asleep. My port is on my right side and not giving me any problems, except that I have a roughly one-inch scar from it, and it hurts if my port is hit directly. I was changing the pillowcases the other day, and when I pulled off the case, I hit my port with the back of my hand; it hurt so bad I winced and grimaced, and it throbbed for hours afterward. It’s not something I want to hit any harder!

There are so many layers in the effects of cancer – some easily seen, others invisible if not pointed out. There’s so much mental energy; my day is occupied at least at some point by researching something online, or reading something to learn more about it. As a Science teacher, I am fascinated by the molecular processes occurring within my body, and want to learn about that as best as I can understand. I’m only at the beginning stages of my chemotherapy, so I’ll see how the rest of treatment goes. 

Worse than my cancer story, the world is suffering amid the Covid-19 pandemic (in case you’ve been living under a rock). It’s heartbreaking how many people are dying. It’s tragic, and gives me perspective – even though I’m going through cancer, other people are dying from this virus; the gravity of the situation is far worse than my individual situation. I feel so sad for all those affected, and it reminds me to count my blessings. 

Cancer threatens to take away all that I love and hold dear, and it makes me exceptionally appreciative for all that I have. While allowing myself to feel down or sad about having cancer is normal and healthy, the fighter in me is fiercely roaring, forcing my attention toward all that is on the up-and-up in the world, all that is positive. It’s got me thinking about all of the blessings I am so lucky to have in my life. I love my little life. Everything from my nightly Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune habit to the bike rides in the mountains I love so dearly; from the amazing people in my life, to the career I love. I feel like I have a new lease on life.

My gratitude is being recalibrated, sharpened in a new way – for my husband Ron, my cat Beau; my sweet family; my small but close circle of friends and acquaintances; my house in the beautiful mountains, living in a place I love. 

Yes! These are all good things, and cancer doesn’t take them away. Even if cancer kills me, it doesn’t negate the good years I’ve lived and the memories I’ve made. 

Ron asked me recently how I was really doing, fighting breast cancer amid the coronavirus pandemic. Without so much of a thought, I  replied, “Honestly, okay. I have my you and Beau by my side, a beautiful home in the mountains, and food to eat. As a plus, we haven’t run out of toilet paper yet”. Simple truth in these times of shelter-in-place. 

It’s true, though; I feel pretty amazing. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty for how happy I am, for how active I am able to be; for not suffering worse, for not having a harder time. It’s silly and futile of me to do so, and I remind myself quickly that it’s in my nature to make the best of the situation. We all have the ability within ourselves to adapt and make the most of a challenge, and right now, that’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t really feel guilty, of course, but I realize how much harder of a time I would be having if I were in this all alone. 

People fight cancer without the help of loved ones everyday. I have the good grace of my husband living within the home. I am so blessed to have Ron helping me through this. He is my torch, my light, my breath of fresh air. His generosity, love, and acts of compassion have moved me. He has always been a gem of a human being, but now he is even more so my hero. 

I’m finding so much grace lately, in places where I was once angry or discouraged, followed by a tunnel-vision focus on the foundation of such grace: gratitude.

Gratitude – a word that’s become trite, cliched, hackneyed to the nines, for good reason. Poetry, songs, self-help books, Instagram posts, and self-possessed gurus have gratitude permeating through their cores. It is one of the basic tenets for happiness, regardless, if not in spite of, possession or circumstance. 

It’s something I thought I had a pretty strong handle on before being diagnosed with breast cancer. I’ve always felt like I’m making up for lost time, trying to squeeze as much into the day before the book is closed on me. 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I cried, of course, coming to terms with my total lack of control over the situation; I certainly did not feel gratitude. When I imagined my funeral – my ashes being scattered among loved ones in my favorite natural environs – like Kirkwood, the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the Pacific Ocean – I rued the thought of dying young, that is, before age eighty, because eighty is about the age I consider old. Moreover, lifespans are growing longer by the decade. That doesn’t guarantee we’ll all get there, though. I was quite angry about the prospect of cutting my life short, of losing the time I was owed to get older. 

Owed? That’s where I was wrong. I’m not owed anything in life – not time, not love, not opportunity. Life is but a combination of attitude and circumstance, with gratitude at its fulcrum. Only we can find that balance, and we owe it to ourselves to achieve it, lest we live our lives stuck in a cat-and-mouse game between happiness and strife.

Though I’d thought I’d been living for years with a passionate appreciation for life and my blessings, I’m surprised by my calibration of gratitude. It’s growing daily. In the morning, the robins singing in the forest spark my curiosity for the day ahead. Though I’m not usually a morning-person, I find myself being pulled out of bed earlier than normal to stand witness to the glory unfolding outside my bedroom window, air thick with the dew of moisture blown in off the Pacific Ocean several miles away. Everyday I want to do as much as I can. I dance in my living room, play guitar to my favorite songs, and get moving outside.  

Though I’m a pretty positive person by nature, I’m also a realist, and I don’t shy away from challenges, including tough feelings. I love learning all I can about everything, and using that knowledge to quell any such fears or misgivings. I’m not afraid to go there emotionally; to let myself experience the full gamut of feelings, from sadness to euphoria. I love giving myself to an experience fully and whole-heartedly. There is nothing inside my mind that scares me. I’ve felt so many different emotions during this experience, many of them uncomfortable and overwhelming, but I sat with them, and they passed along. That’s what emotions do; they don’t stay forever. We have the power to move them along at will, but there’s value in looking them in the eye, in sitting face-to-face with your fears and troubles. Better yet, it makes you feel relieved once you realize the bottom isn’t going to drop out on you just because you let yourself feel sad, or angry, or terrified. The human will to move forward ultimately prevails, and we focus again on positive, more helpful emotions, like gratitude.

