A week from today marks 10 months.

10 months since I found out I had cancer.

But I'm not writing to talk about next week.

I'm writing to talk about today.

Because today was my last day of scheduled treatment.

My final radiation.

I unexpectedly finished a week early because I didn't need the added boost they had factored in initially. So it hasn't really had time to sink in yet.

I made it. We made it. Because so many of you have been right there with me. Cheering me on, praying for me, sending messages of encouragement. And I'm so grateful for each and every one.

I had radiation to my left side which meant I needed to move my heart and lungs down and out of position of the beam. To do so, I had to hold my breath each time the beam was turned on. I'd hear a voice come over the intercom and say, "Take a breath and hold it..."

Which, incidentally, has contributed to me developing the lung capacity to rival Michael Phelps. If I let my breath out while the beam was still on, it would shut the whole machine off. So I counted, daydreamed, and tried not to think about turning blue until they came back over the intercom saying, "You can breathe". They radiated 4 spots each time. My midline, left side, and 2 spots targeting the lymph nodes by my clavicle. Those last two went all the way through me and toasted the back of my shoulder like a marshmallow.

I'm sporting 6 pretty cool tattoos. If tiny little black dots are considered "cool" these days. Reese wants me to connect them all together now into some huge fancy illustration covering my torso. Too many dot to dot books as a child.

To prove I was me, I had to stop at the door each time, show them my hospital bracelet, and recite, "Kristen Hollaway. 8-1-76. Left (the side they were treating)". Once I was in the room, they displayed a picture of me from my first day and asked, "Is that you?". Seriously. If someone wanted to take my place that badly, get burnt to a crisp and have all the energy sucked out of them causing them to crawl into bed right after work some days, they're off their rocker.

My modesty flew out the window long about my second or third doctor's appointment last Spring. Since KU is a teaching hospital, there was always a student or new doctor getting trained by one of mine. And I was asked time and time again if it was ok if they sat in on my examination. "Sure, no problem," I'd say, wanting to add, "Anyone else out in the hallway wanna come take a peek? Housekeeping? Maintenance? Bring them all in!" This from the middle school girl who used to change into and out of her gym clothes faster than Clark Kent could slap on a cape.

For radiation, I had to change into my gown then traipse back out into the little waiting area, pretending like it wasn't awkward at all as I tried to hold the back closed and slither into a seat next to fully clothed family members waiting for their loved ones. At least I made it out there with it on each time. Once I was in such a hurry to get to work afterward, I stripped off all my top clothing, adjusted my beanie, and headed for the door, thankfully realizing a half second before I opened it that something was missing!

So I relinquish my standing 10am time slot. And hate that there will certainly be another person ready to fill it. I wish them well. I hope they're nice to sweet "B", my little old man friend I won't be seeing anymore and who's only halfway done with his treatment.

This last month has probably been the hardest for me. I haven't felt inspiring. Or amazing. Or anything of the sort. I've just felt off. Not a fun place to be. Stuck inside your own mind, going through the motions. But I'm plugging along and coming around. And growing the softest little baby hair you ever did feel. "You almost have enough for bedhead," David pointed out.

I snapped this one day while the person before me finished up. Probably sweet "B".

Beam on.

Beam- shine brightly.

I can do this. A rough chapter has finished. But my story isn't over yet. I feel more like a snuffed out candle at the moment. But I'll shine again. Perhaps for someone else going through this.

Beam on.

Next up: I'll be on an oral med for 5 years. And will part ways with all of these.

Oh, and I'll have my exchange surgery this Summer where they'll switch out these blasted tissue expanders for what will most likely be the smallest implants my plastic surgeon has ever created. He confirms with me at each appointment, "And you're sure this is the size you want to be?" I may mess with him next time and say, "Actually, no. Now that I think about it, can you take some of this out and make me a little bit smaller?"

My breast surgeon doesn't want to miss out on our little reunion so she'll be there also to take out more tissue on my right side. Some of my cancer cells decided to party too close to the edge of what she took out in June. So we need to make sure none of those little suckers slipped through.

So what did I do to celebrate my last treatment?

I picked Drue up from school for an orthodontist appointment. Because life goes on. And that's a-ok by me. I'm certainly ready to get back to being an ordinary Mom doing ordinary Mom things.

This was the garden outside the cancer center on my first day of chemo.

