How I'm Spending Groundhog Day

Every 6 months or so I like to go ahead and have another cancer related surgery on a different body part. So far I've done skull, chest (duh), and uterus. This week's lucky winner is my left hand/arm. Perhaps I'll print out a blank person and color in all my various parts that have been sliced and diced. Kind of like when people print out a map of the US and color in all the States they've been to. Ok, not quite as fun as that, but I do like pretty color visuals. 

"What is this surgery for?" you ask. 

Lymphedema. 

"Ah. And what exactly is lymphedema?" you ask. 

Dang, ya'll are nosy. 

Basically, it's swelling from a damaged lymph system. Mine was damaged on the left side during my double mastectomy because in order to remove all the lymph nodes they needed to for testing, they had to dissect through multiple layers on that side to get to mine. Which made those lymph nodes pretty angry. So they decided to go on strike. If they had little picket signs they'd read, "We're a pain, we won't drain" or something along those lines. So my surgeon is just going to replace those naughty little nellies with working lymph nodes willing to do the job. And no, I'm not trying to make this political in any way with regards to workers going on strike, etc. But since pretty much every.single.thing is made political these days, go ahead and come at me. But on my right side, so I have a chance. 

I had a bout with lymphedema in the Spring of 2020. Yes, other health things actually occurred that year other than covid for some of us. It cleared up, only to rear its ugly head again in October of that year. I wore my compression sleeve nonstop, had multiple appointments with my lymphedema nurses, weeks of therapy and a lovely compression pump contraption, and lymphatic massage. All to no avail. My arm/hand remain swollen, stiff, and sore at times. David refers to it as my "Popeye" arm. And if tattoos weren't banned on a limb affected with lymphedema, you better bet your bottom dollar I'd get a little anchor on my forearm in a heartbeat. 

So last April, after all my lymphedema management options had been exhausted...my plastic surgeon declared me a perfect candidate for two procedures he happens to specialize in. A lymph node transfer and lymphovenous bypass. I, of course, was ready to get on his schedule that following week. However, when I didn't hear back from his office for a few weeks I reached out and said, "Sorry to be a pain...just checking to see if I have a surgery date yet so we can plan our Summer around it." 

His nurse replied back that unfortunately, due to covid, and OR's not being back up to full capacity, the soonest they could get me on their books was Feb 2, 2022. I remember staring at that date in disbelief. Bursting into tears. Cursing covid...who hasn't? Then bucking up and accepting what was completely out of my control. For those of you who've followed along from the get go of my diagnosis in 2018, I shared that my diagnosis was 3/22. My craniotomy/skull biopsy was 5/22, my double mastectomy was 6/22, and I started Tamoxifen on 1/22 the following year. So I had to laugh when I finally realized the coincidental significance of my 2/02/22 surgery date. One of my lifelong besties, Kelly (and her family) are runners. For their various races, 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons, and whatnot she always finds a Bible verse that corresponds to their bib numbers. I discovered an entire chapter for mine. 2 Samuel 22. David's song of Praise. Praising God for his deliverance. And specifically verse 2: "The Lord is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer." Which He most certainly has been for me throughout these past 4 years. 

David is being his sweet, albeit ornery, self. He scared the dickens out of me yesterday, causing me to jump, scream, and flail my arms. Today he attacked me while I was sitting in bed on my phone, grabbing my knee, one of my most ticklish spots, again causing me to scream and slap his arm. "You can't do that kind of stuff starting tomorrow!" I reminded him. "I know," he replied grabbing my knee once again, "That's why I'm getting it all out of my system now." 

He has been out of town every week (except holiday weeks) in November, December, & January. This is where the sweet part comes in. He made sure to be in town this week and took off all day tomorrow, even though my surgery will literally take all day and I told him to feel free to check emails, get on calls, etc. And he took off the rest of the week as well. Which I suspect has more to do with his upcoming birthday this weekend, but it was still sweet. He is giddy about being home all week so he can cook. He texted his meal plan to the fam on Sunday and said, "This is just going to be the best week ever!" Umm...except for those of us who'll be doped up on oxycodone. 

For the lymphovenous bypass, my surgeon will shoot dye up my arm through the spaces in between my fingers, map the lymphatics, and wherever the blockages are, make a slit in my arm and connect the blocked lymphatic vessels to working veins via itty bitty mini shunts. He's already warned me it takes awhile to notice a difference and it will never look like my right hand/arm. But hey, I'll be happy if I'm just able to fit my wedding ring back on my finger. And so will David. So the old single fellas will stop winking creepily at me. 

