Spring 2021: Reflections on the Past Year

Your HAY-er!!! Your HAY-ER!!!

With each hair drawn out into two dramatic, gasped syllables, her face grew more inquisitive. 

Your HAY-ER!

I’d just said Hi to an old colleague in the market by my house, someone who’d substitute-taught for me many times over the years. We hadn’t seen each other in at least a year.

And who are you? She skeptically asked. She looked at me like I was homeless, but I don’t blame her. I also had a mask on, of course.

It’s Katrin Deetz, from the middle school? You used to sub for me?

Oh sorry, I didn’t recognize you; your HAY-ER!!!

I didn’t want to unload on her that I’d recently finished breast cancer treatment, and that this HAY-ER, disturbing as it clearly was, made me happy with every wayward new strand that stood up straight from its follicle. It also drove me mad and mocked me, wildly sticking up in protest of being decimated by chemotherapy. 

I changed the subject and made awkward small talk as I neared the front of the check-out line, never mentioning what I’d been through. She probably assumed I was in a really bad place, like maybe I’d become a tweaker or something.

Granted, I might be shocked if I saw me too, especially if the last time I saw me I had long, thick, beautiful hair. 

But I left that market, went home, and cried – not because of what she said, and I know she’s a nice lady who didn’t intend to make me feel bad. It was just another reminder of what I’d been through. She wasn’t the only one who’d been taken aback by my appearance. Everywhere I go, it seems people notice my awkward hair. At the checkout line in the grocery store, I’m called Ma’am without question; out and about, I sometimes people notice and stare. I used to be greeted with Miss, and a friendly smile; now, I feel like people don’t even notice me. I’m a strong woman, but the pain of losing your trademark long hair is a hard pill to swallow. Unruly hair blesses my head with millimeters of keratin each week, but it’s a slow process. 

It’s been seven months since I finished my last radiation appointment on September 23, 2020, and over a year since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer on February 3, 2020. Many milestones and “anniversaries” have happened over the last couple of months, from remembering my biopsy on January 29, to my diagnosis, to my double-mastectomy on February 26, to my first round of chemotherapy on April 9, 2020. Each one-year anniversary brings a paradoxical sense of distance, like it was so long ago, while on some levels it feels like only yesterday.

Paradoxical would be just about the best word to describe how I’m feeling these days. I’ve written about this feeling in past blog posts, and it certainly hasn’t subsided. 

Most of the time, I feel remarkably grateful and happy to be alive each day. I am filled with a sense of urgency and attack to go after that which I love. If there were an award for seizing the day, I think I might deserve it. I’ve been getting after Life zealously. I’ve always had a strong lust for life, appreciating its brevity, but I feel doubly committed to the things, and people, I love now. I’ve been on my bike almost everyday, and those pedals have been the antidote to occasional moments of profound feelings of loneliness. There’s nothing like seeing a bobcat at the end of your ride to brighten your day!

Things are also looking up in terms of the pandemic. I had my first day teaching Hybrid instruction back in the classroom on March 29, 2021; it had been over a year since my last day teaching in-person on February 13, 2020. It felt momentous and celebratory to be back in my classroom again with students. I felt compassion for these young people, who’d endured over a year out of the classroom. To meet my students in person, masked up of course, felt amazing. We did a fun Science lab of electrolysis of water, and made some slime with borax and glue. My classroom was once again filled with the sounds of laughing students, talking with each other as they stirred their slime mixture into long, sticky polymers. It was music to my ears. 

I was vaccinated for Covid-19, and overall I’m not too worried about being in the classroom with students. I am keeping a close eye on these unruly variants that researchers are finding on the rise, though. If there’s anything we ought to have learned from Covid, it’s that you can’t predict the future of this virus with any certainty. I was happy to get the vaccine to help get teachers back in the classroom, but only time will tell whether the vaccine will be deemed effective against these new variants.

Little did I know I would have the added challenge of teaching from home during a pandemic on top of breast cancer treatment. I worked hard to digitize my curriculum, to explore new apps and platforms I could use for distance learning. There was a lot of heavy lifting in the beginning, but it definitely got easier as the year went on. I’m proud of myself for all of the different things I tried, and ways I expanded my curriculum. I grew immensely as an educator, and will continue to use many of the resources I found this year in my future teaching. I’m proud of my students for being so adaptable. There were parts of distance teaching that I grew to enjoy: I can’t deny that it was nice to work from home on a shortened schedule while I recovered from cancer treatment. 

But It saddened me that these kids were missing out on so much. There were also really hard days where I felt like I was teaching to an empty room on Zoom; Hello?! Anyone there? I’m sure I said that at some point this year. There were days it felt like pulling teeth to get my students engaged. I had to get more creative, keep expanding my digital resources. I am glad we are back in-person four days a week, and I can’t wait until we are all back full-time. It is a true milestone to be in the classroom again, if only on an abbreviated schedule. I am so happy for all the kids out there who get to see their friends again, and have some sense of normalcy return. 

This Winter, Ron and I were lucky we could do our normal favorite activity: snowboarding. We had our best snowboarding season yet this year, racking up 23 days on the mountain – a personal record for me. We live a four-hour drive from Kirkwood, and I work a dayjob, so getting in 23 days was pretty stellar. Almost every weekend this Winter was spent on the mountain, carving powder while cultivating a wider smile. We had so much fun, and if you’re a powder-hound yourself, you know the feeling! I am so grateful for all of those magical days. It’s meaning of life stuff.

We also explored an abandoned ski resort, Iron Mountain, right off of Highway 88, for our first time. Most of it has been decommissioned now, but all these years I drove by it not knowing it was there. It was cool to check out the old bull wheels and towers, and there were lots of snowmobilers around. 

Every weekend was like an escape away. I felt vengeful, almost, of wanting to make up for lost time when I couldn’t snowboard at the end of last Winter. On the weekdays, I’d go mountain biking on my favorite trails in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

One of My Favorite Places in the World!
California Chutes

I also spent a lot of time tidepooling at low-tide, something I absolutely love to do. It’s a nice balance to the high-speed activities I enjoy. 

Time outside, whether doing sports or simply walking, is therapeutic, inspiring, and necessary. Every minute I’ve spent outside has helped me maintain a positive attitude of gratitude, most of the time. The majority of my days are spent appreciating the fact that I get a second chance to live.

On the flipside, I’ve had some impassioned moments of feeling angry and irritable, part of that whole paradoxical way I’ve been feeling, and part of the post-traumatic stress symptoms I’ve experienced over the last several months. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. 

I’ve been snappy while driving; Move your ass, Moron! I find myself venting to my empty car. My patience is thin for inefficiency and incompetence. My temper is a lot quicker than it used to be.

When I found out the liquor store down the street had been charging me $.39 for every credit card transaction, without disclosure after years of patronage, I filed a complaint with the attorney general. 

Even the best powder couldn’t keep me from getting irritated with people in the chairlift lines at Kirkwood with no masks on, or their nose out, or worse: the Preacher who showed up one Sunday morning to Chair 4, and reminded me just how angry I still was. 

Shouting from the top of his lungs to a crowded line full of skiers and snowboarders, the Preacher yelled indignantly about how we all needed to repent, find Jesus, and that we would be going to hell if we did not accept him as our savior. He was citing scripture, and trying to engage with anyone that would respond. Typical downtown San Francisco, Market District kind of stuff – or Pacific Avenue in Santa Cruz, at times.

After a few minutes, some people started yelling back at him to be quiet; that we were just there to have a good time. One guy dropped to the ground in a dramatic fashion, writhing in the snow, shouting, I’m going to Hell! Everyone laughed at that. It was a good release of tension, but people were getting annoyed by the Preacher, invading our earspace with his proselytizing. People would regularly shout at him to Shut up! 

By the time we neared the main line to board the chairlift, about fifteen minutes later, he was right in front of us. Normally, I would have ignored the yelling, knowing that he wanted attention from all of us. I’m not religious, and have no problem with someone being passionately so, as long as they’re not trying to convert me.