And here it is on my last day of radiation.

A different season for sure. Each season has its own challenges. But also its own beauty.

I feel like I've been holding my breath since that March 22nd phone call.

It felt so good to hear them say at the end of my treatment today, "You can breathe..."

I'm not bidding 2018 a fond farewell. I'm looking it in the eye with a triumphant grin, giving a little wave, and saying a BIG "Buh-Bye"!

Whew! What a whirlwind. It tricked me at first, giving me a few low key months before everything began to unravel in March. I never imagined at the beginning of this year my NYE festivities would include hanging out at the Cancer Center getting radiation and visiting with my oncologist. This girl knows how to party.

We all have those memorable milestone years with which we mark time by.

If someone mentions 1994, I immediately picture myself, blue cap & gown, getting my high school diploma.

1998- black cap & gown crossing the stage at SBU and in a wedding dress a few weeks later.

'02, '04, '06- bringing home newborns.

Of course, 2018 will be forever remembered and marked with the "C" word.

I finished chemo, got my port out, started the next phase of treatment, and I felt amazing. Or that's how I thought I'd feel. My emotions have actually been all over the place.

If you look at me wrong, I'll cry.

If you smile at me comfortingly, I'll cry.

In fact, if everyone could just stop making eye contact with me altogether for awhile until I feel semi back to normal that'd be best.

Some have complimented my outlook. But I can't take credit for that. That's God.

He's got this.

He writes my story.

He's carrying me through.

I would have a much more defeatist attitude if my hope wasn't in Him.

A few months ago we sang a new (to me) song at church. I am team "traditional hymns" all the way and am slow to embrace new songs and choruses. But this one grabbed a hold of me and made me wonder, "Wait, has Matt Redman met me?". His song Never Once certainly hit home.

"Kneeling on this battle ground
Seeing just how much You've done
Knowing every victory
Was your power in us

Scars and stuggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did you leave us on our own
You are faithful, God, you are faithful"

And all the mental snapshots of this past year come flooding back.

The room where I waited in my gown while they reviewed my additional mammogram images.

The Hen House parking lot I called David from to tell him I needed a biopsy.

The parking lot at work where I was standing when I got the call it was cancer.

The MRI tubes.

I wasn't really alone any of those times. He was right there with me.

I know others of you are still reeling from the events 2018 tossed your way. But we made it! Tomorrow we turn the page. It certainly doesn't erase the effects of this past year but it's a fresh start and a new number. With all sorts of adventures and possibilities in store.

2018 was a hard year.

But it was also an amazing year.

And I would go through it all again just for the friendships I've made, laughs I've had, hugs I've received, encouragement, support, the list goes on.

The sweetest little old man has radiation right before me. We smile and exchange pleasantries as he exits and I enter. Today he said, "Good Morning. Have a good New Year!"

I held back the tears that threatened to break through (he's going to be excluded from my "no eye contact" decree because he's precious) and wished him the same.

To 2019 I say, "Bring. It. On."

How is it that I'm halfway through chemo and haven't written an update?

Probably because it knocks me on my hindquarters.

And makes me say weird things like, "Are these your footballs...I mean shoes?!" and "There are plates in the dryer...I mean dishwasher!"

I feel like a walking, talking Mad Lib most days.

So how's it going?

Well, it's going...to drive me bat crazy if these next 7 weeks don't zoom right on by. And if my last 4 treatments are anything like the first 4. Which they aren't supposed to be. BUT, again, nothing during this whole ordeal has been how it's "supposed to be" with me. How's that for a lovely upbeat attitude?

I guess let me paint the picture of the infusion room to set the stage. It has multiple pods of chairs. Which is basically 4 sections of recliners lined up on both sides facing each other. Maybe 10 per pod? I don't remember. I don't take that detailed of notes, people.

I walked in that first day and they said, "Pick a chair".

Slight panic set in. I do better when someone says, "Sit there". Takes the decision making off me. I'd wished I'd read up on Infusion Room Etiquette, if there's even such a thing.

There were plenty of chairs that morning. So should I find the farthest one from others? Do I sit down right next to someone and make a new friend? Do I greet people as I go by? Or curtsy as I make my way down the row? I decided just to give a slight smile to folks as I passed. Heck, we're all stuck in this room together for hours that none of us want to be in.