I do have a bone to pick with my plastic surgeon tomorrow, however, when I see him. During my reconstruction process he kept asking if I was sure I didn't want to go bigger. I assured him that, no, I've never been well endowed and was certainly not going to take the opportunity to do so at that time. What he didn't warn me about was that I would gain 40 pounds once starting my hormonal therapy (ok, and perhaps, my love of sweets and disdain of the gym) but MOSTLY due to my medication. And implants don't grow! Every other area of my body has spread out far and wide, except them. So now it looks like I never even got reconstruction and chose to stay flat. And I'm sure most people are left questioning my gender, especially when I run errands in sweats. I feel like there should have been a warning label of some sort. "Objects implanted in your chest don't grow proportionately with the rest of your body." 

And, of course, in true Midwest fashion, with my surgery date upon us...we're under a winter storm warning for tomorrow. Thankfully, David has a truck. Which I will most definitely be sending him out in to pick up my surgeon should he be unable to make it to the main KU campus tomorrow. 

Since most people don't know what lymphedema is, I've decided I'm going to have as much fun with recovery as I can. So when people see me all bandaged up and say, "Oh no! What happened?" I'm just going to make up various scenarios as I see fit. I'm thinking of starting off with shark attack, run over by my teen drivers, or Wordle playing paralysis. 

Home For Christmas

When I was little, I thought everyone had a Southern family refuge like Pine Lake. Where we spent a week every Summer, tucked away in a log cabin built by my Granddad, fishing, exploring the creek with cousins, being slung around in the back of his old pickup, and being loved on by all of our Alabama family. 

The Army took my parents out of Alabama to a handful of other States and overseas, finally plopping them down for good in the Midwest. Leavenworth, to be exact. And I've always felt a little sad for my Mom, that she was never able to return to her home to stay. Had they returned while I was still at home, however, I would have attended Auburn University, not Southwest Baptist University. And would never have met that handsome strawberry blond fellow in my Old Testament history class. And had they returned after I left home, my kids would have missed out on years of Grandma Judy watching them each week and all the memories they hold dear from those days. 

I guess it's only fitting that our last big family get together, Thanksgiving 2020, was at Pine Lake. The day after my parents returned home to Leavenworth from that trip, my Dad had a heart attack, underwent surgery, then suffered 2 kinds of strokes during recovery and hasn't returned to their Leavenworth home since. 

This past Spring, my Mom ended up in the hospital, followed by a rehab facility, and finally an assisted living up the road from me, where my Dad now lives as well. I would love to insert here...and they lived happily ever after.  However, their health issues continue to increase as their independence continues to decrease. They've both had a myriad of challenges and my Mom has been in and out of the hospital multiple times. 

"I'm dreaming tonight, of a place I love, even more than I usually do, and although I know it's a long road back, I promise you..." when I hear that old familiar tune this season, tears spring to my eyes, realizing my Mom most likely won't be making another trip down to her home. 

Perusing Target's dollar section the other day, tears again sprung to my eyes (this seems to be a common theme for me this Christmas season) as I looked down and saw a little wooden cabin. While not an exact replica of the one my Granddad built, I knew it could work. I had no sooner put it in my basket, than I saw another little wooden structure shaped like a triangle, complete with red and green paint in the package. And my vision sprang to life. Those two pieces, along with a few decorative pine trees and a little john deere tractor ornament completed the look. 

When my Mom returns to her apartment from her current hospital stay, she'll find her own little piece of heaven on Earth. 

So she can be home for Christmas...if only in her dreams. 

Three Years

To be sung to the tune of the William Tell Overture..."Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, H-A-P-P-Y Cancer-versary!". Why, thank you! So kind of you all to remember. Gifts? You shouldn't have. Oh. You didn't? That's quite alright. I'm sure those stimulus checks were put toward another good use. What is the 3 year Cancer-versary gift anyway? I have no clue. I think it might be white chocolate mochas from Starbucks. Either way, I will be treating myself to one this morning.  

Like many of you in the Facebook world, my memories popping up this time of year are of our awesome family adventures on Spring Breaks past. This time next year, unfortunately, our family won't have any memories pop up for 2021 because we went NOWHERE. I guess I could have documented David and my's trip to the ol' Home Depot the other afternoon. He always tricks me into thinking we're running in for one thing. Then suddenly remembers about 15 things he needs. Every. Stinkin'. Time. 