But that anger and irritability I was talking about? It got the better of me. I was so tired of hearing his screaming, especially now that he was right in front of me. I bit my tongue as long as I could, until I couldn’t take it anymore and retorted:

Look Man, I didn’t go through breast cancer treatment last year to sit here and listen to you tell me I’m going to Hell. You have no idea what I’ve been through. Shut up and stop screaming at all of us!

Yep, I pulled that Cancer Card right out of my back pocket and played it, hoping it would quell his righteousness. It didn’t work, of course. 

My heart was beating fast, and my temper was high. 

The Preacher responded with a short Bless you before continuing on his rant asking me if I’d accepted Jesus Christ as my savior. Ron chimed in and told him to leave me alone and shut the hell up. Other riders were joining in, too, telling him to be quiet. We were all tense and ready to escape his ranting. 

Suddenly, a ski instructor rode up in the Jets’ cut line to the front of the line with his students. I immediately told him that this guy had been shouting at us incessantly, and could he please do something about it? 

He was quick to dismiss it and tell me it wasn’t his job to deal with that. Nice; thanks Dude.

Then, as fate would have it, we boarded the chairlift right after Preacher dude. Ten minutes up the mountain, Preacher turning around shouting at us, reciting proverbs by number, next chair up. We ignored him most of the ride, but then shouted back at him mid-mountain in protest. 

The best part? Ron asked him what his name was, and he yelled back his name. Ron then said, No, your name is Larry – cause that’s exactly what you are, a Larry! I know it wasn’t helpful to engage with this guy, but I’ve got to hand it to Ron: he always has the best comebacks. 

We ignored him the rest of the ride, and when we got off at the top, he was greeted by two ski patrols who immediately laid into him about his preaching. I could only imagine how the ski patrols would respond to being shouted at by this guy; I’m pretty sure they’d use their blackballing privileges to 86 him. 

Of course, none of the shouting back made me feel any better. It only made me feel worse. I don’t typically engage with people like that, letting a total stranger get the better of me. The old me would have ignored him altogether, feeling compassionate for whatever pain and loneliness he must be suffering to stand there yelling at all of us. It reminded me how angry I still am about cancer, and how I haven’t gotten over it yet. I cried later that day, realizing how much anger I was evidently carrying around.

Where was this anger really coming from? Hurt and pain. I was hurting for all I’d been through; I was hurting for my losses – of innocence, identity, and health. My body was still recovering from all that it’d been through, and adjusting to the new version of myself. No matter how much fun snowboarding or mountain biking were, no amount of flow and grace could take away this stirring, gnawing discontent within me. I am so mad that I got breast cancer. I struggle with this deep-seated, pervasive feeling that I just can’t seem to shake since my diagnosis. I’m angry at my hair loss, my loss of aerobic capabilities, and anything in my life that isn’t working well. There is a sense of urgency to fix all that is broken.

I’m angry at humans – our overpopulation, pollution, pillaging the planet to ruins; our Me-First attitude. My heart breaks for everything from the dead animals I see on the side of the road hit by cars, to the ever-increasing records being set with climate, to every news article outlining yet another species’ decline toward extinction. I feel hopeless sometimes about the future of the human race, and our trajectory with this planet. People can be total jerks, especially when it comes to the environment. 

I’m angry I didn’t catch my cancer sooner. I drive myself crazy thinking of all the times over the year or so before I was diagnosed that I knew something was wrong; that I went to the doctor telling them I didn’t feel well, that I had blood tests showing everything was fine; that I was so tired all the time. I think back to my last mammogram at age 36, when I was told I was fine and didn’t need to come back until I was 40. I think of all the times I examined my breasts, keenly aware of the large fibroadenoma I’d had since age eighteen, which to my touch didn’t feel any different. I think of how that cancerous tumor hid underneath said fibroadenoma, insidiously growing underneath it until it was large enough to be felt sticking out the side. By that point, of course, it wasn’t early; it had spread to three of my lymph nodes, and had grown to a total diameter of over 4cm. It drives me crazy. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it, but I know it’d be healthier for me if I did. 

What I am most angry about is that I still don’t feel 100% physically. I still have my expanders in and am awaiting my exchange surgery for proper implants. I am reminded everyday of my mastectomy, and what I lost. With Covid delays, who knows when I’ll be scheduled for my surgery. 

I am still having some truncal lymphedema on my left side around my ribcage, exacerbated by heat, long periods of sitting, and overexercise. It feels like someone grabbing me, and pouring warm water on my ribs; quite a strange sensation.

I’ve also been diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my neck on my cervical vertebrae (C5-C7), where I have osteophytes, or bone spurs. My neck really started hurting this Fall after starting Tamoxifen, and I noticed my vertebrae felt enlarged. Tamoxifen is linked to increased arthralgias, or bone and joint pain. I had my neck x-rayed, which revealed bone spurs that had likely been developing for years. Doctors said my neck looked more like an older person’s in their sixties or seventies, but with all the high-impact sports I’d done in my life – especially mountain biking – they weren’t surprised. I also have some arthritis in my left knee, hip, and am feeling signs of it in both of my hands now after playing guitar. Osteoarthritis is irreversible, but I can work on practicing good ergonomics in all of my physical activities, including computer use. 

My left rotator cuff on my shoulder is constantly tight, not only from radiation and lymphedema, but from hitting a tree snowboarding back in February this year. I’m okay, but I have to stretch it all the time to keep it from freezing up. Yoga, self massage, and elevating it while resting really help. 

By far, the toughest part about everything post cancer-treatment has been muscle fatigue, and feeling hypoxic while exercising. There’s a shortness of breath that’s never been there. It’s not from being out of shape; I exercised through my treatments almost everyday. My workout habits haven’t changed, but my endurance has.

I feel a tightness in my throat as well, like my airway is shrinking; I even make a snoring sound now when I breathe hard in certain positions. I’ve read that bone spurs on your neck can protrude into your airway, so that could be a possibility, too. I already have sleep apnea, so I fear I’m suffocating even more in my sleep each night. I’m sleeping with propped up pillows on my side as it seems to help keep my airway more open. I’m also going to try the CPAP again, even though I couldn’t tolerate it the last time I tried.

When I stand up from a crouched position, I feel like I’m going to pass out; when I’m tidepooling and squatting down to check out an anemone, and stand up, I feel like I’m going to faint. This has been, quite frankly, frightening. 

My energy level isn’t where it used to be, and my lungs cannot keep up with the activities I normally do. When I’m riding my bike uphill, I get so winded and out of breath, my heart racing past its maximum heart rate. I have to stop and take several breaks on my climbs because I feel like I cannot get enough oxygen. It is humbling – and scary – to feel like you can’t catch your breath on your usual routes. For someone who’s been in exceptional cardiovascular shape all my life, doing all kinds of sports, I feel a marked decline in my aerobic capacity. My muscles and lungs are quick to fatigue.

This was especially apparent last weekend at my first Enduro race of the season, the Exchequer Enduro. I registered for the Expert category, but after pre-riding the weekend before, I had to walk a couple of sections of the Gnarnia trail. If I can’t ride it clean, I don’t typically race it, so I moved down to the Sport Category, which didn’t include Gnarnia. I also knew I’d need lots of breaks on the transfers in between the timed stages.

The first stage, Tarantula Trail, was extremely pedaly, with a fair amount of climbing; I knew it would be my weakest stage. I moved through it slowly on my preride, thinking the course felt more like a cross-country race than an Enduro. 

On race day, sure enough, I maxed out quickly on the first stage, lagging behind from the start. I just couldn’t push any harder, slogging up the hill, breathing hard, heart racing. I could feel my lymphedema in my left rib flaring up, too. Obviously, I was nowhere near 100%.

I was so discouraged that on my second stage, Flying Squirrel, I felt like I barely tried. I also felt timid; after spending so much time last year fighting for my health, I have some hesitation about charging all out on a relatively unfamiliar course and risking injury.

What was I doing here? A forty year old has-been amateur racer – who am I kidding? My attitude was pretty sour. I can be a little hard on myself.

By my third and final stage, Down and Out, I was ready to have some fun and finish on a positive note. This was my favorite stage of the race, and the most gravity-assisted, downhill style trail of the race; the other two laps were cross-country style. 