Then I saw it. My chair. In the corner. Back against the wall so I could see the whole room. Right next to the window overlooking the garden. With a spot for David next to it. Off I headed. As I sat down I realized there was a guy right across from me getting infused.

Shoot. This wasn't going to be awkward at all. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to now be sitting across from this newbie stranger for the morning. But I'd already committed to the chair so it would have been more awkward to get up and move.

As I settled in, I gazed around at the others in my pod. The fellow across from me I'd be avoiding eye contact with. An older man hooked up to meds with his wife next to him. Another white haired gentleman already asleep.

What the heck?! Had I inadvertently wandered into the man pod? I later learned that wasn't a thing. Just a coincidence that day.

I won't go into a play by play of chemo because that will just start to read like a medical journal and even my eyes will begin to glass over. I did get a wee bit curious though when the nurse wheeled over a huge cart of supplies, gowned up, and started creating a sterile field to access my port that first time. Even I have to wear a mask for that part. I started thinking, "Wait. What? Do they have me scheduled for a surgery right here and now I didn't know about? And am I scrubbing in for my own mini surgery?!"

I got two meds these first 4 rounds. Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Or "AC" for us BC experts. Yeah, I'm down with the breast cancer lingo now. We're a super hip club in case you didn't know. One I hope none of you ever have to join.

The Adriamycin, as I mentioned on FB, is known as the "red devil". And boy howdy, is it ever! I am SUPER thankful I didn't have terrible nausea with it. My home meds basically knocked me out for 4 days afterward to help avoid that. Hey, bring it on. I'll take that. I had to suck on a popsicle while it was getting infused to help prevent mouth sores. I felt like a 5 year old getting bribed to take their shot.

The "red devil" part for me was just when I started to come around and have a day or so of standing upright and safely being able to drive myself places, it would say, "Oh? Feeling better are we? Have plans to head on in to work today? Alrighty. I'm just gonna drop your white blood cell counts to almost nothing. And, what the heck, let's drop those red cell counts too. Nope, more. A little more. Eh, let's just go ahead and make you anemic and put you right on the edge of needing a blood transfusion. There. And just for grins, since I dropped those levels so low, let's raise your temp up. More. A little more. Yep, 103 sounds about right. I don't want to make you go unconscious or anything."

I was on 3 different antibiotics and needed IV fluids once. All during my weeks/weekends where I was supposed to be feeling good. Little devil for sure.

I've gotten pretty good at knowing when my counts are dropping. Walking out to the mailbox and feeling like I just ran a 5K usually tips me off.

When I had to page my oncologist this weekend for yet another fever, he said, "Ok, tell me where you are with your treatments because I'm just coming back from vacation."

"Well, I just finished my AC..."

"Oh thank God!" he interjected.

"I know! I am!"

The smell of the saline they use to flush my port has become my most hated smells of all smells. Oh. My. Word. I have to hold my breath and go to my happy place when they do that part. Why can't it come in different scents/flavors? Like tooth polish at the dentist? Bubblegum would for sure be my first pick.

The kids have been pretty understanding when I feel like crud in a bucket and they have to forego having sleepovers here. Drue texted me this weekend asking how I felt. When I said, "Not so great" she said, "Oh, ok. I was gonna ask if so-and-so could sleep over but we can do it another time."

She texted me a few hours later asking again how I was feeling.

"What do you mean??" I texted back wearily. We'd already been through this. There would be no sleepover. Turns out, she was just genuinely concerned that time and wanted to make sure my fever was gone. No ulterior motive whatsoever. Oopsie.

So that about sums it up. Probably more detail than you cared to know. If people see me out and ask about chemo, I usually say, "Oh, it's going pretty good. Not as terrible as I'd feared." Because I feel like I have to defend it since it's, quite frankly, saving my life at the moment.

For some reason, it has rained on each and every treatment day thus far. I'm sure there's a witty correlation to be made there but I'm sleepy so that will have to wait for another day.

My coveted window corner chair was occupied this last time. I texted David who hadn't made it in from the truck yet. He offered to get his tire tool and "rough somebody up" for me.

I will not be asking him to co-author the Infusion Room Etiquette Book I'll be writing.

I'm happy to report people have stopped looking at my chest to see if it's still mine. And have started looking at my hair to see if it's still mine.

Which, of course, it isn't. After having it come out in fistfuls and literally watching my highlights go down the drain, it was time.