A cancer diagnosis prompts you to look inward, and walk the winding paths of hypotheticals in your mind with aplomb and detachment; to consider each thought or what if for what it is, and then let it go. There is one feeling, though, that I find myself myopically focused on these days: gratitude. Its shade of grey may change from day to day, but it’s only grown stronger in the last couple of months.

I find blessings where I may have once dismissed them, too caught up in discomfort and unfamiliarity to notice their quiet heroism. I’m not one of those I’m so blessed! people who will bury their heads in the sand ignoring the hurricane above, but I am giving myself that mercy lately to feel that way, and to own it. Yes, I am blessed! It’s okay to acknowledge it, to state it out loud, to write it down, to shout it from the mountaintops, almighty. 

It’s not just having a roof over my head and food to eat; it is having a roof over my head and food to eat. Those very basics are true blessings. Amid the struggling time we’re all living in right now, I feel exceptionally happy for these fundamentals.
Climbing  Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, I am thankful for a community of loving people, from near and far, who’ve rallied to support me during this time. There is nothing like the warmth of loved ones coming together to make your life easier. I have such admiration and respect for those who go it alone through the battle of cancer.

I am blessed I got my surgery when I did, on February 26, 2020, right before elective surgeries started being canceled due to Covid-19 restrictions in hospitals. I am blessed I had enough sick-leave accrued over my years of teaching to take a paid leave-of-absence, a testament to good planning and discipline on my part, and the stability of a government job. I am blessed with my job itself; I am blessed with the students I teach, the staff I work with, the community I live in. 

Now I’m starting to sound like one of those I’m so blessed! people I bemoaned earlier, but cliche as it sounds, that’s how I’m starting to feel. That’s how a lot of people who are diagnosed with cancer say they end up feeling, too. When everything is at risk, you’re forced to reevaluate.  

Monterey Mariposa LIly

Perspective will give you a lot in life, or take a lot from you. It all depends upon how you see things. Knowing the world is suffering from coronavirus helps put my cancer in perspective; someone is fighting a harder battle, a worse prognosis, a more dire health issue. There is always someone or something that will be the comparative or superlative; whether better or best, healthier or healthiest, worse or worst, we all live on a spectrum of relativity. It’s up to us to calibrate ourselves on that scale; to find the data points we most align with, to dismiss outliers for what they are; to not demean our experiences through comparison, but make sense of them. We are never done with this work; there’s always room to grow. At the bottom of it all is a pure desire for human connection, and the digital age we live in fosters this community. 

There’s plenty of awesomeness to go around in the world. We ought to encourage each other to be our best, to express our idiosyncratic beauty as fully as we can. We don’t know how much time we have to do so. I know now for sure that I don’t want to get to my deathbed and wish I’d lived more fully, that I’d expressed myself more. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid, any passion not explored. 

Which leads me to the biggest blessing cancer has given me so far: the freedom to let go of having biological children. Chemotherapy drugs will all but destroy whatever potential I have. That choice has been finalized for me, and it feels like a big relief, actually. I have a strong maternal instinct, and there’s been times in my life that I wanted to have kids; however, I never really wanted it when it came down to brass tacks. And I made myself so wrong for that. 

Like most childless women approaching forty, I’ve been peppered with questions and comments about whether or not I should have children; I’ve learned to not be too bothered by those. What’s tougher is my own insecurity – that I somehow believe so steadfastly in the construct that a woman’s purpose and ultimate value comes from her motherhood – and in the absence of fulfilling that action, I feel like I’m not good enough. 

Though I’m confident with my life, I realize the areas where I don’t feel so. The fact that I’m not a mother, that I’ve never experienced childbirth, or watching my own child take its first steps, makes me feel inadequate on a certain level. It’s not something I dwell on daily, but I feel its pangs when I’m in the company of happy mothers, whose joy I’ll never know. There are other ways to experience motherhood, and I have a fierce maternal instinct, but having a biological child is something I won’t experience; it’s a club I’ll likely never be a part of. And I chose that, years ago, by my mid-twenties I knew. 

I shelved that conviction for the odds of an accident, or a sudden change of heart, knowing as each year passed on, the chance declined like a biplane stalling in an airshow. I thought I should want children of our own; I thought I’d get the urge, baby fever. I’ve lived Summer to Summer for years, as a teacher, and a student, and with every one, I’d think, Maybe next Summer. I loved spending time with my nieces and nephews; we played, had fun, and explored. I loved teaching my seventh-grade students, with all of their energy and curiosity. 

I’ve always loved kids. Babies? I love them, too, but I wasn’t always inclined to them. I admit I’ve probably changed less than ten diapers in my entire life. I used to babysit when I was a kid, but babies weren’t my forte. The first time I ever held a baby was in the climbing gym in Santa Cruz when I was twenty-one years old – yes, that old! A friend of mine had just had a baby, and a mutual friend of ours couldn’t believe I’d never held a baby before; he immediately made me hold that cutie-pie. I took right to holding him, but they laughed at how awkward I was. I’ve spent a lot more time with babies and children since then, but the need to have my own didn’t compel me to act upon it. 

I love kids and babies because they’re people, after all, and I love people.  For someone who loves people, I sure can be a bit of a loner. I can entertain myself endlessly, and I need time alone everyday to be happy. It’s not about excluding or avoiding others; rather, it’s about doing the things I love. Living under a shelter-in-place order has been pretty easy for me, though I miss my loved ones. We all live on a spectrum of introversion and extroversion. Sometimes that includes spending time with others, but much of the time, I’m riding solo – literally, on my bike. I’ve fought with the judgment of being selfish or self-centered for years; that someone who spends so much time doing what they want to do must be all about themselves.