In my element, I got third place on that stage, which was some redemption for my abysmal overall placement: square at the bottom of the Sport Women category. Ouch! 

Yes, I lost this race. It was the worst Enduro race I’ve ever had.

I wasn’t too surprised, but it really stung. I felt somewhat good about my third stage time, but overall I was disappointed. I ride for the love of it, but I’m competitive, too; I like to do well. Losing is hard. I admit, I cried. 

Was I done with racing? Did it even matter? I know I’m not going to become Isabeau Courdurier at my age, but I like challenging myself with racing. There’s such a feeling of being damaged goods after breast cancer. I fight to dismiss it, but I really felt that way after this race.

I had to remind myself that I am healing from cancer treatments, and to be gentle; to forgive myself. My poor body is tired and beat after all it’s been through, no matter how good of shape I was in before. 

People warned me of long-lasting fatigue post-treatment, and situations like these really highlight it. Other breast cancer survivors have talked about the feeling of being done with treatment, but nowhere near being done. I totally relate to that. Everyone thinks you’re done, but you’re still living with the side effects. This isn’t the same Katrin as before; this is a woman who’s lived through surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. I am nowhere near 100% of what I used to be, and I don’t know that I ever will be, but I will cherish everyday that I’m blessed enough to be gifted. 

I am in touch with my doctors to better understand my shortness of breath and decline in cardiovascular performance. I was warned pre-treatment that the chemotherapy regimen could damage my heart. Aggravated heartburn and epiglottitis are being considered as well; I’ve been put on Pepcid-AC everyday to see if that decreases the swelling in my throat, but so far I don’t notice a difference. 

My doctors ran a full blood panel on me, including testing my iron levels to see if I was anemic, my hormones, and even a tumor beta test to measure possible tumor growth. All the tests came back basically normal. I had an ultrasound of my carotid artery to check the blood flow, which was also normal. In a couple of weeks, I’ll have a stress test and EKG of my heart. 

Some signs point to radiation fibrosis, a permanent scarring of the lung tissue. This can result in reduced lung volume, which could explain the feeling of being hypoxic I seem to be having so often these days. I do feel like I’m living with less lung capacity. 

Whatever the case, as always, my biggest worry is the shadow of recurrence; I feel it everyday. With every moment of gratitude and happiness I have, it isn’t long before I’m reminded that there may well be something lurking inside of me, just waiting to kill me. 

I know I’m not alone in having cancer, but I feel overwhelmingly alone sometimes – like nobody understands what I’m going through, despite there being such wonderful people in my life. Going through cancer is intensely isolating. I feel like I’m fighting a battle that no one can see, yet think they can. I love people, but I like spending time alone, and have always been that way. Peace, quiet, and being outdoors are extremely important to me. Most of my hobbies are independent, and you’ll almost always find me riding solo when I’m mountain biking. I can’t fault myself for being introverted, but when I read that breast cancer survivors have a higher risk of recurrence if they were lonely, and it struck a chord for me. Humans need connection. My small but priceless group of family and friends have been anchors for me throughout this whole process, making me feel a little less alone. 

There’s been a lot to celebrate and be grateful for, and certainly a lot more happiness than pain. Life is incessantly beautiful, meant to be appreciated, and the pulse of its magical diversity beats on. No matter how much residual anger I still have, it is greatly outweighed by gratitude and reverence for the miracle of Life. 

I feel like a humble bad ass having lived through what I’ve been dealt. Distance learning was a challenge this year, but it had nothing on cancer. Things that used to make me nervous don’t have a foothold now. I’m still a little scared of death, but I’ve made a lot of progress on that. 

I don’t need special treatment from anyone, but I do have a request: 

If you see someone with crazy short hair that you haven’t seen in awhile, don’t quizzically say, Your HAY-ER!, even if it’s a shock to you. 

Because I guarantee you, it’s not as much as a shock as it is to the person living with it everyday. 

Radiation, Breast Cancer, & The End of A Decade

I feel like a walking paradox at the moment. I’m more tired than ever, yet I’ve never felt more alive; I’m a little worse for the wear, but grateful beyond measure. I am so happy I want to shout it from the mountaintops, yet so humbled I want to sit in silence. It’s been three weeks since I finished radiation for breast cancer treatment, and two months since I finished chemotherapy. As if I don’t already feel a decade older, on October 10, 2020, I turned forty years old, officially leaving my Thirties behind. 

It’s been a long road since I was first diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma, stage 2B, on February 3, 2020. I’ve written often about the importance of keeping a positive attitude, gleaning gratitude wherever you can find it, and cultivating flow and grace during this time. I’ve found these themes to be my guiding light throughout this tunnel-like process, but after months of treatment, and finally reaching the “end” of the road, I am also feeling the collateral damage my body has endured. I am simply exhausted.

Radiation was a long haul. Starting on Wednesday, August 19, I went in daily, Monday through Friday, to the Kaiser Santa Clara Cancer Treatment Center for a five-week regimen. The appointments were anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes long, getting shorter as the weeks went on. I scheduled my appointments for the afternoon, after work, and would drive the roughly forty minutes over the hill. 

I was evacuated from the CZU Lightning Complex Fire for the first eleven days of treatment, which I wrote about in my previous post, and had just returned to work after a six month medical leave-of-absence. After eight rounds of chemotherapy that I finished in early August, I was pretty beat from the start. The threat of losing our home compounded the stress of treatment and going back to work, and I definitely felt overwhelmed. I’m a tough cookie, but the shots just kept coming. 

Radiation fatigue can set in quickly for some people, or build over time, but it is some serious business. About ten days in, my fatigue really intensified. Although I’d adapted to a regular feeling of tiredness, I felt exceptionally beat, like I could fall asleep sitting up. Granted, I hadn’t been sleeping much while evacuated, as our cat would cry incessantly every night. 

The hardest part of radiotherapy was positioning my shoulder for the linear accelerator machine. I would lie supine on my back, with my arms outstretched above my head. It was important to lie still and hold position once settled, but it sometimes took several tries to confirm. The nurses were very nice, and would gently move my left arm as needed to get me in the right position. However, I’ve separated this shoulder a few times, and it would freeze up being in these awkward positions, blood draining from my arm and falling asleep as the minutes passed. It was truly painful sometimes, especially with the plastic backboard pushing into my trapezius muscle as my contorted shoulder was placed into all kinds of uncomfortable positions. When I’d finally lower my arms at the end, I’d have to physically pull my left arm back down because my shoulder was so tight. This was the most challenging part about the appointments. 

The scariest part was actually receiving the radiation. My whole left chest wall, from my lower ribs to my armpit and up to my clavicle, was treated; since the heart is on the left side, the risk of heart disease increases. Thus, breath holding is used to try to minimize exposure to the heart. The nurses spoke to me through an intercom from the other room, instructing me to Breathe In, Hold, and Breathe Normally. Knowing that my heart’s health depended upon me holding my breath just so, pushing out my chest cavity to protect it as much as possible, was a heavy load to carry. No pressure! It was much harder than holding my breath if I were standing up straight; try lying on your back and holding your breath for thirty seconds, and you’ll see what I mean. I focused intensely on keeping my breath in, and knowing how much it mattered made it all the more imperative to keep every molecule of air in. 

There was a startling moment during treatment when I had been holding my breath for over thirty seconds, and I could still hear the machine; it makes a unique buzzing sound while delivering radiation. The nurses had instructed me to exhale and breathe normally, but I could still hear the machine sounding. Reluctant to exhale, I thought it was stuck on, and kept holding my breath. 

Breathe normally, they messaged again through the intercom. Scared to let go, finally the noise stopped. I exhaled with relief, and then asked them if the machine had gotten stuck. They came in to explain that the machine can make noise when it’s not delivering radiation, kind of like warming up, and that it hadn’t been stuck on. I felt better understanding that, but it was a bit shocking at first. 

Each day got a little more efficient. The actual treatments themselves took only several minutes; most of the time was spent aligning me in the exact spot, laser beams measuring every contour with precise angles. I received several freckle-sized tattoos to help map the treatment area, too. Every couple of weeks, I met with my radiation oncologist for a check-up of my skin, which started reddening about two weeks in, subtly like a mild sunburn. Skin changes are the most common side effect from radiation, and it wasn’t too bad at first. 