A question I get asked frequently (understandably so) is, "How are the kids handling all this?"

The answer: Remarkably...Surprisingly...Oddly well. I'm not sure which adverb to pick exactly.

They still take their cues from us. Just like toddlers taking a tumble. Every parent knows not to gasp or suck in their breath. You say, in your best singsong voice, "Oopsie Daisie! Hop up!" They may look uncertain for a second, but when they see you're ok, they're ok. Same rule seems to have applied with my diagnosis and treatment.

Sure, there have been a few "Are you going to die?" discussions.

I put on a reassuring front and calm their fears. But also usually throw in, "Besides...there's no way I'm gonna miss out on tormenting you throughout your teen years. This is what I've trained for!"

I didn't want my head shaving to be a somber moment. But I didn't really expect the kids to get downright giddy about it. They were full of all sorts of crazy ideas so I just decided to humor them.

Reese called first dibs with the clippers.

Drue suggested I dye it a fun color right before we shaved it. And she wanted us to shave everything except my bangs to see what that would look like. Not a look I'll be repeating, that's for sure.

I was leery about the hair dye idea. But, really, what did I have to lose? All my hair! Naturally, we picked pink. So I bleached it and dyed it. All while more and more kept falling out around me.

We all gathered in the gazebo out back for my shearing. It seems like an eternity ago, but it's only been 3 weeks. And I still forget I'm bald most days until I pass a mirror. I envisioned myself looking like Demi Moore from G.I. Jane. And I guess I resemble her look a little, if part of her crew cut fell out in patches and she had random pink dye splotches on her scalp.

For insurance purposes my wig is a "cranial prosthesis". And my oncologist had to write a prescription for it. Which made me snicker.

We've actually had quite a few snickers over my lack of hair.

Each month I order two Target Beauty boxes for the girls and I to share. 6 out of 7 items in our last one were hair products. So the girls were pretty excited they each got a box all to themselves.

Drue straightened her hair one day last week when the humidity level was 112%. So she tried to finagle a ride to school so her curls wouldn't break through as soon as she stepped out the front door. When her request was denied she said, "Ugh! I'll just..." then trailed off and laughed guiltily. "You'll just what?" I pried curiously. "I was gonna say...cut it all off, " she confessed. Then promptly left for school without complaint.

I'm told my wig looks fairly similar to the haircut I got a few weeks before it all came out. Even the kids would ask before I lost my hair, "Wait, is that your wig?"

"Yep. I just left your room 5 minutes ago. But in that time, I shaved my entire head by myself in the bathroom and am now sporting my wig."

Cancer has taken many things from me. But not my snark.

I pull my wig off as soon as I get to my car after work, slap on my ball cap, and don't put it back on until I go back to work or church. I asked the kids if they wanted me to wear it to their school functions and they all said they didn't care. Tate was confused why I was asking. "Well, I thought you might want a Mom with hair to come to stuff, not your bald Mom in a baseball cap."

He still look confused and said, "I don't care. I mean, cancer is a good excuse to be bald."

Bless it.

The other day when I picked him up from practice after work I quickly said, "Oh! Don't sit on my hair," as he scrambled into the car. Felt super normal yet odd to say at the same time.

It was weird running errands for the first time with just my hat on. And running into people I know who aren't aware of this turn of events in my life is strange. "I look like a cancer patient," I lamented to David. "Well, Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you..." he replied.

My beauty routine has always left a lot to be desired. My makeup application takes about 4 minutes, I slap polish on my picked to nubs nails, and I usually check with the girls for their approval before buying any new articles of clothing. But it took me about 12 years to grow my hair out to the length it was, and I do kind of miss it.

But, hey, I am sporting that super cool scar on the back of my head I never thought I'd get to see.

Say "Snooze"

Reese plopped down on my bed last night with a stack of papers to go over. Field trip permissions, substance abuse form, choir uniform order sheet, and teacher/student contracts. Where next to student signature is parent signature. I felt like we were taking out a loan together with all the signing.

"Oh, and are you gonna buy school pictures?"

Hmmm, let's see, I've only bought them for the past ELEVEN years you've been in school. So, nah, I'm good. These are the types of snarky comments I hold back from time to time. Not often.

"Yes." I simply stated.

I get why schools don't have Picture Day on the first day back. I imagine adding that in the mix would push teachers and staff over that fine line between sanity/insanity.