Please don't take our lack of travels this year as a woe is me complaint, however. Remember, we were that family who cancelled their Paris plans at the last minute then turned around and hopped on a plane to Hawaii instead, just as Covid began shutting down the country around us last March. So we were definitely past due our turn of staying home. 

Pictures of our past Spring Breaks always bring up fun memories with the fam. Funny, how it's always the good memories that come to mind. Never the ones of me getting frustrated with the kids wanting to stay in the condo rather than go exploring and saying in exasperation, "That's it. This is our last family trip together. Next year you guys are staying home!". That's probably for the best. But for me, the pictures from the past three years are also marked by my cancer timeline. 

Take this picture of Tate and me at Universal Studios in March 2018, I remember the laughs, warm temps, my blue nail polish (what in the world possessed me to pick that color?!). And then, upon seeing my loosely braided locks, I automatically remember, "Ohhh yeah. This was pre-diagnosis."

Right before going on this vacation, I'd had my annual mammogram, showing a suspicious area, and had a biopsy scheduled for a few days after we would return home. God was already wrapping His arms around me even then. My worry wart self was able to fully enjoy a week away with the crew. (Minus my aformentioned mini outburst of never taking them anywhere again.) Oh sure, I got on a medical site, or twenty, after everyone went to bed. And even woke up in the middle of the night googling something else related to breast cancer multiple times. But I really was able to relax and rest in the fact that God already knew what my results would be and this hadn't thrown Him for a loop in the least. 

Then, there's this picture of Tate and me at Corpus Christi in 2019 (yes, the girls also accompanied us on on these trips, but their ol' Mom wasn't deemed instagram worthy at that time so there aren't very many pictures of us together. And Tate was still small enough for me to grab and clutch onto until he smiled). This one automatically brings up all the feels from from March '18 to March '19. A whirlwind year of scans, surgeries, chemo, and radiation. Oh, and why in the world did I think I was ready to venture outside my home sans beanie when my hair was still shorter than his?!

Speaking of Tate, much to his chagrin, David made him take Honors Biology this year. His first, and according to him, last honors class. The other day he said, "Hey, we're studying cancer cells right now." "Oh? Did you raise your hand and say, 'My Mom had cancer'? You might have gotten extra credit or something," I suggested. "Uhh, no. But we learned they mutate and stuff," he continued. I waited for him to go on, because I've learned if I start showing genuine interest and asking probing questions, he clams up and disappears just as quickly as the conversation had started. That ornery grin I know all to well began spreading across his face as he said, "So, like, you're a mutant..." 

Hmmppff. See if I take any pictures with him on our next getaway! 

So how are things going with me currently?

Depends on the day you ask me. Most days I would say, "Great! So glad all that's behind me! Thankful God has brought me this far!" But if you catch me on a bad, pity party kinda day, I may say, "Ugghh. I developed lymphedema in my left arm and spent months wrapping it daily in gauze, bandages, and foam. I spent weeks in therapy trying to get the swelling to stay down. (Which wasn't too bad because I had the awesome Janis, who coincidentally adopted one of our foster dogs years ago so I got to catch up with her quite bit.) Alas, my arm and hand are super stubborn (like the rest of me) so I have an appointment in a few weeks with my plastic surgeon to discuss a procedure where he shoots dye up my arm, maps the lymphatics, then puts in little mini shunts to help them drain properly. I did get to bid farewell to Tamoxifen this month and switch it out for Letrozole, a med that has a higher rate of preventing reoccurrence but causes bone pain. Always a pros and cons list with these meds. My baseline bone density scan revealed I have osteopenia so I've started on calcium/vit D tablets the size of actual horse pills. I have an appt in a few weeks to hopefully rule out uterine cancer. My biopsy this Summer for that was benign. So I'm gonna go ahead and declare the same this time around. Wouldn't it be nice if it worked that way? Oh, and my meds cause such tremendous hot flashes/sweats at night that I recently purchased a pet cooling get pad to sleep on."

Whew. Bet you're r-e-a-l-ly hoping you catch me on a good day now. 

Exercise is good for lymphedema, and just good for your body in general in case you weren't aware, so David and I joined a gym in January. We were able to add the kids to our monthly membership for just $10 but they have yet to darken the door. We even promised to stay on the opposite side of the gym while they were there and not to make eye contact or acknowledge them in any way if our paths should happen to cross. Meaning, I would hold my tongue from yelling out, "Good job, Sweetie" while Tate was on the bench press. 