By four weeks in, I was definitely getting redder, and my exhaustion was growing by the day. They’d warned me that fatigue worsens as you go, and they were right. I was tired of driving over the hill everyday, and one day in particular, I got a dead battery in the parking lot after treatment. It was one of those long days where I just felt beat, and then my car wouldn’t start after my appointment. Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I cried with surrender, feeling the build up of so many emotions. Just keep ‘em coming! I bemoaned.

I called my insurance for a jump start, and within the hour I was driving back home. The obvious symbolism was glaring, though: my battery was dead, my battery was drained. I needed a jumpstart; I was running on empty. For all the looking on the bright side that I typically do, I couldn’t deny that I was standing in the shadows. Despite my positive disposition, this whole experience was difficult, depressing, and draining. 

My usual medicine of exercise when I’m feeling down about something wasn’t fully available, with my bike awaiting repair. My carbon rim had cracked, and I was awaiting a warranty replacement from Santa Cruz Bicycles; I also sent my suspension in to Fox for servicing during this time. The skies were so smokey from wildfires that I couldn’t go for a run safely, especially since I was in radiation. There is a risk of fibrosis in the lungs if you smoke or are exposed to smoke during radiation, so I really didn’t want to breathe hard when particulate levels were at dangerous, and sometimes hazardous, levels. Without my daily endorphin rush from exercise, I felt cranky, defeated, and unfocused. I knew I needed to get outside of my situation, to escape to the hills for some blood-pumping thrills. 

What better time to demo a downhill bike?

I went to Northstar and rented a downhill bike one Sunday when the air quality was better up in Tahoe than it was here in Ben Lomond. I had never ridden one before, and after a few weeks off my bike, I was seething for some flow. I had an awesome time hitting the trails on a 27.5” Scott Gambler, my first time on that wheel size as well. I needed to hit the dirt, and it charged my batteries to be back on two wheels. It was a month before my bike would be back together in working order, the longest stretch of time off my bike in years. 

The upside of being off my bike so long? My lymphedema all but went away. I had noticed some swelling in my thumb, fore, and middle fingers at the end of July, with shooting pains down the back of my arm by early August, signs of lymphedema. I continued doing my daily regimen of stretches and exercises, but it wasn’t until I stopped mountain biking everyday that I noticed an improvement in my symptoms. It was a blessing to see such a clear correlation between mountain biking and lymphedema, to figure out what was exacerbating it; it was the only thing I was doing differently that month. 

I’ve been back on my bike for weeks now, and am being cognizant for any signs of lymphedema. I have noticed some hints of it returning after a couple of long rides, but mostly, I am symptom free. My physical therapist advised me to take frequent breaks during my rides, and to actually do the stretches while riding, when possible, like flat sections where I don’t really need both hands on the bars. So far, so good, but this is something I’ll have to keep a close eye on as time goes on. Hopefully, it will remain all but gone. 

I finished radiation on Wednesday, September 23. By the end, I was extremely tired, and my skin was really red. The nurses were so sweet, cheering me on during my last treatment. When it came time to take my final breath in and hold, they emphasized for the last time. When treatment was over, I thanked them for their care and expertise, especially during a pandemic. 

I physically felt lighter leaving the clinic after that appointment. No longer would I be driving over the hill and back everyday, and from now on I could look forward to healing. I slept in that weekend until noon, I needed it so badly, but the following weekend, I was ready to celebrate the culmination of months of treatment. 

I got my port removed on September 25, two days after I finished radiation, and exactly six months after I had it implanted. I was so ready to get that thing out! The surgery was quick, but painful. They gave me a giant lidocaine shot, which hurt like heck, and it wasn’t nearly enough. I felt everything – the incision into my chest, a few minutes of tugging pressure, and then it being pulled out of my chest. She sewed me up with eight stitches; I felt every loop of that needle through my skin. I didn’t want to ask for another shot, as that would just delay everything, so I just lay there and toughed it out. It was pretty gnarly, but I was so excited to get it out I almost didn’t care. It was just another hoop to jump through in this obstacle course.

Ron and I had an incredible weekend away to Downieville and Northstar for closing day of the season at the start of October. We stayed at the Downieville River Inn on the Yuba River, and had an awesome mountain bike ride from Packer Saddle down the Downieville Downhill. Hauling down Butcher Ranch Trail, I saw a bear standing right in the trail! I slammed on my brakes and skidded to a stop as quickly as I could without crashing, and about thirty or forty feet away, it stoically held its ground. A few seconds passed before Ron rode up behind me, and I shouted Bear! 

Startled, it sauntered uphill off the trail, and we stood to watch it for a quick minute before continuing on. Though black bears aren’t prone to attack humans, we didn’t want to linger too long. It was the second time we’ve seen a bear this Summer in Downieville; I think of all the other times we just didn’t notice them. It was really cool to see; I love animals so much! The next day, we rode Northstar, basking in the Autumn sun and bliss of riding well-maintained jumps and berms for the last day of their season. 

It was a wonderful way to cap off treatment, but the collateral damage was becoming more evident. My skin had darkened to an extreme red, and was quite itchy. I was using all kinds of creams and oils – Calendula cream, coconut oil, vitamin E oil, shea butter, aloe vera – trying to moisturize my parched skin. My skin was physically hot to the touch, and my left chest wall was swollen. The seams of my clothing were irritating, and I could only take so much hot water in the shower. I was pretty uncomfortable. They had warned me that radiation has a cumulative effect, worsening seven to ten days after your last treatment, and they were spot on. Like clockwork, I’d gone from having a mild burn to a frighteningly dark burn. As the days went on, my skin began to peel. The fatigue stuck around, despite getting exercise everyday, and felt more intense than chemotherapy on some days.

Now, I’ve turned forty, on 10/10/2020. The numbers were certainly neat: 10 + 10 = 20, and 20 + 20 = 40. I had a fantastic weekend of mountain biking, disc golf, going to the beach, and I got to see my mom, dad, and stepdad to boot. Although I’ve finished the biggest parts of treatment – mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation – now I’ve starting the next phase of treatment with Tamoxifen, an anti-estrogen pill given as chemotherapy, for the next ten years. I’ve made a lot of progress, but I don’t feel totally done with treatment. 

My youth feels a little bit like a growing reflection in the mirror. I’ve spent so much of my life with my identity tied to my youth, whether it was my athleticism, vibrant energy, or appearance, and with its light fading, I can’t help but resent its growing absence. I am happy to still be alive, but I can’t deny the significance of this moment, of shifting phases in my life. Turning forty seals the deal. I feel more lucky than resentful of aging, though, and each day brings an opportunity to experience more and grow wiser.

It’s been a lonely experience, at times, especially in the time of COVID-19, to no fault of those who love and support me. I have been so blessed with such amazing, loving people in my life! Many days I was actually alone, merely because no one could come to appointments with me or visit during shelter-in-place orders. There are so many aspects of going through treatment – mentally, emotionally, and physically – that are impossible for me to fully describe, try as I may.  I feel like I can’t quite get all the words out when it comes to conveying my experience with cancer, yet I continue to write, as it’s always been part of my process, helping me make sense of life’s major forks in the road.

Now that I’ve reached this milestone in treatment, I face the uncertainty of recurrence. It’s mildly unsettling to know there’s no guarantee anything worked, and that ultimately, I could die. I’ll see my oncologist every three months for the next two years, and will be on watch for any illness or issues; after that, I’ll go in every six months for three years, and then annually after that. I won’t be having a PET scan right now. 

It’s scary how much my future depends upon me letting my doctors know if I’m not feeling well, because I didn’t feel so well at times over the last two years, and I went to my doctor twice because I was so concerned. As I’ve written about before, nothing came of it. My bloodwork was fine, there was no family history of breast cancer, and my large fibroadenoma in my left breast had been checked regularly for years; it was also likely obscuring my cancerous tumor, so I didn’t feel it until after it had grown measurably. The assumption was that my sleep apnea was causing my fatigue, and my occasional tension headaches and bouts with nausea were from pushing myself too hard exercising with too little sleep and nourishment.