But that first day is when my kids put forth their best effort. The girls have planned out their outfits, their hairstyles, and everything comes together nicely. They progressively let themselves go after that. Oh, sure, the rest of that week they piece together a few more coordinating outfits. But only because I threaten to bag up all their brand new clothes for the thrift store if I still find tags on them come October.

By the end of the first quarter they begin to resemble, well, me on the days I stayed home with them as newborns. "Oh, is it pj day today?" I'll ask. And as they push back an escaped strand of hair from their messy bun, glancing down at their crumpled t-shirt they'll say, "No. Why?"

It's a good thing they carry student I.D.s. so their teachers can know for certain that the Hollaway walking into their class in November is indeed the same Hollaway they met on the that first day.

I was actually ahead of the game this year with pictures. Not only did I order all of them online at once, I found a package that included enough 5x7s for all of David's offices across the Midwest. Now if I can actually hand these over to him the day they come in instead of forgetting where I put them, I will really impress myself. I think the current ones he has on display include one or two elementary pictures.

Picture Day used to be sometime in September. Which worked out great because my kids all just wore their first day of school outfits again. Now, it's a few days after school starts. There's not enough money in all our savings to bribe the girls to repeat an outfit that first week. So we have to have an additional nice looking outfit. I'm still working on my proposal to the school board about this. And getting Tate to wear a plaid shirt again?! It took the girls and I joining forces together to convince him to do this. He's worn a plaid shirt in every school picture since preschool. There's no way we're going to let him break his streak now. The girls suggested he wear an athletic shirt under it, then whip it off and stuff it in his locker. Where I'm afraid it will remain until May. Thank the heavens, stars, and planets, his pictures are early in the day.

And instead of having my kids say "cheese", they should have them say "snooze". I'm sure they'd get a much more genuine smile.

Reese enlisted my help curling her hair this morning. I think the last time she did that was for her school dance last Winter. So I was a bit rusty but was happy with how it turned out. Even Drue, who is always completely honest, sometimes brutally so, when you ask her how something looks, agreed.

"Oooohhhh!" I exclaimed. "The back looks really good! Could they maybe take a picture of that?"

"Sure, I'll just turn my head around at the last second," she offered.

I sensed her snarkiness. So refrained from responding, "Great, thanks!"

I did drag her out front this morning to our standard spot for special occasion pictures.

I may just keep it handy and slip it into her planner mid-semester.

Raise your hand if you can't believe it's been 3 weeks since my surgery.

Let me tell you, that's on my looooong list of things I will hopefully never take for granted again. Being able to raise my hand. Along with: getting out of bed, changing position in bed, getting up from a chair, getting in and out of a car, buckling my seatbelt, and more. Whew.

Why so long for an update you ask?

I literally just typed that I've had limited use of my arms. Why would you even ask that question? (Insert winking emoji face here) Also, it's kind of hard to write a blog when you can't remember what's transpired. David and the kids are helping me piece some of those days back together. "I did what...?" " I said what..." Not funny viral video type things, darn it (I love those). Just day to day happenings and conversations I have no recollection of. Gotta watch this crew though. They're likely to ad lib things just for the fun of it. "Yeah Mom, you said you didn't care if we wore belly shirts now and that we could wear them to Sunday School".

Truth be told, I actually didn't even have all the info I needed for a complete update until YESTERDAY. Heavens to Betsy. Talk about being weary of the wait!

I completely understand now why a cancer diagnosis is referred to as a journey.

Journey: noun-A traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time; trip.

Mine wasn't supposed to be a cancer "journey". It was supposed to be a cancer "jaunt" back in March. I cannot believe all the stops and detours I've made in between then and now. My 2nd diagnosis, my skull scare, craniotomy, lumpectomy changed to bilat mastectomy. I've had more pictures taken of the inside of my body than there are pictures of me growing up. (Third child problems. Tate's just lucky he was a boy. Ensuring I took a plethora of pics. Had he been another girl, I may have just said, Been there. Done that.)

On with the update. I'll share the good, the bad, but probably skip the ugly here. Although I'm fine talking about the ugly with you if you'd really care to hear. It just doesn't quite fit with the theme of my blog. It's more Edgar Allen Poe-ish. And I don't want to scare anyone who may stumble upon this entry down the road about to undergo their own surgery. To them I would say, "I made it!! You will too! It sure doesn't feel like it some days. Keep on keepin' on. Ok, that one's cliche. But seriously. You will not want to get out of bed. But you have to. And you will feel 87% better when you get up and around. That's a solid B+, my friends."