So just David and I go together. Which has actually eased one of my worries. I've always wondered what will happen the day Tate flies the coop. Will David and I just look at each other and say, "Now what?". Or will we shake hands amicably and say, "Well, it's been a pleasure working with you," as we head our separate ways? But we've discovered we kinda do enjoy hanging out with just each other. And have even found things to talk about other than our offspring. 

Letrozole is an itty bitty yellow pill. Which makes me think of the verse in Matthew that if we just had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could move mountains. I'm still working on that one. I think an extra shot in my white mocha might help.

Cancer Journey

Today is my 2 year Cancer-versary. Two YEARS?!

How am I celebrating? Well, I'm not. Thanks to this other "C" word disease that has taken over the world. You may have heard of it.

But I have, what I hope will be, an encouraging perspective to pass along. David is no doubt laughing at this statement, because he's more used to my discouraging perspectives I usually share with him.

My diagnosis 2 years ago came out of the blue. I was shocked, a little overwhelmed, fearful of what the future held. I went through a bit of social withdrawal during treatment being stuck at home and felt misplaced being out of my normal routine. Sound familiar?

And that went on for months.

But I had a lot of support.

From friends and family and the multitude of prayers lifted up on my behalf.

And my terrible days made me appreciate my good days so. much. more.

Am I going though all of those same emotions going into this 30 day stay at home mandate? Absolutely. But I'm not quite as overwhelmed as I would be, because I know what it's like to be on the other side of them too. And I know we'll all get to that other side eventually.  

Some things I've learned:

You are not alone. But it certainly can feel like it when you're staring at the same surroundings day in and day out and you're seeing FB posts about all the fun crafts your friends are doing with their kids, but your kids are all teenagers and are relishing this quarantine behind closed doors in their rooms. I digress...and perhaps rant a little.

I'm trying to branch out and do other things besides FB during this time, but it really is a helpful tool to have. It lets me feel connected to all of you somewhat, even if you're just posting a picture of your dinner. Post away! I appreciate all the informational posts about COVID 19 but feel free to post other things happening in your lives too. Not to diminish the importance and seriousness of the pandemic, but to help us all feel a sense of normalcy in this chaotic time.

It's ok to give in to mini pity parties sometimes. I sure did during treatment. Most days I could joke about looking like Uncle Fester, but sometimes a FB memory picture would pop up of me with hair and I'd go have a good cry in the bathroom. But then I'd be thankful that the meds were doing their job and I would emerge and carry on.

Tate has said a few times, "I don't even remember what you looked like when you had hair...it's like when we got the new carpet and I couldn't remember the old one." Deep thoughts from a 13 year old.

This sounds totally cliche but just approach one day at a time. When I heard "30 days" I had a mini freakout. But if I don't focus on the thirty part, and just focus on each day as it comes, it's much more manageable.

Support each other. Reach out. It meant SO much to me to get a simple text saying, "Hey, just thinking about you today...". I see a lot of this happening around me and it's amazing. I need to be better at it.

Chemo weeks felt never ending at times. But then, just like that, I was ringing the bell.

I've forgotten the horrible taste in my mouth from the saline flush accessing my port.

I've forgotten the aversion to some of the foods I couldn't eat during that time...ugh, marinara was the enemy!

And I've forgotten what it felt to be awake most of the night after surgery, trying to get comfortable in the basement recliner but not succeeding because I was stiff and sore and the pain meds were starting to wear off.

But I've tried to hold on to the good things that came from it. The compassion I feel for others when they're going through an illness or tough time. The help I can offer along the way. Even the hair tips I can relay to my bare headed sisters.

I was grateful when my kids started fighting with each other again, after they'd been walking on eggshells right after my diagnosis.

Just like I'll be grateful for my bad days at work when I'm able to go back.

Things like this change people. But I think mainly for the good.

And, no, David, I'm not turning into an optimist...so don't get your hopes up.

Between trying to convince my brood that, yes, they do need to at least finish Junior year, Freshman year, and 8th grade year to be productive members of society, and helping them find the perfect outfits to start in, I forgot to post a post-op update. (Say that 5 times fast!)

And here's hoping this will be my last. post op. update. ever.

Because...my margins were clear! No evidence of malignancy. Music to my ears, my benign tissues, and my new implants. 