After years of being on top of all my appointments and physical exams, and feeling so in touch with my body, I still can’t believe I didn’t feel any new lump until December 2019, even though I knew something was off. It makes my blood boil sometimes, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Although there were several songs that exemplified my cancer journey, my Cancer Playlist helped keep my spirits up; these were some of the songs that spoke the strongest to me. Music is healing, and whether it was dancing around my living room to it playing at full volume, singing along in the car ride to an appointment, or playing along with my guitar, music helped me feel less alone.

How Do You Sleep? by Sam Smith is a song I first heard when I was floating in a hotel hot tub in Calgary Canada, at the end of January 2020, right before I was diagnosed. We had an incredible snowboarding trip with family, and I felt charged. Soaking up the heat of the hot tub, this song played loudly in the pool room, which I had all to myself that day, and I instantly fell in love with it. Though the song is about infidelity, for me it represents the last moment of tranquility I felt before my life changed.

Anyone? by Demi Lovato perfectly captured how I felt after being diagnosed – alone and somewhat desperate for compassion, for an escape. I am in awe of her beautiful, powerful voice. Fade to Black by Metallica was my anthem for a bit; that song is so beautifully structured, with words that spoke to me right through my shaking heart. I learned how to play quite a bit of the song on my guitar, and relished in trying to play along to the song in my living room. Somedays, I felt like I was fading to black myself. 

No More Tears by Ozzy Osbourne was the song I blared on the way to my first chemotherapy appointment. I’d done enough crying by then, and was ready to put my game face on and get it done. There is a victorious air to this song, of pushing through a challenge and persevering. I love the second bridge of this song, with echoes of animals filling the transition. This song just rocks!

Formation by Beyonce reminded me to keep my sense of sassiness and confidence…I Slay, I Slay echoing in my head. Anything by Beyonce will put you in a body moving mood! Blinding Lights by The Weeknd was an inspirational, energetic homage to what I was going through. I loved dancing to this song! It sounded like my battle with cancer. I equally loved dancing to Drake and Rick Ross’ Money In the Grave, a fast paced song balanced with a serious undertone. For years I thought the girl in the song said Latenight music, but Ron corrected me recently: it’s Maybach Music. Funny how we can mishear lyrics for such a long time before noticing it!

Roar by Katy Perry speaks for itself. I’m sure thousands of other women danced around their living rooms to this song, too! This is the perfect anti-cancer anthem. Savage by Megan Thee Stallion dropped in Summer, and the first time I heard it, I was blown away; such a badass song of female empowerment and celebration!

Sometimes, I felt like a savage myself – mountain biking through chemo, and keeping a good head on my shoulders. When everyone would complain about how bad 2020 was, I wanted to offer them a different perspective. Even after all I’ve been through this year, I still don’t think this was the worst year ever! Many people had it way worse than me, and others had it better than me, but life is always about making the best of what you’re given, not comparing the hand you’ve been dealt. The opportunities I had to gain wisdom, patience, gratitude, and strength were not lost on me. 

I Still Believe by Tim Cappello is a soul thumping, hopeful message of strength and tenacity, exactly what I needed to get through cancer treatments. I always think of the movie The Lost Boys, when they perform this song on the Beach Boardwalk. It makes me want to sing out loud.

Shelter From the Storm by Bob Dylan was what I felt I needed this year. I longed for refuge, for a safe harbor from violent seas. Listening to this song, and singing along with my guitar, made me feel peaceful and calm. 

Patience by Guns ‘N Roses was the embodiment of what I would need to help me through this entire process. This was all a huge test of patience, and I’ve definitely extended my patience span. When there’s nothing you can do but wait, you’ve got to adapt. It’s amazing what you can grow inured to when you have no other choice.

I am eternally altered by this experience, by these long months of fighting for my life. I’ve reached the end of a decade, my youth firmly behind me, and I have no guarantee of how much of this next decade I’ll get. Though it may not be in the forefront right now, the shadow of cancer will always be in my peripheral, in both hindsight and foresight, and carry the potential to return front and center at any given moment. I’m grateful to be alive today, but now that I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me, I’ll always be on alert for it to happen again. I never had a guarantee of another day before cancer, however; we never know when we’ll die. The only difference now is I have something specific to look out for.

I want to make the most of each new day and appreciate it for the gift that it is. My gratitude is high – for my health, for having a home that didn’t burn down, for my loved ones, for my fun lifestyle; for my eyebrows, lashes, and hair growing back in, which is awesome to see. Everyday since we got to come back home after the fire evacuation feels like a bonus day, like an extra gift. Like cancer, wildfire threatened to take all I love. I made it through this round, but the prospect of it happening again is palpable. I won’t live in fear, but I’ll always remember how it felt to almost lose it all – my life included. 

I feel empowered by finding flow and grace in my life, doing the things I love. Coming close to losing everything has redoubled my passion for my humble little life, and whatever I have left of it. Reflecting back on the last year takes my breath away sometimes – did I really go through all that? Equally, I think about how I got through all that – with gratitude for all of the graces I’d been granted, a web of loved ones to support me along the way, and lots of exercise outdoors. The healing power of movement through nature is remarkable, permeating through the mind and body. It’s also pure fun, exactly the relief I needed while carrying such a heavy load.

There were plenty of inspiring moments throughout it all; stargazing in the mountains, conversations that probably wouldn’t have been had without my cancer diagnosis; short escapes out of town that relit my fire. Ultimately, it reminded me how strong I am. Humility is in my core, but I feel pretty darn fierce right now.

Though it may be the end of a decade for me, it’s also the start of a new one.

Collateral Damage, Cancer, and Lightning Fires

The wind tore in through our bedroom window like a vortex, whipping the helpless curtain against my face like the beat of an eagle’s wing. I awoke with the urgency of an alarm clock, sat up in bed to look out the window, and hurriedly roused my husband from his sleep. It sounded like a tornado was raging through our yard.

Baby, wake up! Look how windy it is! I exclaimed.

The pitter patter of blowing debris, redwood cones and needles, desiccated as desert sand, were flying into our house as loud as pebbles. Then, the sky lit up. An illumination rarely seen in the Santa Cruz Mountains, lightning was putting on a show. The bellowing crackle of thunder soon followed, short-lived and indicating its proximity. We were both glued to our windows watching Earth’s awesome power manifest, slightly afraid of a tree or limb falling on our house, rapt by the spectacle before our eyes. A brief downpour ensued, followed by more gale-force winds, lightning, and thunder.

It was the morning of August 16, 2020, and it served as somewhat of a metaphor for the last six months of my life. On February 3, 2020, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer; invasive ductal carcinoma,  ER/PR+, BRCA-, HER2- to be exact. This whole experience has been like a thunderstorm in many ways – sparking fires as collateral damage, roaring fearsomely like a lion, leaving me humbly cowering at times, its lightning striking away at my health and safety. Now, a series of unprecedented wildfires rage in the mountains West of our home, brought on by that lightning; the CZU Lightning Complex Fire has already destroyed over 100 structures, with thousands of residents displaced.

We were evacuated from our home in Ben Lomond early Thursday morning on August 20. The day before, August 19, had been like peeling off a band-aid; I’d had my first day back to work as a teacher after a six month leave of absence to deal with my cancer treatment – a professional development day without students – and was quickly overwhelmed. We were due to start teaching on Monday, August 24, under a full distance learning model. Though I consider myself to be relatively tech-savvy, the plethora of online tools – Zoom, Peardeck, Screencastify, to name a few – sent me into a tailspin. We had a staff meeting on Zoom where we couldn’t even agree on the most efficient way to take attendance, despite all having a good rapport with each other. Clearly, it was going to be a very different kind of year.

I also had my first radiation appointment that afternoon, which had been a long forty-five minutes of lying with my arms stretched out above my head, and my neck turned to the side. It was as if I’d been pulled like a rubber band, and my neck was aching like crazy. They’ll get faster as the appointments go on, but that first one is always the longest, they assured me.