The week leading up to my surgery, I started to panic.

Over dumb things.

It was all of a sudden imperative I wash our couch throw pillow covers and hose down the front porch chairs no one sits in.

And my linen closet? No way was I heading to the hospital with that in such disarray. I pulled everything out, threw out old, haggard linens I was too embarrassed to donate, and arranged the leftovers neatly. I spent a few minutes holding on to Tate's little hooded dinosaur towel, before it found itself in the toss pile. Nostalgia got the best of me so I pulled it back out and cut just the hooded dinosaur head off for a keepsake. But that just looked creepy, so it all went back in the trash.

We sent Reese off to Florida the day before my surgery on a school trip. Which was well timed. Her first trip without us and I couldn't even worry because I was sedated half the time. Handy. I still didn't care for the fact she kept going over who got to keep what if her plane crashed. "Can you not?!" I finally said.

That same day, my sister showed up at my doorstep with her roomba, wanting to know where she could help. Her house is spotless. Mine was a hot mess. I delegated living room duties to her and she set to work. Scrubbing the fireplace doors, glass candle holders, and making a pile of little hidden treasures from under the couches, exclaiming more than once, "I just love to clean!". I'm still trying to decide which one of us was adopted.

Enough build up to surgery. Let's get on with it. Spoiler alert: I made it through. David took, what is now hands down, my most unflattering picture of all time before I was awake from anesthesia. Scrub cap and all. If I ever find that framed in one of his offices somewhere, all of his belongings will be tossed onto the front lawn.

When the nurse came in later that evening to help me up for the first time, she said, "Now, you'll have to rely on your leg and stomach muscles these next few weeks."

How convenient. I have neither.

My pessimistic tendencies became amplified. My 2nd day home I thought, "This is it. I've peaked. I'm going to feel this way for the duration of my Earthly days." But I discovered I have this spunky little inner voice that is both motivating/sassy, "Heavens, Girl. What in the world?! Millions of women have gone through this surgery before you and are walking around as we speak with full use of their upper appendages, not dragging themselves around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Now get out of that bed and change your shirt for crying out loud."

I can only sleep on my back currently. And can't change position without difficulty. My skull incision still feels weird to sleep on so I can't put too much pressure on the left side of my head. Just call me Goldilocks. I've tried all the pillows in the house. Some too firm. Some too soft. I sleep slightly raised, with more pillows to prop my arms. I'm like a little Tetris piece trying to fit in my bed nest/recliner just so.

And I would like to take this opportunity to thank Facebook for all the helpful pop up ads and articles. Experimental treatments for cancer. Personal stories of those who've lost their battle. Various cancer memorabilia. So sweet of you to remind me every single time I get on your site for the past few months that this is part of my life now. Really. (Insert eye roll emoji here)

Fast forward a week from my surgery. (Since everything is fuzzy that happened before that anyway.) I had an appointment scheduled with my oncologist to get my pathology report and find out the treatment plan. Of course that would have been too easy. And they called saying my path report wasn't in yet so there was really no reason to come in. Could I reschedule? For two weeks later? My report actually came in a few hours after that phone call, at which point my oncologist had already left for vacation. My breast surgeon was very considerate and called me with the results but wasn't able to go over anything further as far as treatment.

The entire report is 9 pages long. But the gist was I actually ended up with three types of breast cancer and a huge area of cells that are markers for developing future breast cancer. Too little too late there, buddies. Would have appreciated the heads up a bit earlier. My sentinel lymph nodes on each side were positive. And my surgeon then said, "I was very happy when the report showed you also had invasive cancer on the right side that we didn't know was there."

As I began questioning her medical certification in my mind, she went on to explain that if there hadn't been invasive cancer on that side, the positive node would have meant the left side had already spread and I would have been Stage IV.

Here we go again! I feel like a cat. That's twice now I've dodged a Stage IV diagnosis. I should have 7 lives left at this point.

