Eight Years and Forever

"I met the saddest version of me this year. I lost my spark. I lost everything that made me feel alive. And now there's a war inside my head, loud thoughts, heavy silence and I don't know if I can win. But maybe it's not about winning. Maybe it's about surviving today, breathing through the ache, showing up with trembling hands and whispering, "I'm still here." That, too, is strength. That, too, is healing. Even when you're at your lowest you are not alone. And this chapter? It's not the ending. "

-Annointed Ashes

My last post left us all waiting to see how my scan would turn out. The first scan since starting my new chemotherapy. The scan that was moved up out of caution because some of my labs were a little off. Well, I'm so happy to report that the tumors on my spine/hip all significantly decreased in size and my bloodwork has been improving which indicates that my body is positively responding to this new treatment plan! Grateful is just not a big enough word for how this news has lifted my spirits and helped me to continue moving forward on this crazy journey of mine.❤️ My goal is to reach "No Evidence of Active Disease" status and I feel that I am on my way to doing just that. It's so hard and scary and overwhelming, but boy does having a little bit of good news and encouragement go such a long way in terms of helping me to feel like I can indeed "do this". Receiving good news in November has helped me to quietly acknowledge my EIGHT year cancerversary just two weeks ago. Eight years of treatments, surgeries, scans, highs, lows and just about every emotion you could possibly imagine. December is the month I experienced not only my initial Stage 3 diagnosis, but also when I received the news it had become Stage 4 and the word metastatic became part of my vocabulary. I find myself in a sort of strange spot right now where I have 4 years as a Stage 3 survivor, as well as, 4 years as a Stage 4 survivor in my rearview. Each stage taught me so much about life, myself and others. I laugh when I remember that day all those years ago when a nurse told me "give me six months and I will give you your life back". I know she meant well and I really did need to hear that at the time, but, well, I've given it eight years and my life has never come even close to resembling what it did before cancer. In some ways, that's ok, even good maybe?! I mean, we are meant to evolve and grow and change. But I sure do miss the version of me that wasn't working so hard at simply surviving. Over these eight years, my stats include: IV chemo twice, radiation three times, one clinical trial, oral chemo three different times, two chemo ports, a double mastectomy, a single mastectomy, five reconstruction surgeries and counting, a staph infection, full blown sepsis with multiple organ failure (heart, kidney, pneumonia...), several hospitalizations, one ambulance ride and ICU stay, so many scans I don't even know how many, oh and losing all of my hair now twice. Sometimes I just don't know what to do with all of that. A few weeks ago I finally broke. I was triggered and the downfall came in the way of endless tears and the realization that I am amazingly strong and capable despite feeling like I've endured some pretty cruel and unusual punishment over the years. Thankfully, I'm not really so much bitter as I am sad sometimes, but I choose to let my optimism, gratitude and grace carry me even when the grief and fear are so, so heavy to carry. The number one thing I've learned about myself is that if I don't hold tight to this insane level of gratitude that I do so deeply feel, I will be swept away by the tremendous amount of grief that presents itself to me almost daily. I'm so sad that my children have to face this, but I'm so damn grateful for the fact that I'm still here with them and I'm witnessing the people they are becoming. I'm so sad that some relationships have fallen apart because of this illness, but I'm so incredibly grateful for the ones that have strengthened and proven to be unbreakable. I'm so sad that I question all the time how much longer I can fight this, but I'm so fucking grateful for today, this moment and this time on this earth doing what I do with the people that I love. I'm so sad that my parents have to witness my struggle.....but I'm so grateful for the level of unconditional love and understanding we share with one another. I'm so sad that I often feel like I don't fit in the world around me, but I'm so grateful to be experiencing life through a lens that amplifies a perspective of spirituality and meaning that is quite simply unmatched. I'm choosing gratitude and I'm mixing it with love and so much hope.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. For all of the reasons I just explained and even more, holidays are really tough for me. The world buzzes with excitement and inside I'm just quiet. Maybe it's when happiness is amplified all around me, my grief gets a little louder than usual. Without a doubt I know it's because no matter how well I'm feeling and how positively things are going, I wonder if this one or the next will be my last. I quickly put these thoughts to bed, but I'm human. I can't help the intrusive thoughts any more than I can help that cancer happened to me in the first place. I'm going to work extra hard at focusing on the parts of this season that make me feel peace in my heart and allow me to ground in the presence of love and the gift of time. I'm excited to see the kids' reactions when they open their presents. I love the quiet moments spent in church really thinking about what the meaning of the holiday is all about. And then it's the lights on the tree, my favorite Christmas music and of course watching and crying through The Family Stone late at night when the house is quiet. These little moments strengthen my will to keep fighting this disease and also remind me of what I'm fighting for. My life.

"Living with cancer at Christmas is hard...not because it isn't beautiful. But because it truly is. There are lights and laughter and Secret Santas. And blood tests. Scan results. And fear that has nowhere to go. Everyone is celebrating life, and I'm clinging to mine. You're surrounded by joy and for a sweet second you feel it, it seeps into your bones, but then the pain reminds you of the burden you are carrying alone. It's like being on the outside looking in. Only not at strangers through a window, but my own family, my people, my loved ones, my life.

It takes everything out of you-the smiling, the pretending, the 'I'm ok'. There's so much more pretending than normal. Wearing the mask is exhausting. Not because I didn't want to. I would do anything for you. But because every moment reminded me how desperately I want to stay here with you...And the pain on your faces when (if) you noticed my pain is crucifying. Christmas with cancer is a whole new experience. Pretending my heart wasn't breaking-even to myself-while trying to mend it quietly so no one would notice. All I want for Christmas? My health. That is all." -Shellie Clark @catchmeifyoucancer

I've had so many of you reach out to me lately sharing your news of a new diagnosis, a recurrence or a new line of treatment. I'm pulling back the veil of what it's like for me living with cancer during this holiday season because I simply want you to know that you are not alone. The day after Christmas you will find me in that chemo chair getting my sixth infusion of this new treatment plan. I understand your grief, I understand your fear and I understand what it's like clinging to hope. Don't give up! There IS life to be lived even when navigating something so consuming as cancer. I'm always here for you. My wings, your wings, our wings. Eight years down and forever to go. Much love ALWAYS- M 👼

Hallelujah Christmas by Cloverton

Oh how I wish I was in that cafe....I hope this fills your heart as much as it does mine.

https://youtu.be/SJtdfqh95Gk?si=l3E_IYACp03Yr65Y