We went to sleep on Wednesday night under an evacuation warning, skies filled with smoke and ash. The fire was still relatively far from us, but we were told to prepare for imminent evacuation. The pink glow of fire loomed on the horizon North of us, and the sounds of propane tanks exploding, presumably, boomed like bombs in the far distance. We had both of our cars packed up with our valuables – bikes, snowboards, old letters, pictures, and memorabilia; clothes, shoes, toiletries, and other odds and ends. We had the grace of packing up with time to spare, unlike other folks who had to rush from their homes with minutes to spare. It is a heart wrenching process to choose which items you want to take with you, and which you must leave behind, during such an ordeal.

Around 3 a.m. that night, early Thursday morning of August 20, we were awakened by a repetitive uptone siren blaring from a sheriff’s car, followed by the eerie echo of his voice through our quiet canyon in the San Lorenzo Valley:

“There is a mandatory evacuation order for this area. Please evacuate immediately.”

He repeated the order, driving methodically throughout our neighborhood to the few remaining residents with cars in the driveway. Most of our neighbors had preemptively evacuated on Wednesday. A reverse 911 call had gone out earlier in the night, but we didn’t get it. The patrol car pulled right up to our house, lights flashing, and repeated the evacuation order via megaphone.

We immediately put Beau in his crate, and got into our cars. We knew there were shelters already set up in Santa Cruz, but were worried about how our cat would react in the chaos of other evacuees and their stressed pets barking and meowing. Unsure of where to go, I went to the closest shelter I knew of: my classroom.

It’s a strange feeling being on campus in the middle of the night; the security lights aglow through a blanket of ash and smoke, illuminating pockets of haze. We settled into my classroom, set up Beau’s food, water, and litter box with a large cardboard box normally used to hold some of my rock collection. We laid our sleeping bags onto the floor, and tried to comfort Beau as he cried in anxiety and confusion. Of all times, now was one I wish I could communicate with him and tell him what was going on. We didn’t sleep really at all that night, but by first light, Beau was curled up in my sleeping bag against my stomach, as if trying to crawl into me for comfort and security. Soon after, we heard the custodians arrive, and figured it was time to go.

Although our town was still under evacuation order, we made the decision to return home and grab a few more things; there were many people out and about still, cars packed to the brim. We’d checked the fire map and saw we were at least a few miles from the fire, and by the afternoon, Highway 9 was closed at Glen Arbor Road, the turn off for our neighborhood. I had to show my driver’s license to get back in. I had the worst tension headache from the radiation visit the day before, returning to work, and of course, the stress of evacuating. Though not the wisest choice, I took a nap in my bed, catching up on lost sleep, before getting up in the afternoon to drive over the hill to Santa Clara for my second radiation appointment at the Kaiser Cancer Treatment Center. I was astounded by the hoards of cars, RVs, and trailers filling parking lots; cars full of surfboards, bikes, kayaks, filled with as many valuables as could fit. The urgency was palpable as I drove North over Highway 17.

By the time I returned home, ash and smoke were ominously filling the valley. A compassionate, generous, and gracious friend of mine in Santa Cruz reached out to me, offering us a place to stay. She was taking her family out of the area to escape the suffocating and unhealthy air quality, and said we could stay as long as we needed.

I was so moved by her grace; we drove down that afternoon to her nice home in Santa Cruz, where we are safe and sound now, Beau included. Anxious about the status of our home, currently about a mile from the CZU Lightning Complex fire burning west of Highway 9 as of today – Sunday, August 23, 2020 – all we can do is wait. Officials have repeatedly noted it may be weeks before we can return to our homes. With the start of the school year delayed for at least a week, who knows when I will start teaching again. We are making arrangements to likely head up to mother and stepfather’s house in Walnut Creek next.

As we wait for next steps, I reflect back on the last six months of cancer treatment amid a global pandemic. Like the ferocious winds of our recent thunderstorm, cancer uprooted my sense of stability and invincibility, threw everything up in the air, and reminded me I am not completely in charge of my life. I’ve worked hard to find flow and grace throughout this adventure, but I haven’t come out unscathed. The collateral damage of cancer treatment is revealing its insidious side effects, much like the wildfires sparked by lightning that continue to burn in the Santa Cruz Mountains and throughout California.

As our governor Gavin Newsom eloquently surmised, “If you don’t believe in climate change, come to California”. No one deserves these fires, but they signal the collateral damage of years of pollution and abuse to our planet. Scientists have been warning us for years that fires like these would become more widespread and destructive. How severe, how long, and how recoverable they will be, like my own side effects, remain to be seen. 

I finished my eighth round of chemotherapy on August 5. It was slightly anticlimactic; I wasn’t expecting to feel a huge sense of relief or accomplishment, but I was excited to reach the milestone. It was also my longest appointment yet; they’d forgotten to turn on the cold cap machine, and there was a delay in getting my chemo ready, so I was there for seven hours from start to finish. Then, the nurses sang the Graduation Song to me, but called me Karen instead of Katrin, something I’m used to after having my name butchered for years. It wasn’t a big deal, and bless them for working during a pandemic! I am just extra sensitive these days.

I left feeling like I’d reached a checkpoint of my treatment, but humbled enough by the experience to know I might be back someday. I won’t say I’m done with chemo, for I heard enough women talk about being back for chemo years later in the infusion clinic. I’m not superstitious, but I believe humility is important here. I didn’t like the certificate of completion they presented me with; it seemed like tickling the tiger’s tail. Though I finished my currently prescribed chemo regimen, I won’t gloat that it’s my last, or talk about how I’m beating cancer. Only time will tell. 

I started a five-week radiation therapy regimen on Wednesday, August 19, where I’ll go in for daily, short appointments, Monday through Friday. This week, I also returned to work after a six month leave of absence, including summer vacation. Aside from being a toddler, this was the longest continuous stretch of time off in my life, where I wasn’t working, in school, or both. It hasn’t been a vacation, but there’s been many moments I’ve enjoyed.

This will be my fifteenth year of teaching. I’ll dive into the world of distance learning as a Seventh Grade Math and Science Teacher, delivering lessons via Zoom, at some point. This is the new reality for most students and teachers in the United States, but a return to in-person instruction is surely the ultimate goal on the horizon. When that is safe to do so remains a contentious topic of debate and careful weighing of risks, restricted by the parameters of an inadequately funded public school system that needs more resources to protect everyone on-campus from COVID-19; and, of course, how this fire behaves. 

The last day I was in my classroom with students was February 13, 2020, and I don’t know when I’ll meet my new students in-person. I do know it’ll be an adjustment for me going back to work, back to the routine, but I look forward to focusing my energy on something other than taking good care of myself. I yearn for that sense of normalcy, of living my life free from the tunnel of cancer treatment. We are all yearning for a sense of normalcy after living in some form of shelter-in-place during this pandemic, and now having gone through the stress of evacuating our homes. The coupling of these challenges has tested me in ways I’m still uncovering. 

It hasn’t been a tunnel all the way, however. I’ve had some profound, enlightening realizations during this time – about life, myself, and how I want to continue living, should I have that chance. I think every cancer patient goes through something like this. Your biggest fear is death, but once you reconcile with that, it heightens your gratitude, enriches the love in your relationships, and deepens your patience. It’s also difficult, depressing, and defeating, at times. Balancing these emotions calls for finding flow and grace wherever you can; sometimes you have to look a little harder to find them, but they’re always there in some shape or form. As usual, mountain biking continues to be a huge source of flow and grace for me.

Reflecting back on my treatment so far, I am extremely grateful for the good graces I’ve been blessed with. Between having a place to stay right now, the delay of the start of the school year, and the support and love of family and friends, I have been quite lucky. My sister went above and beyond and started a GoFundMe account for me and Ron to help us with whatever unforeseen costs may be associated with this fire and our evacuation, and to help with costs already accrued from cancer treatments. It moves me to tears how kind and giving people have been; I almost don’t feel worthy. Gratitude doesn’t express how much it means to me.

Having a place to stay right now is another huge blessing. I am so grateful for having four walls and a roof over our head, especially with Beau. Although he has been crying every night, keeping us from getting a thorough night’s sleep, I am so relieved he is with us and out of the fire zone. It’s been a stressful time, and we worry about our house, checking the fire maps and news often. It is completely out of our control, but we still spend a great deal of time everyday looking at our phones or computers, gathering all the information we can. We are filled with appreciation for the hundreds of firefighters working to defend our communities on the front lines.