I’ve struggled with feeling like people must think I’m so selfish, or self-absorbed, though I’d like to think I don’t care about their opinion. I try to justify myself to others, explaining that it’s not about spending time alone with myself, so much as it is spending time immersed in the activity I’m doing, and totally getting outside of myself; it’s really the opposite of being selfish or self-centered. I am completely present, rapt in the moment at hand, only focused on living that hobby, or sport, or meditative moment of solitude. 

For someone who doesn’t have kids, and spends so much time alone, I feel like I have to defend myself; that people are judging me for being selfish. This is the concern that breast cancer is helping to kick. It really doesn’t matter if someone approves of my life choices or not; it only matters that I get to live another day to make my life’s choices. It doesn’t matter if I reproduce or not; it matters that I live a healthy life. You can’t live every life option in your life; you really can’t do it all, though we all like to try. I know I can’t have the life of the outdoorsy adventure girl and the stay-at-home mother married to her high-school sweetheart. I’ve spent so much time over the years feeling unsettled about the prospect of having kids, so much care about whether other people thought I was good enough, successful enough, woman enough to be a mother. It’s not something I was aware of all the time, but now that I’m at the end of the road for having kids, I feel the compounded effect of inadequacy. On the flipside, I feel an overwhelming sense of affirmation for my life, and the choices I’ve made.

Which is why I say:

Thank You, Breast Cancer. Thank you for affirming my life’s choice to not have kids. Thank you for affirming that I can spend my free time how I choose, enjoy time with my husband and cat, and start everyday with a blank slate I get to fill. Thank you, Breast Cancer, for affirming that I’m on the right path, that I will continue on for as long as Life will let me; that I can appreciate my simple days, living out my passions. Thank you for affirming I am happy with my life, and that I want more time to live it.

For all I am really trying for is more time to spend with my loved ones, more time to do the things I love. Chemo is part of this fight for more time, and I’m grateful these drugs exist to help people like me. It’s a good time to have breast cancer if there ever were one, though there remains so much room for advancement. 

Nothing is perfect in life, and the same goes for my cancer. Although I can fall into the coulda-should-woulda trap, going over my life with a fine-toothed comb, trying desperately to glean some sort of explanation for why I would get breast cancer as a healthy thirty-nine year old, all that matters now is the present, so I try to keep my energy centered there. 

I always felt like I was a person who lived with gratitude, with reverence for the beautiful landscapes we are so privileged to experience on this Earth – whether in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, or Fort William in Scotland, or Whistler, Canada (the latter two are on my bucket list). 

When I first got diagnosed, my patience had to adapt. Now, I feel my gratitude has adapted. I have grown protective of my life, even; it is so important to me that I will do everything I can to prolong it. I must be my own Mama-Bear, and give it all I’ve got. The next few months will challenge me further, but if I can keep my gratitude calibrated, I’ll keep my eye on the light at the end of the tunnel – no, not that light, but the light of the mercy of healing, the light of a new day … or maybe just the light of an awesome ride!


Coronavirus, Cancer, & My First Chemotherapy Infusion

2020 just keeps on getting crazier. 

It’s nearly mid-April, and we are in the midst of a national shelter-in-place order as the most virulent coronavirus we’ve seen in years, COVID-19, is ravaging the world over, its unpredictable nature adding to the palpable fear of contracting it. People of all walks of life, of all ages and health, are succumbing by the thousands to the pervasive wrath of the virus, fighting for life on ventilators. Progress is quelled by setbacks, as those who seem to be improving are admitted into intensive care units mere days, or hours, later. 

We are living through a global pandemic on a scale no one alive today has yet had to endure. We are being tested in ways that are obvious, and in subtler, more nuanced ways yet to be realized. As millions of people live in a varying state of lockdown around the world, we are only united in spirit, and the cybersphere, as social distancing mandates keep us mostly walled apart within our four walls. Parents are homeschooling children, adapting to distance learning on computers, missing the camaraderie of their peers. Gone are the moments of spontaneity and tangential inspiration that unfold so readily within the physical classroom, fostered by the shared purpose of students and teachers driven to keep learning, keep asking questions, and keep improving.

We all have a lot more time on our hands now that we are all but confined to our homes aside from essential activities, and exercise. Santa Cruz County has been on a shelter-in-place order since March 14, and the state of California issued a statewide order soon after. The economy is wobbling on a tight-rope, balanced in the tension of a trillion-dollar government aid deal soon to bring some financial relief to Americans and businesses, to the pitfalls of a marketplace with no customers to serve, no clients to meet. Far and wide, businesses deemed non-essential have been ordered to shutter, leaving them with the daunting challenge of keeping afloat when income streams have dried up, but bills are still due. 

The effects on our economy will be felt for years to come, regardless of how the Dow Jones behaves on a daily basis. Volatility is the understatement of the time. We are insecure about everything from our retirement funds, to whether we’ll have food to eat. People are legitimately scared, and are forced apart at a time when most of us would want the comfort of friends and family. Though videochats and social media help bridge this void, nothing can replace the physical presence of flesh and blood, of a laugh heartily shared, a hug warmly shared. 