Drue was out of town with a friend for my surgery so I reminded Tate the night before that he'd be home alone, lest he channel his inner Macaulay Culkin and think he'd wished us away, "I have my surgery tomorrow and Reese will be at work."

"Oh. Where will Dad be?" he asked. 

"Uhhh...perhaps with his BRIDE of 21 years while she's under anesthesia." We may have a little more work to do preparing him for a future relationship. 

I could tell he had already moved on from the conversation and was planning in his head how to consume the entire contents of the pantry while we were gone. 

The hospital parking lot and lobby were eerily empty at 5:45am.

But I was happy to be first on the schedule. I wasn't as happy to see my brand new year older age emblazoned on my hospital bracelet.

I'm required to take a pregnancy test before surgery and am happy to report there are no little Hollaways on the horizon. Had my test been positive, I most definitely wouldn't have needed anesthesia. I would have passed out all on my own. 

Getting prepped for surgery is such a flurry of activity, questions, pokes, prods, signatures, and the ever popular getting marked up with a sharpie. My plastic surgeon and his assistant marked up my chest. Then my breast surgeon popped in and wrote "yes margins" on my right side. I thought about grabbing the marker when they left and scribbling "Thank you, have a nice day" with a smiley face on my rib cage.

I can't wear contacts during surgery and they always take my glasses off before whisking me away to the OR. This time they started to whisk me to the wrong room and I heard someone stop them before we screeched to a stop and my bed was pulled backward down the hall and pointed in the right direction. This was only mildly unsettling. Everything was blurry and I couldn't see the faces of anyone in the OR. So I just had to trust they got me to the right one. An oxygen mask was held on my face while someone stood over me watching and waiting for me to drift off. So surreal.

David ran into his old high school basketball buddy turned surgeon again in the post op area. Never fails. He wasn't even my surgeon that day. Glad they can have little reunion get togethers on my behalf.

Recovery wasn't bad at all. My only restriction is I can't lift more than 5 lbs for 6 weeks. This is a tad annoying because I feel totally fine so I tend to forget this restriction. But my plastic surgeon scared me into following it so my implants don't bust through my incisions. Everything weighs more than 5 lbs! Laundry basket, laundy detergent, our dutch oven pot David cooks scrumptious meals in but I usually wash.

Speaking of David, he took great care of me as usual. So thankful. My plan before my first surgery last year was to assign the laundry, dishes, and cleaning tasks to the kids. But he took all of it over on his own, including the cooking which he already does anyway. (No, I don't loan him out.) The other day I laid down the law to the kids that going forward they would be put back on the dishes rotation. Groans ensued. "Dad spoiled you guys all last year by doing everything," I continued. "Mom's breast  cancer journey is officially over!" David declared, "Everybody back to work!" More collective groans. So supportive, my crew. 

I did feel a twinge of domestication a few days after my surgery when I was feeling good and getting up and around more. So much so that I decided to bake a cake I'd been craving. Drue discovered it first, "What are you doing?"

"Baking a cake."

Looking puzzled, "For us? Or for work?"

Reese found it next.

"Why are you making a cake??"

"Because I want to."

"Who's it for??"

When I told her it for us, she laughed and yelled up the stairs, "Drue! Mom's actually making a cake!"

And David had to put his two cents in when he smelled it, "What did you make?"

"A cake," I said through gritted teeth.

"Huh. You just thought, 'Hey, I'll make a cake'?"

And this is why I tend to stay out of the kitchen.

The main KU campus welcomed me back with construction in the dreaded parking garage. We're talking traffic lights in the garage, one way lanes, and cones everywhere. I finally made it to the roof level, walked down a creepy stairwell, and completely by accident stumbled into the plastic surgery lobby for my follow up. Oy.

Everything is healing up well. My right side has an air pocket in it from where the extra tissue was removed. So for a few days I sounded like a 12 year old boy making armpit noises whenever I moved my arm. I was just glad it made the same noise at my appointment. I figured it'd be like taking my car to the repair shop.

Radiation did a number on my left side. So I'm not even. My plastic surgeon suggested going back in, doing some fat grafting, tucking, lifting. Um, no. I shower, dry off, and throw on my clothes. I don't pull out a level and prop it on my bosom while looking in the mirror. I'm good. They're good. And my cake was really good.

I think I'll throw my family for a loop again and go bake some brownies. Just because. 

After spending Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve mornings getting radiation, I figured I had to find a really cool way to celebrate my birthday. So I'll be having surgery bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to be clear, I'm not observing any holidays in 2020. Maybe that will unjinx me.