I feel sad for everyone who’s already lost their homes, and equally so for the wildlife. It breaks my heart thinking about the damage at iconic state parks like Big Basin, reported to be badly damaged. Statewide, thousands of people are in the same boat as us, wondering whether they’ll have a home to go back to. It’s a dynamic and changing situation, with many ramifications yet to unfold, and we will all be inexorably linked after this shared experience.

It’s crazy to think just a week ago we were still enjoying the Summer. I was lucky to get outside a lot this Summer and recreate in beautiful places. From mountain biking in the Santa Cruz Mountains, to beach days in Santa Cruz, to out-of-town adventures in Shasta, the Tule River, Lake Tahoe, and Downieville, I’m happy for what we’ve been able to do in spite of everything.

Celestially, it’s been a banner year. From the pink supermoon back in February, to the Eta Aquarids meteor shower in May, to the cameo of the comet Neowise, to the streaking fireballs of the Perseid meteor shower in August, there’s been no shortage of excitement in the sky. I love knowing how infinite the universe is, and how tiny we are in comparison.

We were lucky to see the beautiful comet Neowise several times before it faded out of view, gone for another 6,800 years. My phone camera certainly doesn’t capture its brilliance; when viewed through binoculars, it was exceptionally phenomenal! Seeing it from the Santa Cruz Mountains was good, but from the total darkness of a new moon in Mt. Shasta was breathtaking. Its tail was so long; its nucleus so bright. I found it remarkably rewarding to see, and made a point to visit with it several evenings.

We went to Mt. Shasta for a California Enduro Series mountain bike race, a place I’d never ridden before. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to complete the race with all of the fatigue I’d been having with chemo. Fellow mountain bike racers know how hard these races can be, but at least this race had a few lift-assisted race runs being at Shasta Bike Park, and only two climbs. I raced in the Expert Women’s category, and pre-rode all but one of the race stages the day before with Ron. We had a super fun time together, and it was awesome to see Neowise again at night. 

Mt. Shasta

On raceday, I lagged through my first stage, the only one I hadn’t preridden the day before, of course. The next four stages were better, although I didn’t want to crash and possibly rupture my port, so I metered myself carefully, balancing between charging fast, and staying in control while dirt-surfing new terrain. The volcanic dirt was slippery, deep, and unavoidable. That’s one of the things I love about mountain biking – how well it connects to geology. The geology of a region determines how you can ride it. The terrain from location to location varies in both subtle and overt ways, but Mt. Shasta was surely the antithesis of the loamy, redwood forest dirt of Santa Cruz. It was a fun, challenging race, and I did really well on my final stage, the Downhill, which felt great. I was happy with fourth place at the end of the day; I hadn’t expected to make the podium. Although I could’ve ridden faster, I was proud of how I did considering the circumstances. 

Ron and I set out the next week for a camping trip with my sister and her family, my mom, and stepdad, on the Tule River in Sequoia National Park. It was hot, beautiful, and perfect; the Tule River glistened with refreshing beads of water, flowing freely and steadily. I love water, but I especially love rivers. Playing all day in the sun, jumping in the river, lizarding on warm rocks, only to repeat the cycle again, was exactly what I needed. I think the cold water even helped with my bone pain, a side effect from the dose-dense Taxol infusion I had two days before going camping. Cold therapy helped save most of my hair, and I believe it also helped my musculoskeletal pain. It was an amazing camping trip. Ron and I even did a short bike ride up the Wishon Trail. 

Tule River Heaven

We had so much fun camping, we headed out a few days later for Downieville, Lake Tahoe, and Northstar. We had an incredible ride down the Downieville Downhill, getting dropped off at about 7,000’ at Packer Saddle, descending some sixteen miles down to the tiny town of Downieville at 2,900’. I’ve done this ride dozens of times, and it never gets old; it only gets more fun! The more you know a trail, the better, and faster, you can ride it. We camped off a dirt road off Highway 49, and rode Northstar Bike Park the next day, a total blast. The perfect end to a sweaty, dusty day on the slopes? A dip in Lake Tahoe! Absolute heaven. These are the moments I live for.

I was due for my next chemo treatment after our trip, but my white blood cells and neutrophils were low, again. My doctor prescribed a stronger dose of Zarxio (480 Mcg) for me to take for a couple of days to get my numbers up, which worked; my WBC jumped from 1.8 to 57! Normal range is about 3.7 – 11 K/uL, so seeing this spike was a bit alarming; my oncologist assured me this was okay. She wasn’t sure why my WBC kept dropping so low, so prescribed me to continue with the stronger dose for my week of Zarxio shots post-chemo. Bone pain is a side effect of Zarxio, and this cycle I really felt it; it was as if I’d run a marathon as a ninety-year old woman everyday for about a week. My knees, hips, and legs felt as heavy as lead. It was my worst cycle yet, and was compounded by continued hair loss. Every time I took a shower or combed my hair, I parted ways with locks of hair.

I had a thick head of hair before I started chemo, and using the Paxman Cold Cap, I am lucky I didn’t lose it all. It is extremely thin, however, and I’d estimate I’ve lost at least 75% of my hair. In the early cycles of chemo, it wasn’t super obvious, but it is really noticeable now. I’m grateful for what hair I do have, but I can’t deny I don’t look or feel like myself when I look in the mirror. I’ve cut it to about shoulder-length, where it sometimes looks like I have a mullet because it’s so thin! I have a thin spot on the back of my head where my part begins, which can be covered with some of my hair like a comb-over, but is pretty clear to see at times. Putting my hair up in an old-lady bun, as I jokingly call it, gives me the fullest coverage. My sideburns are starting to grow back in, though, along with the thin spots on my scalp. I am encouraged by every hair that emerges. Had I not used the cold cap, I would have been completely bald after the first or second treatment. My eyelashes and eyebrows have almost all but fallen out, with only light, wispy hairs sticking it out. I look in the mirror and see the eyes of a cancer patient, but I see myself alive, which is most important. 

Ron and I got out of town a few days after my final scheduled chemo treatment, spending two glorious nights at the Downieville River Inn. We did a long bikeride the first day on the Gold Valley Rim Trail to Pauley Creek Trail, connecting with Butcher Ranch and Third Divide back to town. Ron got a flat tire, which he promptly fixed; Downieville is famous for flats, so we come prepared, especially after Ron’s first ride in 2016! We both ride tubeless, but that doesn’t grant you flat immunity.

Gold Valley Lookout

We even startled a bear off the trail! The noise of it blazing through manzanita brush got my attention, as I watched it run away with purpose. I love seeing wildlife! That’s one of my favorite parts about outdoor adventures.

Yuba & Downie Rivers Confluence

The next day, we rode the Downieville Classic Downhill route, our usual, where we had one of our fastest rides until the very end of the trail, where I flatted. Ron fixed my tire with ease, and we cruised back to town for a rejuvenating dip in the Downie and Yuba rivers’ confluence. We spent a second night of stellar stargazing, watching the peak of the Perseids meteor shower. It was the most dramatic show we’d ever seen – huge fireballs racing across the sky every couple of minutes. The darkness of the Sierras provided the ideal viewing opportunity. It was simply magical.

The next day, we swam in the Yuba River, taking out our airbed on it, and drove to the Truckee Bike Park in Truckee for some laps on their pump tracks. We spoiled ourselves that night with a luxury suite at the Peppermill in Reno, with our own hot tub. It was worth every penny, and every risk of coronavirus; we didn’t even leave the room until checkout the next morning. It was a much-needed relief, and I felt myself let go of the tension of the previous months. We rode Northstar Bike Park, flying down first runs on Livewire, and had an awesome day! This was a real vacation for us, and much deserved after all we’ve been through. My husband has, after all, been right by my side every step of the way, bless him dearly. 

The icing on the cake was swimming with bioluminescent plankton in Santa Cruz! We went two nights in a row to play in the waves, rejoicing as the water lit up while we moved our limbs, tiny dinoflagellates bioluminescing in reaction. The waves were glowing purplish-blue, rushing around us as we splashed around. It was absolutely ethereal, one of the coolest things I’ve ever done! These phone pictures don’t do it justice, but it kind of shows the idea. It is so much brighter when you are in the water interacting with it.