We find ourselves reexamining our lives – our careers, our relationships, our goals, and our mortality. This pandemic makes everyone think about death, and our health. We wonder how we would respond if we got it; would we end up on a ventilator in the ICU, or be one of those asymptomatic types that barely ekes out a sneeze? What if someone we loved got it, and ended up in the hospital? What if they were to die? No matter how calm, cool, and collected you are, this crisis makes you think about these questions, if only for a moment, but hopefully not all day, everyday.

It’s a lot like being diagnosed with cancer. I’ve heard various interviews on talkshows lately where people talk about how they’re coping with the shelter-in-place orders, and they all might as well have been talking about being diagnosed with cancer. There are a multitude of parallels between the coronavirus pandemic and cancer. 

First and perhaps most obvious, they both make you think about death and your health. Eating habits, exercise, sleep, stress, and other lifestyle factors are meticulously combed through for deficiencies. Your life is put under a giant microscope. All that glistens, and all that cowers in the darkness, is brought to light. You think about your loved ones dying; how you would live without them. You think about all the things you should have done differently in your past, choices that may have led to your fate. You imagine yourself dying; how would it actually feel to take your last breath? Would you even know it when you did? Though I always knew I would die someday, being diagnosed with cancer made me reconsider death in a profoundly deeper, more intimate way. It was no longer something out there on the horizon; it was presenting itself to me in my thirty-ninth year of life, probably having grown slowly for years undetected. 

They also both preoccupy your mind in a way you must learn to control. You are a slave to learning more about them; you just want to understand them, so you can fear them less. I spend hours reading through breast cancer articles, trying to better understand my situation, the NCBI website is one of my most-visited sites; I read blogs, I watch YouTube videos. There’s a lot of mental energy that goes into just trying to figure it all out, and as someone who is passionate about Science as it is, it makes the thirst for knowledge insatiable.

Then, there are all of the COVID-19 stories happening worldwide. They demand your attention, and everyone I know is following the news constantly. It is important to be informed. I read the newspaper daily, and watch the news in short bursts. If one watches the news endlessly right now, fed by a relentless torrent of heartbreaking stories, day after day, it isn’t necessarily good for our mental health. 

It’s the same with cancer: while I invest hours upon hours researching my cancer, I have to know when to take a break. If I spend too long consumed in the tunnel of statistics, prognoses, and web of possible culprits for my cancer, it wipes me out; I’ll feel exhausted, anxious, and discouraged. It took me some time to learn how to regulate that need for learning, to realize that the knowledge wasn’t going away, that I could still find it the next day on the Internet or book I was reading; I’m still working on it. Stepping away and doing something completely different – a distraction – was exactly what was needed, and that’s what I hear a lot of people talking about today. Just trying to stay busy, stay distracted, is what I said often after my mastectomy. Now, I hear people saying the same thing with the shelter-in-place order; they are just trying to stay busy, to keep their mind off the gravity of the situation. Cancer or coronavirus, we all need a break from the constant onslaught of news updates, alerts on our phones, and the state of alert we are all living in. 

Yet another way cancer and coronavirus are similar is how they command you to deepen your gratitude. When I first was diagnosed with breast cancer on February 3, 2020, a roller-coaster of emotions began, but I remember distinctly thinking: I’ve been living my life healthily; I’ve been appreciating everyday, living like it could be the last. Darn it, I haven’t taken my life for granted! I don’t need this lesson!

I knew as soon as I thought it how inane it actually was. Of course I had room to grow more grateful, to appreciate more deeply. Of course I wasn’t done in that regard; there will always be more room to show more grace for my blessings. Now, just barely over two months later, I feel I’ve already stretched my seams in the gratitude realm. I look forward to time with my husband and cat, moseying around the garden; I delight in the sight of birds bathing in the birdbaths. I relish my time in nature, and the amazing creatures I find, from lizards to bobcats to coyotes. I feel incredibly grateful for my loved ones. It helps that I’ve had so much time off work to dive deeper into celebrating the little things in life, being on-leave since February 14, which leads me to another similarity between coronavirus and cancer: the shelter-in-place order. 

We all have more time to ponder our lives, to reflect in ways perhaps not regularly done so. No two people will handle a cancer diagnosis precisely the same, and no two people will handle a COVID-19 diagnosis quite the same way, though there are undoubtedly more similarities than differences. One of the main things we all will do is reflect upon our lives – our happiness, our chosen careers, our life choices. It gives one pause, and suddenly everything is open to scrutiny.

The world on an all but lockdown amid a pandemic? That will make everyone take notice – to not just their own lives, but the state of the planet. I hope everyone will give credence to the drop in pollution levels during this time. The grounding of airplanes, cars not commuting to work, factories shuttered – there is a marked drop in global pollution as a direct result of this pandemic. Stephen Kessler said it best in his editorial, that perhaps this would be the catalyst to really bring change to remedy the climate crisis. It is imperative that we as a society adopt cleaner technologies, and work to restore natural ecosystems; to protect endangered species; to stop using forever chemicals; to realize that overpopulation is a key factor in our problems. We are making some progress on environmental initiatives, but nowhere near as far as we should be by now. It makes me so angry that I learned about the greenhouse effect as an eleven-year old; we learned about the ozone hole, and CFC’s. The message was clear then, as it had been for years before: pollute the Earth, and we will hurt. Now, as a seventh grade-Science teacher, I am teaching my students a similar story, with much worse stakes, much worse outcomes. It is confounding how the profits of corporations and private interests can supersede the health of our planet for so many years. 

