Six

Six weeks was the magical number to hit.
Most likely things have healed and
shouldn't give me future complications.
Shouldn't.

I saw my surgeon again today to have him look at everything.
Stomach incision looks good.
Some of the nerves running down my left leg either
got accidentally cut or hopefully just nicked or bumped.
This is causing numbness and pain.
If it is the first - it will be permanent.
If it is the latter - it will slowly get better.
Only time will tell.

My abscess is looking better too.
Just taking its time to heal.
I have developed a rash and blisters from the tape that
I use to cover the abscess though.
Hopefully that is all it is and not an underlying infection.
My doctor drew with a black sharpie around it and said
if it spreads outside the marked area he will call me in
a prescription for medication - oh goodie.

My hematoma is getting smaller.
I have been putting on heat and massaging it every night,
and I can definitely tell that helps, well that and ibuprofen.

All of my restrictions have been lifted - sort of.
I can slowly start lifting things over 10 pounds.
If possible, I can reach or stretch my arms above my elbows.
(I think this one will take time and occupational therapy
just like after my mastectomy - my range of motion is gone
and it is painful to raise my arms very high.)
Walking is still about the only exercise I should do.
I can try sleeping in bed but most likely will be going
back and forth between it and the recliner.


I still have quite a bit of pain in my upper chest on the left side.
From what I understand, in surgery they moved around the muscle
and then put stitches down to my new breast to help hold it in place.
But now the weight is pulling on the muscle and stitches and makes
it feel like it is ripping and separating inside my chest.
He thought it would be a good idea at this point to wrap ace bandages
around me.  It is a little bit of a guessing game - too tight and it will
constrict the new vessels and could cut off the blood flow to the flap; or
too loose and it won't do any good.
(On a happier note, after he wrapped me I looked down  - I  have cleavage!)

Then I talked to the doctor about all the various pains
I have been having; ribs, stomach, armpits, ect.

He explained a little bit more of how the DIEP surgery was done and
it makes a lot more sense as to why I am having pain in those areas.
But basically his bottom line was - I am overdoing it.

I struggle because I already feel like I am only doing half a job.
Half a wife, mom, housekeeper... - all of it.
Mom guilt is hard.
I know to take it easy.
I know I need to rest.
I know I don't need to do it all.
It is just hard.
But I know I will get there.

Coming Along

You would think since I really can't do much - I would at least update this blog more frequently.

I had a three week appointment with my doctor in St. George a few days ago. ( I am lucky to be able to have my follow-up appointment down here with my wonderful surgeon instead of having to travel back up to Salt Lake.)

The boring news - I still have numerous restrictions.
No lifting over ten pounds.
No reaching or grabbing things that extend my arms above my elbows.
No exercise or stretching, besides walking.
No laying flat, which means I am still sleeping in a recliner.
I hope in three more weeks most of these will be gone.

The ok news - I have a few spots along my incision that have started to split open.  My doctor is not too concerned yet but we are watching them to make sure they don't get infected or increase in length.
Otherwise, the rest of my incisions (which is a lot) look great! I have decided incisions are really weird.  Sometimes I have feeling and sometimes they are numb.  But a lot of the time it feels like a whole bunch of little needles are stabbing me.  I had shingles last year and it feels very similar.  All the nerves, from hip to hip, that were cut during surgery are firing and trying to establish new pathways - and it is painful, but I am told it is a good thing.

I also have developed a few hematomas in my left breast.  A hematoma is an abnormal collection of blood outside a blood vessel. It occurs because the wall of a blood vessel wall, artery, vein, or capillary, has been damaged and blood has leaked into tissues where it does not belong. However, depending on the size, location and cause of the hematoma, the area may need to be drained surgically.  Basically it is a pile of blood that has hardened.  Sort of feels like I have a few rocks on the outer edges of my breast.  Now that my back is feeling better (see below), this is what hurts the most.  It hurts to have anything touch them, but the doctor wants me to massage them in hopes of breaking them up and then my body will naturally re-absorb it.  

The good news - my back is getting stronger and feeling better.  Two weeks ago when I would try to walk down the hall I had such intense back spasms and shooting pain that I would have to stop and grab anything I could for fear of falling and crumpling onto the floor.  But now I am standing a bit straighter although the pain from trying to stretch the abdomen scar keeps me slightly hunched over still.

The great news -   I got my last of 5 drains pulled.  If you haven't ever had one I cannot explain to you the relief and freedom it is to get rid of them.  It is a love/hate relationship for sure.  I understand their necessity and function - but man are they painful, annoying and constantly in the way - and if you drop one - AWWWWWWW.

I also had a stitch right on my hip that had worked its way to the surface, so the doctor was nice enough to pull it all the way out. It hurt way more than the drain - maybe because he had to use pliers to get it out.