Swimming With Plankton

Aside from our adventures outside, I am super grateful for my entire family coming to visit me this Summer; the first such gathering ever in the 22 years I’ve lived in Santa Cruz. It speaks volumes of my family to come together during a pandemic to make it happen. My oldest sister flew out from London, quarantined with her two young children for two weeks just so she could see us all; she would then have to quarantine another two weeks upon returning back home. My other sister drove up from San Diego with her family, and my parents came down from the Bay Area. It meant the world to me!

Having us all together in one place was such a blessing, something I deem a triumph. The fact that we could all make it happen – with our masks, outdoor gathering, and socially distanced behavior, of course – was nothing short of victorious. I will forever look back on this Summer as the Summer my whole family came to visit me. Though my cancer may have been the catalyst for our meeting, we had fun and celebrated our time together, a synergy of positivity. We had so much fun together, and I am filled with gratitude for all of them coming to visit me. Now that I am going through the risk of a wildfire ravaging my home, their love and support means even more to me.

I feel like it’s been a lifetime since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. That old Katrin is still there, but I am undoubtedly different today, indelibly marked with battle scars and collateral damage. I remember reading about collateral damage, how your body suffers in the long run from the multitude of surgeries, chemotherapy, hormonal, and radiation treatments involved with breast cancer. Neuropathy, lymphedema, secondary sarcomas, heart disease, and cataracts are just a few examples of the detrimental side effects of breast cancer treatment. 

While I fared relatively well through my eight rounds of chemo, save for some fatigue and musculoskeletal pain from a few of my Taxol infusions, I am already seeing my own collateral damage. The worst part? Lymphedema. I developed it about a month ago; my left thumb, fore, and middle fingers began to swell on a daily basis, after only the slightest activity. I’d unscrew the hose nozzle, or floss my teeth, or do the dishes, and I’d have a ridiculously fat thumb, decreasing its range of motion as it swelled. My forearm also felt tight, like a rubber band was contracting it. I had continued to do the anti-lymphedema exercises I learned in the pre-surgery clinic I attended, do yoga, and watched some YouTube videos for other stretching methods, but somehow it flared up. 

About a month ago, I started getting shooting, electric pains down the back of my upper arm, or triceps, and swelling in that area. My forearm and fingers continued to be tight. Lymphedema is a drainage disorder of the lymphatic system, in my case caused by the removal of my left lymph nodes. They caution you to monitor for the HAFNTS – Heaviness, Achiness, Fatigue, Numbness, Tingling, Swelling – and the second you feel one of those symptoms, you’re supposed to stop what you’re doing and stretch, elevate, or rest. I was feeling the AFS part, for sure. 

I don’t know if it was all the mountain biking I did, the Summer heat, a scratch on my left arm from a twig I’d grazed, or an itchy mosquito bite that may have triggered its onset, as there are many causes. When you have your axillary lymph nodes removed during a mastectomy, as I did, you already have a 20-30% risk of developing lymphedema; this number increases with the number of nodes removed, and if you have radiation treatment, which I am. I had 33 lymph nodes removed, three of which were cancerous; my surgeon remarked she’d never seen so many lymph nodes. I had another surgeon perform an anti-lymphedema drainage procedure during my mastectomy to possibly reduce my odds of developing lymphedema. I was told it may help, but there was no guarantee. Perhaps it helped me not to suffer a more severe case, but now that I’m fighting it, I know it can worsen over time. I’ll be seeing a physical therapist soon for more exercises, and my surgeon ordered an ultrasound of my arm to check for a blood clot, just in case; fortunately, no clot was discovered. 

I am spending at least an hour per day stretching, stopping often during activities. Typing is straining enough that I have to take breaks. I am sleeping with a pillow under my left arm again, even though it’s not very comfortable; I wonder if I hadn’t stopped that a few months ago if I’d be here now, but lymphedema is complex. It’s likely a combination of factors that got me here. Yoga is really helping, as is always the case with any malady. Lymphatic drainage massage is something I’m working on, too. When I have my implant exchange surgery, hopefully about six months after radiation therapy ends, my plastic surgeon said he would inject some fat into my armpit, which may reduce my symptoms. I am determined to get it under control somehow, but radiation is only supposed to worsen it. 

I had a bit of a scare with some swelling in my rib area, near where my tumor was. They didn’t know if it was costochondritis, or something else, so they ordered a CT scan of my entire chest, which revealed no signs of cancer. I was relieved the swelling wasn’t indicative of a recurrence. They attributed the swelling to leaks in my expanders, although it wasn’t the definitive cause. I was relieved that the scan was clear.

I haven’t noticed any chemo brain, or other side effects yet, but I am only just now starting radiation, which brings its own slew of side effects; most notably, fatigue, and radiation burns to the chest wall (I’ll never have breasts again; it is now simply the chest wall). I am already seeing some reddening of my skin. It also increases my risk of lung cancer, and pulmonary fibrosis, a chronic cough with varying degrees of severity and persistence over time. It may increase my chances of survival by 10%, however, and it may reduce my risk of recurrence by even more. I am due to start Tamoxifen two weeks after radiation therapy is done, which I’ll take daily as an estrogen-blocker for ten years, as suggested by my oncologist. Statistics are tricky with breast cancer, but I’m following my doctors’ treatment plan in hopes of good odds.

2020 has been much like the thunderstorm that plowed through California, starting multiple lightning fires whose damages are yet to be revealed. As the world adapts to the new normal of life in a pandemic; as students wait to return not to the classroom, but to their computer screens from home; as thousands of people sit in worry, displaced from their homes; as I continue to do all I can to fight my cancer, we are all forever changed by this year. We all will feel some sort of collateral damage from the storm this year has been. We have the opportunity to find grace where we can, and to find perseverance, whatever the challenge we’re going through. I know I’m not the only one going through a hard time, and that gives me some grace. It’s all relative, and I know there are people out there suffering worse challenges, which makes me count my own blessings.

I’ve had a decent time going through treatment so far, as good as can be hoped for in some ways. If someone had told me before chemo that I’d be mountain bike racing, camping, and able to do all of the activities I love to do most days, I wouldn’t have believed them. Now that I’ve lived it, I am immensely appreciative of the graces I’ve been granted. I am grateful for the drugs that may enable me to live a longer life; for living in the day and age of modern medicine. My love for my husband, family, and friends has grown exponentially. In some ways, I feel like cancer has only strengthened my resolve to live an adventurous, passionate life; to cultivate flow and grace in all aspects of my life. It makes me want to do the things I love even more, my way of saying I can still do it in spite of all that cancer has taken from me. I’m fighting for what I love with a stroke of vengeance.

Beau Guarding Our House

Ultimately, my biggest fear is that I will die from cancer, so I might as well live with as much vigor and attack as I can. Surely, I don’t want my house to burn down right now, either, but mostly, I just want my health. At the end of my life, I want to look back and know I gave it everything, that I dove in like a boulder to the pond of life, my splash as high as my zest for it. As much as dying from cancer scares me, shying away from living the life I love so dearly scares me even more. Even if I were to die this year, at least I know I’ve lived fully, despite having breast cancer during a pandemic, and a historic wildfire threatening our home.

Day by day is the only way to move forward, one step at a time. Signs of life persist – Monarch caterpillars and butterflies in our friend’s garden; hummingbirds gathering nectar from Salvia blooms; dogs out for walks with their human counterparts, taking advantage of brief moments of fresh air as the winds shift direction. Life is but a series of cycles, death included, yet we can rely on its willful force to push on.

Monarchs Mating

While many people joke about how bad 2020 has been, and I concur that it hasn’t been the best year, I realize how much mercy I’ve been granted. There is still more good than bad, and I have a lot to be grateful for yet. Just as the ashes of lightning fires regenerate land, the tapestry of my life experiences enriches me, hurdles included. May I be blessed enough to keep adding to it, and may I continue to find grace in the face of adversity, even if I lose my home; for property is replaceable, but life is not.

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 hop