While the coronavirus stay-at-home orders will spark self-reflection about that which we are unsettled or unhappy about, it will also be the catalyst for creative self-expression. We reassess our lives, and we also reacquaint ourselves with lost hobbies, passions, and artistic outlets. When you have lots of time on your hands, your truest instincts and desires will surface loud and clear; even if you thought you’ve heard them already, they will roar stoically, echoing across the canyon walls of your psyche. This is a wonderful time for music making, writing, reading, cooking, cleaning, organizing, gardening, and taking good care of yourself. It is an opportunity to dive into our hobbies, even if only in between catching up on the news.

It is also a good time to connect with our most authentic emotions. One of the things I struggled with in my cancer diagnosis was anger. Though I felt sadness, fear, and tinges of hope here and there, I was sidelined by anger for anything I was upset about in my life – the state of the environment, my neighbor’s white smoke spewing toxic pollution, the fact that I had Stage 2 breast cancer. 

I was really angry about that one, especially that I hadn’t found it sooner. I’d done mammograms and ultrasounds for years, checked myself regularly for new lumps, ate well, exercised a lot – you already know the spiel. When I was told at my last appointment, at the end of 2016, that I only had fibroadenomas, and didn’t need to worry; that with no breast cancer history in my family, I could come back at age forty for my next mammogram, unless I felt any changes in the meantime, I let go of the rope. I stopped worrying about the lumps in my breasts. They didn’t change, and for whatever reason, I never felt my cancerous tumor until it was quite sizeable. I remember feeling it, mid-December 2019, and it felt like a peach pit, a few centimeters at most, maybe. By the time it was excised during my mastectomy late February 2020, it was 4.4 cm. It matched the statistics I’d read about doubling size, that tumors could double from every 50 to 200 days, a wide range, but an estimate. It had likely been growing for years, and for whatever reason, I didn’t feel it, or it didn’t show up as an abnormality on my previous scans. 

I wished I’d gone in for an ultrasound over the last three years, instead of trusting that I didn’t need to worry. I wish I’d felt something sooner. I can’t explain how angry it has made me, for how on top of my health I’ve always been; I’ve always taken really good care of myself, and it baffled me that I could let this slip. I had struggled with occasional bouts of fatigue, headache, and nausea over the last couple of years, and seen my doctor about it. I even wrote about it in my journal. Bloodwork was normal, and they thought my sleep apnea was contributing to it. I had already tried a CPAP machine to no avail, and ended up trying a mouthguard, or mandibular advancement device. I couldn’t get used to that either, as it aggravated my jaw painfully. I knew something was off, but I thought it was just not eating well enough and overexerting myself, compounded by a poor night’s sleep from my apnea. 

I go over all of the things I could have done differently; I could have asked for an ultrasound just in case. It makes me so angry. All that energy is wasted, though, since I can do nothing to change it now; moreover, blaming myself isn’t helpful. That’s the mystery of cancer; most people don’t get a clear culprit for their diagnosis. 

I also felt angry that I didn’t feel more self-actualized in my life – that, after all I’d done with my life thus far, after all the happiness and passion, the times I’d felt like I was really stoked on how life was going, I still didn’t feel like I’d made it; that I didn’t feel fully seen or heard, or entirely successful. Part of it was financial. Sure, I’d like to be making more money, but mostly, it was existential; it brought into focus how much more I still wanted to do with my life, how much sharper I wanted to hone my mastery. Now, as millions of people find themselves with the boon, or burden, of too much time on their hands, we all share a unique opportunity for self-reflection, granted, of course, that we are lucky enough not to fall ill with COVID-19.

Another glaring similarity is the loss of control, and the anxiety that accompanies the uncertainty of the time we live in. A cancer diagnosis reminds you that despite your best efforts – healthy diet, exercise, and low-stress – we can’t control life; we can’t protect ourselves from every threat, no matter how hard we try. We are living in anxious times, worrying about our health and that of our loved ones, but we are also worried sick about the future. How many business owners will still have a viable business to return to? How many dreams of investing in a new business will be shelved indefinitely, victims of the slow build-up of the working man’s acquisition of savings, every penny one can spare after feeding and housing oneself? How many will be forced to work in another field altogether, trading a sense of purpose for a sense of sustenance? How many lives will be forever altered? Ultimately, how many lives will be forever changed by the loss of a loved one? How many lives will be lost, last breaths taken in crowded hospital wards, beds soon replaced with the next victim? It is staggering to think about the loss of life. It is also unsettling and worry inducing. 

We are reminded, again, that there are catastrophes whose scopes of damage know no boundaries. We are reminded of our vulnerability. Our economies, our infrastructure, all the structures we depend upon for our lives are on shaky ground. We must adapt to live, at least temporarily, without them. We are pushed to the edge of our comfort zones, no Vanilla Lattes to ease the sour aftertaste of a world gone awry. 

We must learn to be okay, on a certain level, with this loss of control, with this humbling recalibration of humankind. As cancer patients, this loss of control is compounded by changes in our treatment schedules, delays, and the risk of falling ill with a weakened immune system. We are at the mercy of a triage health-care approach, where things are changing on a minute-by-minute basis. Delays and hiccups are the nature of the game at this point, coronavirus, cancer, or both. We walk along with our dream legs, hoping to near a rewarding horizon of relief. The horizon sometimes moves, though, and we have no control over it. We must learn to focus on what we can control – ourselves – instead. It isn’t easy to do, especially when your life depends on it. Our patience is tested in a myriad of ways. 


I knew I would have dream legs moving along with my chemotherapy treatment, that my patience would need to adapt. On Monday, March 30, I went in for my first infusion at Kaiser San Jose. My sweet husband Ron drove me, and when I showed up my Dad was waiting in the parking lot! It was such a pleasant surprise to see him, and made me cry happy tears immediately. Though we couldn’t give each other a hug, it meant the world to me to share a few quick words before I continued on for my appointment. The love and sweetness continued when Ron dropped me off at the infusion clinic; he unzipped his sweater to reveal one of my favorite shirts: I Love My Smokin’ Hot Wife. He wears this shirt on occasion, but this time was just perfect. We embraced in a warm hug and off I went.