But the best news of all is my mother is still here.  She decided to stay another week to continue to help me.  She is so great to have here.  Not only does she do all the house stuff I dislike - dishes, laundry (how she gets it all done in one day I will never know), cooking and shopping.  She helps the kids with homework while I nap and is the chauffeur for me and the kids.  She modifies and sews my clothes so I have something to wear and helps me with all my wound care.  But my favorite - I love having her around to just sit and talk to.  I don't know what I would do without her. (Plus the fact that she is the one who will edit this so everything makes sense, is spelled right and has all the correct punctuation.)  Thanks Mom!!!

Also thanks to everyone for the calls, emails and texts asking how I am doing -

In short, I am doing good.

Not Really Prepared

First off, I want to apologize for not sending out an update sooner. I honestly still don't know how to write down what I am truly feeling at this point. I think after you go through any major life/body altering change it takes some time to process.

I have been preparing for this surgery for almost 2 years, I was even a little excited to report to the hospital at 5:30 am. I talked to lots of other women who have had this surgery, even some women who used the same surgeons. I prepared meals, menus and arranged for my kids to be taken care of. I researched the surgery, asked hundreds of questions during my multiple doctors’ appointments; and organized and bought items that would help with my recovery.  I feel like I did not go into this surgery blind.

Ryan was able to get home from work early on Wednesday afternoon and we loaded the two littles in the car and drove to my sister-in-law's house. My mom had already driven to St. George that afternoon, ready to take over the house duties and caring for the older two. Annette was so excited and ready to play with Gage and Alyssa. Driving away, saying goodbye to my kids, knowing it would be a least a week, maybe two before I would get to see them again. That was the hardest part.

I met lots of doctors, assistants, nurses and the anesthesiologist the morning of the 19th. The last few things I remember was kissing Ryan goodbye and a young kid wheeling me down a long hall to the operating room. A young doctor came over and introduced herself and said she was going to give me some meds - one to help with nausea and one to calm my nerves. I remember being wheeled through the double doors and moving from the bed to the cold surgery table. I remember thinking, “holy crap”, there are a lot of masked people in here. I couldn’t make out my team of 3 surgeons but I started counting all the others.  I got to twelve and then I don't remember anything else.

The best estimate my surgeons had for the surgery was it would take 4 to 6 hours. Six hours passed. Then seven. Then eight turned into nine. My surgery lasted nine hours. I don’t remember much of that night. Waking up in my room, saying hi to Ryan and that is about it. Friday was not much better. A pain I did not expect was in my left arm. Something having to do with the position it remained in all through surgery. I could hardly lift it. I recall asking  Ryan to massage it over and over again. I was in and out of sleep, trying to eat a few things from my clear liquid diet down, a few visitors and my first attempt to get out of bed and stand. 

Nothing, really nothing could have prepared me for the pain. I was literally cut in half, hip to hip, and it felt like it! Honestly, the first time I saw my new breasts and stomach I was a little scared, I looked Frankenstienish, But a flat stomach was awesome and I had two boobs again! I have to admit not seeing a belly button was a little weird. The medical team seemed pleased with the way the flaps and incisions looked and how I was progressing along. I was monitored every 2 hours. Between getting vitals and medications, checking on the viability of the flaps with a Doppler, and stripping my JP drains, I was not alone very often; they did this round the clock. I did not sleep very well or for very long periods. The first night they had to call in the on-call doctor because I was not breathing well and my oxygen levels were low, so I needed to be put on oxygen, after that I was fine. At one point I had the blood pressure cuff on my arm, O2 sensor on my finger, oxygen nose cannula, 5 JP drains down each sides, a flap monitor on each new breast and two special stitches for the Doppler readings. I was pretty much tethered to the bed, which was fine with me because I didn't want to go anywhere.

On Saturday, more family came to visit and I am sorry if I was not very social or even that conscious. Ryan had to leave on Saturday to head home. Saturday was an okay day and there was talk from one of my doctors to possibly be released on Sunday. But on Sunday, I woke up in a lot of pain and was having a really rough time and crying a lot. I received so many pretty flower bouquets, chocolates and even homemade chocolate chip cookies. I asked my doctors if I could stay until Monday. By Monday I felt my pain was in better control but I still did not feel ready to leave the safety of the hospital. My sister came to get me and received a crash course on how to be my nurse. I left with pages and pages of documents on what to watch for, what meds to take, things not to do and things to do and when to call the doctor.

My sister has been an awesome nurse, making sure I eat and rest, helping me to move more, and keeping track of my meds. She even has to help me strip my drains, and it is pretty gross!

My sister-in- law was so sweet to bring my younger kids up to see me yesterday. It has been a week and miss them like crazy. She is going to drive them down to St. George today and stay through the weekend to help.