My left nodes had to be dissected out. So that's now my "bad" arm. And it's not to be traumatized by anything further like blood draws, blood pressures, etc. It even gets to wear a fancy sleeve when I fly or exercise so I don't develop lymphedema. I want to get one with tattoo designs. So I'll look super tough on the airplane and no one will mess with me. The nurse helpfully explained I'll still be able to engage in my regular activities like yoga, gardening, crocheting. That was great news. If I actually did any of those things to begin with.

I could not get through this without my support system. I. LOVE. YOU. GUYS. (Which, yes, includes all of you reading this). David got his own Facebook post already regarding his support, and I could actually write about 12 more for him. I have a select few friends/family who are impatient and can't wait for my blog posts. So they demand immediate updates after all my appointments. Bossy little things.

And it's amazing to watch their replies roll in. All of their different perspectives and responses are JUST what I need to hear at that time.

"Crap! Hate that!"

"Are you kidding me??"

"You've made it through the worst, you'll make it through this too."

"So, how are you after hearing that news?"

I have friends who've been through it, nurse friends, friends who say "What can I do?", and friends who just "do". I have friends checking in I haven't talked to since high school. I'm on church prayer lists in at least 3 states that I know of. People I have never met and probably never will meet. With many more individually praying for me around the world. This is both overwhelming and humbling for a wallflower like myself to be smack dab in the middle of such a huge circle of supporters.

Sorry to say, your stint isn't up quite yet. Since I was node positive, my treatment plan will be chemo followed by radiation. Beginning week after next. Yes, I've already ordered a new ball cap: Chemo Hair. Don't Care. 

Reese asked, "Do you want us to shave our heads too?"

Drue looked appropriately horrified.

"Well no!" I put their minds at ease.

"Ok. We'll just make Tate shave his then..."

Sure, because him shaving off the half centimeter of hair he currently has as his Summer cut would be a huge sign of support.

"No one's shaving anything!"

Just when I thought things couldn't get crazier around here...

Confession: My attitude isn't always "how can I find the humor in this to make it bearable?". I suspect most of you knew that. But just wanted a guilt-free conscience going forward.

Case in Point: Bursting into tears on the way to the dollar store this evening.

I was going over in my head all that we had going on tomorrow.

Let's see...Thursday...May 31...May 31? Why does that sound super familiar?

Oh.

Tomorrow was the day all my follow-ups were scheduled for after my original surgery date of May 18th.

All three of them.

Breast Surgeon. Plastic Surgeon. Oncologist.

Three different campuses. But I didn't care. I'd be getting my drains removed, hopefully hearing how nicely I was starting to heal, and finding out whether or not I'd need chemo.

I would be closer to returning to work, returning to regular t-shirts pulled over my head, returning to...normal.

And the tears came.

Not a lot. Just a few. Because all of these appointments and milestones are now over a month away.

A month. I wiped my cheek. Honest to Pete, in the grand scheme of things, a month is not. that. long.

Heck, with the way time flies at this stage of my life, I'll be buying stocking stuffers next week. And Easter candy the week after.

I've heard the story of the parting of the Red Sea from the time I was toddling around the church nursery. But I never truly grasped what an awe inspiring miracle that would have been to behold until I saw the Ten Commandments on TV. However accurate, or inaccurate, that Hollywood portrayal was, it stuck in my head. And I could never understand how the Israelites who had just experienced that could grumble about such trivial things immediately afterwards? What on actual Earth? They had just walked through the sea on dry land. Thanks to an amazing God.

I still have the scratch piece of paper I scribbled notes on when my oncologist called to discuss the MRI of my head.

-need skull biopsy
-neurosurgeon
-might not be cancer
-if it is...Stage IV isolated metastatic disease

My subsequent BENIGN skull mass result was my Red Sea moment. And here I was just 5 days after receiving that wonderful, amazing, colossal answer to prayer, feeling sorry for myself for having to wait another month for my follow-up appointments.

Nope. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps. Turned into the dollar store parking lot. And went on with my evening.

My new lucky/unlucky number, depending on how you look at it, is 22.

3/22- Cancer diagnosis.

5/22- First surgery ever.

6/22- Rescheduled date for my second surgery ever.

On 7/22 I'll either win the lottery or get hit by a bus. It's anyone's guess.

Next year, of course, 22 will become my celebratory number.

That will be here before we know it.

Oh, and at some point, I'll probably change the lyrics to Taylor Swift's "22" to something related to my cancer journey. Come on, you all had to know that was coming...