That’s another similarity between cancer and coronavirus: it brings people together, even if we are physically alone. The amount of love I’ve received from the virtual realm – emails, social media comments and messages, videochats – all help me feel supported and connected. People have sent gifts, money, and cards, all of which made a huge difference for me. The staff and teachers at my school collected a generous sum of money for me, which moved my heart. Though I often talk about what an introvert I am, we are all a blend of extroversion and introversion; few of us are solely one or the other. We are a shade of grey. I love time alone, but I love the people in my life, too! I am so grateful for the love and support I’ve received, it’s almost overwhelming. We all need each other right now; we are all feeling vulnerable amid the coronachaos. It warms my heart how much people are stepping up for each other. Nightly cheers for healthcare workers have been incredible to see, from singing Italians, to pots and pans banging New Yorkers, to our own local Eight O’Clock Howl in the San Lorenzo Valley. We even made the newspaper! It’s been a real treat each night to go out and howl with so many others, our valley echoing our calls in symphonic unison. You can feel the heart in everyone’s voices. 

Walking into my first scheduled chemo infusion, I definitely was feeling the love all around. I was ready. Seeing my dad and Ron before really helped calm me. As I entered the building, there were two COVID-19 screeners at the door. I’d had a hint of a cough over the last couple of days, nothing strong, so I promptly let them know. Though I didn’t feel sick, I wanted to be honest. I could be one of those mildly symptomatic people, after all. 

I donned a mask, and waited for a nurse to come take my temperature, only 98.5, for someone who usually runs about 97.9. After some time, she said they were delaying my infusion in case I was sick. At first, I was selfishly disappointed; I’d been so nervous about the appointment, it had taken a lot out of me. I just wanted to get it over with, and that wasn’t possible anymore. I left the building and started crying as I walked toward the parking lot to meet up with my father. I called my sisters Mary and Bonnie, and vented my frustrations; they kindly comforted me. I was fortunate to spend a half hour talking with my father in the parking lot, from six feet apart, until Ron came to pick me up. Of course it was normal to feel some disappointment, but I understood the severity of the situation, that all precautions must be taken. There was no point in risking nurses’ lives, or other chemo patients’ lives, if I was sick. They sent me back home, and told me to come back in a week on Monday, April 6. 

I quickly got over the let-down of the delay, and took it as a Bonus Week! I had a gift of another week to live my life chemo-free, and more importantly, to recover from my port implant surgery. I’d had the port implanted on Wednesday, March 25, under twilight anesthesia. They implanted a PowerPort into my right chest, connecting a catheter tube to my jugular vein in my neck. It didn’t hurt while it was being put in, but that night, I felt like I might’ve been shot (this coming from someone who has no idea what it feels like to be shot). My entire right chest, neck, and shoulder were just frozen and throbbing at the implant site. I couldn’t even lift my right hand to read a book, or make a cup with my hands under the sink while brushing my teeth. It was worse than the post-mastectomy pain, although I’d had some pain medication to help with that. This time, I didn’t want to take any pain pills; after my withdrawal from the gabapentin, I didn’t want to feel that way again. And, the anesthesia had already damaged my liver and body enough, so I didn’t want to add anything into the mix. It was really tough, though; for a good three days after surgery, it constantly hurt. My mobility was limited, and I could barely turn my head to look right or left. The mastectomy had been a huge hurdle, but I’d gotten over it and was feeling stronger by the day. Then this port comes along and takes me two-steps back, and sucker-punches me with pain worse than the mastectomy. 

I was so grateful to have an extra week to heal up from the port implant, and more importantly, have some fun! We are lucky to live in a beautiful mountain near the beach community, where there are plenty of trails and beaches to spread out upon. We were able to go mountain biking a few times, go to the beach, and only saw a few people quickly in passing. The weather was nice and sunny; I laid out in the backyard, soaking up the relaxing rays of the sun. 

I felt myself truly let go for the first time in weeks. I needed this extra time to heal up; to just get stronger, and feel like myself again. I wasn’t sore from my port implant anymore, and it felt wonderful to get outside and move! My husband and I had a fantastic week together – a Bonus Week – and it really buoyed my spirits. 

Happy Rider

The rain came in on Saturday the 4th. An oncology nurse telephoned to ask how I was doing, and whether I still had a cough. I reported that the cough had persisted throughout the week, but never worsened to the point of being productive or constrictive. I had no other symptoms – no runny nose, no signs of fever, no body aches – and added that I felt better as the week went on, just had a mild cough. She said they’d call me Monday morning to let me know if they wanted me to be tested. On Monday, April 6, they called and said I’d have a phone appointment with my doctor later that day. After the phone appointment, I was sent to the Scotts Valley Kaiser drive-up testing site. 

I felt so badly, and so grateful, for the two nurses manning the testing station, wearing face-shields, masks, gloves, aprons, and other PPE I may not have noticed. They were not taking any chances. I waited for them to tell me to roll down my car window, and the nurse said she’d do a throat swab followed by a nasal swab. I pulled down my mask, taking a deep scratch to the back of the throat. The nasal swab that ensued was quite uncomfortable – it felt like a swab had been pushed up into my brain. My eyes immediately started watering, and I felt as if I had water up my nose. I rolled up the window, and pulled away, feeling a bit shocked by how painful the test had been. It was not a pleasant experience! My nose felt like it was being tickled the rest of the day. I was told I’d get my results within a day, and went back home. 