Currently, my day consists of waking up, eating breakfast, walking around a bit, sitting down when I get winded and to much in pain. Then lunch and a nap. Later dinner, more walking and sitting and then to bed. Honestly I am so tired, worn out and in pain. I didn’t even think of any pain other than the incision, but oh my back! I feel like it is always going to give out on me and I will crumble to the floor.

Friday I have my post doctor’s appointment and I will see how things are healing and if I am released to make the trip home. I am not sure which option to hope for.

Tomorrow

I feel like I have been waiting forever for tomorrow to come, 

yet how did it get here so fast.

After my failed reconstruction in December 2014, 

I knew that someday I would want to try

another type of reconstruction and as a preventive measure, 

have a left mastectomy.  

I knew I would wait for a while because I was tired of surgeries 

and I wanted Gage to be a little older.  

For me, the hardest part of the original mastectomy was not being 

able to pick him up and hold him against my chest, or hug my 

other children.  

But, now his is 2 1/2 and is in the "I do it" phase.  

I feel more ready and feel like I have prepared for this surgery.  

Had I done this surgery over a year ago I don't know if I would feel that way.  

This delayed reconstruction has given me the time I needed to make sure 

this is really what I want and come to terms with the way things are happening. 

So tomorrow is the day.

To say I feel excited sounds absurd, even to me.

To say I am scared is an understatement.

There are only a few times in my life I can remember feeling such conflicting emotions.

I am eager and excited to put another surgery behind me and be that much more closer to feeling 

"whole"again, for a lack of a better word.  Yet the gravity and size of this next surgery 

frightens me to no end.  I will be the first to admit I am not a good patient.  

I want to rush through and get back to my normal routine as fast as I can.  

But I know that is not wise.

So I have to graciously accept help and slow down. 

This letter has been circulating around the internet and facebook for a while, 

yet I find it fitting that it popped up on my news feed today.

It is beautifully written and made me feel more at peace as I head to the

hospital tomorrow morning.

An Open Letter to my Patient on the Day of her Mastectomy

October 16, 2013

Hello Dear,

Today is the day. I am a member of the surgical team who will take care of you -- the team 

that will remove your breast to treat the cancer that has tried to make a home in your body. 

We all have our role today, and the world would see yours to be the "patient." 

I see it as something more: a powerful gift to us.

Because you remind us why we do what we do.

Today will feel sterile and scary. And I am sorry for that.

I wish there were a better way. Today we will ask you to take all your clothes off and put 

in their place a gown. Women before you have worn it. Women after you will wear it. 

Be sure to ask for warm blankets, because we always have plenty. 

We will ask of you your blood type, your medical history, your allergies. 

We will ask you to lie down in a bed that's foreign to you. 

We will have to poke you so that we can start an IV.

You will meet many nurses, doctors, and hospital employees. 

We will write down important things for you to know. 

Your surgeon will see you soon. 

He will have to mark the breast we are having to remove today.

We will take you into the Operating Room -- a room only few have seen. 

There will be bright lights, lots of metal, instruments that you've never seen, 

and we will be dressed in gowns, gloves, and masks. 

Over our masks, we hope you can see our eyes reassuring you as you go off to sleep.

Today is the day you will have to say goodbye to a 

part of your body, a part of yourself.

Your breast has felt the warmth of a lover's caress, 

has fed your child with life-sustaining milk and connection. 

You have many memories stored in your breast, stories none of us today know about. 

Somehow I wish I knew them.

And yet. Here we are. We must do our rituals. 

We must scrub our arms and hands with alcohol so that we can fight off infection before we start. 

We don our gowns, our gloves, our masks. 

We must drape your body in blue.

You are exposed. And unconscious. 

And it must be difficult to trust. I honor you, Dear One.

My job is to help your surgeon take away the cancer. 

I get a bird's eye view of the process. 

The surgery begins and I feel your warm skin through my gloves. 

I wonder what stories you already have and the ones that are yet to come.

We carefully remove your breast. It never gets easy to see or to do. 

You must know this. 

It never feels natural, it never feels cavalier. It feels sacred to me. Every. Single. Time.

I look down and see your pectoralis major --- the big muscle behind your breast. 

A source of strength. It is beautiful and shiny. 

Sometimes it contracts a little bit while we work. 

Sometimes the muscle is bright red and young. 

Sometimes the muscle is faded a little. 

But it is always strong. 

I like to gently touch it with my fingers. 

Because I feel your strength there.

We must send your breast away now. It officially leaves your body. 

I always feel an ache in my gut in that moment. 

There is no way for you to fully prepare for this day, Dear One.

I like to think that your body is already healing, 

as we close the incision we had to make.

Sewing your skin back together feels like I'm helping a little. 

But I know it's actually all you doing the work. 

Even as you sleep, Dear One.

We will put a bandage on your incision. 

We will wake you up. 