We'll actually be leaving the house dark and early at 0520 hours. David briefly entertained the idea of Ubering me there, until he remembered Top Golf is right across the street from the hospital. If he tries to toss his clubs in the car tomorrow I will call an uber. And remove his name from my emergency contact list.

Never in a bazillion years did I ever dream I'd be getting implants for my birthday. Whose life is this?? Hopefully this will be the end of my reconstruction. Until about a decade from now when I have to swap them out for new ones. My breast surgeon will also be taking out more tissue on one side because my margins weren't completely clear last Summer.

Please be clear. Please be clear. Please be clear. 

I am such a hopeless sap. I've had tissue expanders in since last June after my double mastectomy, which a man had to have invented. So. Uncomfortable. But even though I'm thrilled to bid them farewell tomorrow and commence sleeping on my sides again after over a year of not being able to, I'll kind of miss them. I mean, we've been through a lot together this past year. They did their job and held up well during radiation.

My plastic surgeon will be able to go in my same incision on one side (just making it a little longer) but will have to make a new incision on my radiated side. Makes no difference to me. I already feel like Frankenboobs. What's what more scar?

My super creative sister sent me a tiny little bra made of money for my birthday and wrote in my sweet card to treat myself to a nice new one. Reese peered into the box and said, "What? That's not even going to fit. How small does she think you're going?"

And, no, I won't be taking this opportunity to to go up a letter size or 2. For those of you wondering but were too embarrassed to ask. I used to blush completely discussing these types of things. My, how times have changed.

I got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago that it was time to schedule my annual mammogram. I wanted to send it back and say, "No can do. No mammos left to gram."

I also received a pre-survey questionnaire to fill out prior to coming in tomorrow. The very first question was, "Have any of the following symptoms related to your liver disease gotten worse in the last 6 months?"

Ummm...I think my first question to them in the morning will be, "Exactly what type of surgery are you planning on performing?! And since when do I have liver disease??"

This morning I wandered down the grocery store aisles with list in hand, had a friendly conversation with the Starbucks baristas, tossed my bags in my car, and headed home.

Typical, ordinary morning.

Much like the one I had a year ago today. I ran errands that day too before work, began planning in my head what I needed to pack for Spring break, and oh, yeah, made a quick stop at the imaging center for my mammogram.

A stop that would stop me in my tracks.

One. Year. Ago.

We meet again, March. And you are weirding me out because of all the dates and memories associated with you.

A quick stop for my mammogram before work-March 6, 2018.

Having no clue a year from that date, I'd be typing this blog entry, still without the full range of motion of my left arm, running my hand over my fuzzy crew cut.

What. On. Actual. Earth.

And it's one of those bizarre things where it feels like yesterday but also like a lifetime ago.

Like time's stood still but also like I aged 5 years in one.

The entire month of October is dedicated to breast cancer awareness. When social media and ads are adorned with pink ribbons, inspirational quotes, and pictures of beautiful bald ladies uniting together.

But I hope you are just as aware in March. On your ordinary days. Dropping off kids at school. Getting your oil changed. And scheduling that mammogram you've been putting off.

Last night I went to a concert at the Kauffman Center for work. The same Kauffman Center I toured the day I got the call with my biopsy results-March 22, 2018.

Another surreal reminder date coming up.

You've certainly come in like a lion, my friend. Stirring up all the feels.

On one hand I'm glad to see you because it means I've made it through a year. Ask any cancer survivor and they'll proudly tell you how many years out they're celebrating.

On the other hand, it's hard for me to face you. Because my life before you, before cancer, is slipping farther and farther away and I've already forgotten bits and pieces of what it felt like.

But I'm learning to embrace this new life. This "beanie baby", as Drue affectionately referred to me these past 6 months, packed up my beanies and donated them back to the wonderful boutique I got them from. Except my favorite one. That one I'm keeping. Unless David donates it to Goodwill like he did the tote of baby clothes I was saving as keepsakes.

I'm blending back in now instead of standing out as a cancer patient. People just assume I got too clipper happy with my short locks. And I have zero doctor's appointments this month. After having a slew of them the previous 12.

One of our sweet bridge players who calls me "Kersten" saw me today and said, "I'm still praying for you every day. I don't know your last name so I just pray for 'Kersten who works at the Community Center' ". Thankfully, He knows just who she means and has been faithful to carry me through this past year.

I better wrap up this update...I've got a beanie to go hide!