My oncologist had told me they like to start chemo no later than six weeks after surgery; for me, that six-week mark was Wednesday, April 8. I’d hoped to start on March 30, but all precautions must be taken, and I understand the delay. That’s exactly what I’d written about in my last post, so I wasn’t too surprised. I’ve heard stories of other cancer patient’s treatments being delayed, too, and knew it could be worse. 

I got my test result back on Tuesday, April 7, and it was negative – phew! Part of me wished I’d never said anything when they asked if I had a cough, because after all, it wasn’t anything serious, and ended up delaying my treatment, but honesty is always the best policy. 

They suggested Monday, April 13, as my first infusion, but I asked for something sooner. They had Friday, April 10, at 10 a.m.; Good Friday. I took it. Until that needle was in my port, though, I wouldn’t believe it. Too much hype and delay. I enjoyed a beautiful Pink Supermoon on April 8, an apt moon for me. 

The day came, finally. I felt ready; I was calm, even. Ron dropped me off, and off I went. I started with thirty-minutes of wearing my Paxman Cold Cap, which gives me about a 50/50 chance of saving, to some degree, my hair. If it’ll work, I’ll try it! It felt cold, but not uncomfortable. I was in a side-room off of the main infusion room, where there were about fifteen other patients receiving infusions. The chair was comfy, and it was nice to have my own space. 

The nurse gave me three pre-medications: Zofran, steroid pills, and Zyprexa. A pharmacist was there to consult with me about the purpose and side-effects of each; Zofran and Zyprexa were antiemetics, or antinausea, medicines; drowsiness was the main side-effect. I was surprised to learn that Zofran was an antipsychotic, but is prescribed for nausea in chemotherapy patients as well. I’ll take Zofran twice a day for three days following chemo, and Zyprexa once a day, at night. Zyprexa is a serotonin-5-HT3 receptor antagonist, meaning it works to block serotonin from activating my gastrointestinal nerve, which is triggered by the chemotherapy drugs, Adriamycin and Procytox.  I’d also have to give myself a shot in my stomach, Zarxio, once a day, for seven days, starting on Day 3 of chemo (Sunday, for me). It will stimulate white-blood cell production in my bone marrow, bringing a side-effect of bone pain; for whatever reason, Claritin, your basic, over-the-counter antihistamine, is known to help with this. For how much I don’t like to take pills, it’s a lot for me to submit to all of these medications, but if they’ll help me to live a longer, healthier life, I don’t see it so much as a choice, but a necessary step toward healing. May they work effectively!

My oncologist also came in to meet with me, which was comforting. She explained that she had a new idea for my Taxol administration; initially, it was to be a 12-week cycle, given once a week, that was to be given after the first four rounds of Adriamycin and Procytox, given a two-week intervals. She explained that they would try doubling the dose of Taxol, and give it to me at two-week intervals, instead of weekly. This would allow me to finish chemo four weeks sooner, which was good news to me; that’s finishing on Friday, August 1, instead of Friday, August 28, the first Friday of my first week back at school, presuming I’m ready to go back then. It would also mean I’d have to continue doing the shots in my stomach, but I was okay with that as long as my body will tolerate it. We’ll have to wait and see, but hopefully I can finish on this shorter regimen – 16 weeks instead of a 20-week cycle. 

The infusions began next; the fluid was bright red, hence the nickname The Red Devil. It is also called that because red sores are common on the palms and feet, as well as hand-foot syndrome. It is red from the bacteria Streptomyces peucetius, from which the drug is derived. As frightening as some of these drugs are, I can’t fight my curiosity about them; it is interesting to learn about them, to the extent that someone who’s not a doctor can. Science is endlessly fascinating and intriguing. 

Both administrations took about twenty-five minutes, given slowly by the nurse into my chest port. It didn’t hurt having the port accessed, probably thanks to the lidocaine cream I put on an hour before. After the nurse had administered both drugs, I sat about twenty more minutes with a saline injection circulating through my port. I sucked and chewed ice the whole time, in an effort to reduce mouth sores. I didn’t have a strange taste in my mouth, though I’ve heard of it happening. I didn’t feel nauseous either, which was a relief. The nurse removed my port, and congratulated me on finishing my first round. 

First Chemo
First Chemo Infusion – Mask On!

Then, it was ninety more minutes of the cold-cap. I sat there reading my book, The Last Black Unicorn, by Tiffany Haddish. It was a great, fun way to pass the time of my first infusion. She is one of the funniest women!

I was finally done, and took off my cold-cap. Ron picked me up outside, and we went back home. I ate some lunch, and then took a nap for about three hours; I was exhausted. I felt okay, and went to bed around midnight. 

When I woke up the next morning, I was super thirsty and drank a bunch of water; I also took my Zofran pill. I immediately threw everything up. I went back to bed for a few more hours, and awoke around noon. I felt not only better, but energized. It must’ve been the steroids from the day before, because I was charged. I spent the day pruning and gardening, doing laundry, cleaning, and getting a lot done. I’d heard Day 3 was hardest for most people, and for me, that’s tomorrow, Sunday, April 12, Easter Sunday. We’ll see how I feel then, but here on Day 2, things are going okay.

It’s scary starting chemo at a time when you need your immune system at its strongest, when the coronavirus looms as a risk, but I am looking forward to making progress. I feel quite relieved now that chemo has begun, especially that it’ll be a 16-week cycle instead of 20-weeks. 

It’s coming at an apropos time, when we are forced into social distancing; right now, surfing is banned along the entire Santa Cruz County coastline! You’d think it were an April Fool’s joke, but no, it’s true. Beaches are closed, all parks and trails are closed, even the West Cliff Drive footpath is closed. It’s a one-week closure, aimed at deterring tourists from visiting over the usually popular Easter weekend. Though I’m bummed I can’t legally go for a mountain bike ride right now, at least I can go for a run from my house. I live in a beautiful neighborhood, and luckily the streets are still open. 

Like everyone these days, I’m looking forward to life returning to some semblance of normal. I’m looking forward to simple days built on simple things, with a healthy body. I’m looking forward to seeing my family and friends again, to sharing time together in a way that Skype or Facetime could never replace. I’m looking forward to living my life, free of cancer, free of coronavirus, free of the shelter-in-place order that holds us in this limbo of self-reflection and self-expression. 

I wrote about wanting to feel seen and heard when I was first diagnosed, but now, I just want to see my own reflection, to hear my own echo; that’s enough for me. I want to see myself on the other side of breast cancer, healthy and strong, my voice empowered, not defeated, by the vicissitude of cancer. If I can survive this in good health and see myself through, that’s all I need now. I don’t need any accolades, recognition, or compliments of others anymore than I need my appendix; with or without them, life goes on. I only need my good health, and the rest will follow. May I be blessed with such grace in the years ahead, as survival rates are only protracted over the long-term. Much of what I’ve been reading lately has only confirmed that my survival rate is lower than average, and my recurrence rate is higher. There are a multitude of factors that go into determining the virility of a woman’s breast cancer: age at diagnosis, size of tumor, histologic grade of tumor (Nottingham score), whether the tumor is hormone sensitive to estrogen and progesterone, genetic factors such as the BRCA-1 and 2 genes, family history, and whether the cancer has metastasized to other body parts such as the lymph nodes. Young age is typically associated with more aggressive cancers and worse prognosis. The more lymph nodes the cancer has spread to, the worse the long-term outlook. The higher the Nottingham grade score, the worse the prognosis; my tumor was 9/9, with three positive nodes. It’s a complex web of factors, but in my case, everything I keep reading doesn’t give me a lot of hope. 

I feel like I am fighting for more time. Everything I’m doing for treatment now is for the chance to have more time on this Earth. The chemo, the radiation I will undergo, despite my fears of its collateral damage, is part of my attack plan. The goal is to throw everything I can at it now, in the hopes that it’ll quash my cancer, to make whatever leftover cells not excised from my mastectomy and lymphadenectomy dormant. 

Like any other cancer survivor, should I respond well to treatment, I will have to live the rest of my life looking out for collateral damage from my treatment now – the risks of lymphedema, lung-cancer, heart damage, leukemia, and a recurrence of breast cancer that would be a death sentence. Though women are living years with metastatic breast cancer, there remains no cure for it. It is a balance of palliative care and extending life. I fear I will be one of those women whose cancer comes back, who dies at a relatively young age as a result, but none of that worry is helpful right now, so I try to let it go.

Which leads me to yet another similarity between the coronavirus and cancer: it has changed everyone’s lives forever. Nothing will ever be exactly the same after this. We will all look back at this time with heavy reverence. There will be a time when we can look back and remember what it was like when we were at home, or when we had it but persevered; we’ll remember a loved one who fell ill, and either got better, or died. Bless the thousands of lives lost from this virus. I will always live with the risk of a recurrence of cancer, but the world too will live with a risk of recurrence, of a similar pandemic crippling our societies. We will all live with the consequences of this time for years to come. We will live with its shadow for years. We will carry on ahead, lessons learned from the past, but no sense of what the future may hold. Such is the dynamic, changing nature of life. 

It’s extra crazy to have cancer during this coronavirus pandemic, but the magnitude of the pandemic overshadows my individual struggle. The world is suffering, and that pain is greater than my own. It gives me perspective, and makes my challenge not seem so ominous. It reminds me that life is unpredictable – cancer or coronavirus – and nothing is guaranteed.

What’s really helped me cope with everything has been pretty simple: hiking and riding my bike in Nature, reading, enjoying my hobbies, yoga, playing and listening to music, and, most of all, the good grace of a loving husband whom I am eternally grateful for. I really don’t think I’d be doing as well without him; if I were all alone, I think it’d be harder. I know women do it, and do it with strength, but I can’t imagine doing this without my husband, especially now that people can’t come visit me anyway.

I think everyone is appreciating their loved ones, their cherished hobbies, their time to do what they love. There are tons of podcasts, TV shows, and movies to escape into as well. I’ve been playing my guitar a lot, rocking out to Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears, one of my anthem songs for breast cancer. I’ve been dancing around the living room to my favorite hip-hop songs. We all need an outlet, especially in challenging times. Distraction is the word of the moment, but it’s more than distraction; it’s adaptation, it’s survival. We must adapt to the reality we are in, and find ways to nurture ourselves through this time. We must keep ourselves as happy as we can be. 

May we all come out stronger on the other side; smarter, sharper, clearer in our convictions. May we all come out alive and healthy. May we all come out to see each other’s smiling faces on the other side. 

In the meantime, may we all make the most of the situation; may we show gratitude and reverence for life’s daily gifts. The world remains beautiful, stoically persisting despite the darkest hours of our lives. May we all find serenity in the simple things, from coffee in the morning, to a shared laugh with a loved one; with the shared bond of sheltering in place amid a global pandemic. Though miles apart, we are united in spirit, and we have so much more in common than our differences.

May we all count our blessings, and stay well.