We will tell you everything went well. 

But the road is just beginning for you.

I saw you today.

You are beautiful.

You are strong.

Thank you for entrusting me and my colleagues with your most intimate moments. 

I am honored to be a witness to this phase of your life.

Because now the healing begins. 

Now the grief is in full force. 

Now your breast is gone and in its place is a memory.

I watch you as you wake up. 

And I want to make it all go away. I can't. 

Today your body underwent a transformation. 

And today our team took care of your body. 

I hope we took care of your heart, too.

There is nothing we can say or do to make it go away. 

But please know that I care. We care. 

Behind our masks and gowns are heavy hearts and sometimes tears.

Yours are a gift today. 

Because you remind us of human resilience. 

You remind us of strength. 

You remind us of trust.

I saw you today.

You are beautiful.

You are strong.

I will not forget.

---Niki, your Nurse Practitioner First Assistant on the Surgical Team

Family and Fantastic News

I thought I would do something a little different 

and post some pictures.

Usually most of my pictures go on my private family blog,

but I am in love with the way these pictures turned out,

 so I wanted to share them.

I also wanted to share some fantastic news.

I had an MRI a few weeks ago in preparation for surgery 

and to make sure there are still no signs of cancer.

Results:

No interval change compared to 10/14/2015

 BENIGN FINDINGS: Routine follow up recommended.

AND

Last week I had a follow-up ultrasound of my thyroid.

I meet with the doctor today.

Results:

Heterogeneous left thyroid lobe nodule, unchanged. This has

been biopsied previously. No significant interval change.

I can finally breath again.

I don't think I will ever be able to put into words the worry, stress and anxiety 

I experience with every aspect of having tests done.

Waiting for the appointment day to get here;

Being in the actual room having the procedure done;

And then the waiting.

I really try not to worry but ultimately I do - a lot.

But for now everything is stable and there is no evidence of disease.

I am more thankful and grateful than I could ever express.

It's Never Ever Completely Over

I thought this was an interesting read.  

The feelings and fear are real.

by: Uzma Yunus  

“You had breast cancer... but not anymore!”

She then said to me that I should get over it!

Her eyes welled up with tears as she recounted her conversation with her mother. She has been repeatedly accused by her mom that she isn’t being positive and by “holding on” to her cancer she is not moving forward in her life.

“They just don’t understand!” she sighed.

“But you get it. It’s never over, is it?”

She looked at me straight. I replied.

“I understand. It is indeed never over.” We both smiled at each other, as we sensed the comfort of understanding the pain in a way unique to us.

My friend, also a breast cancer survivor, has been dealing with her family who expect her to “get over” her cancer. If you are a survivor and reading this, I bet you have been part of a similar conversation with a friend, a partner, a neighbor or a family member at some point in your recovery. I had been part of similar conversation, too. I had even been given signals that by continuing to blog about cancer, I was unnecessarily staying too close to cancer and that I should move on.

Those who have never had cancer think we can get “over it” by waking up one fine morning and deciding it is now over just because chemotherapy and radiations and surgeries have concluded. Let me tell you a secret: In our minds, it’s never ever completely over.

“Just because I look well and have hair doesn’t mean I am all better!” she continued. “I have gained weight, I feel tired, I feel numb. Often, getting through a day is hard. Does this sound like its over?”

I nodded as I understood exactly what she meant. I was there once, too, when I was in my post treatment phase. My cancer, however, metastasized and came back after two years. This woman is still struggling, despite being “cancer-free” per her doctor, just like I did and continue to do today.

If you have ever wondered why cancer survivors bond with each other or connect instantaneously, it is because we “get” each other. We are able to relate to each other in ways others can’t. One of the biggest emotional setbacks that breast cancer survivors deal with post treatment is the expectation from their family, friends and caregivers that survivors should “get over it” and join life in its entirety.

In fact, the survivor-ship phase, which starts after all treatments end, is actually a very daunting and nerve wrecking time. Through cancer, we get used to regular appointments and medical oversight. But then when treatments end and the oncologist looks at you and says, “You are done. Go live your life,” most survivors feel lost. After six months to a year of intense treatments, we forget what it is like to “live life.” And just like that, with a statement and a pat on the back, survivors are pushed back into the world that is no longer recognizable to them. Many have mixed feelings about the word “survivor” since they are unsure if they truly have.

“Cancer changes everything” is an understatement. Those with cancer are no longer the same people when it hit them. We took an exit off of the freeway and then got lost for a long time on unfinished roads and unfamiliar streets. It’s hard to merge back into the fast lane. It scares us to see everyone moving so fast and, sure, while we feel we are just limping along.

We are tired and exhausted from grueling treatments and their side effects linger for a while. Many of us are left with permanent scars of treatment including physical limitations, neuropathy and joint pains. Many remain on hormonal therapies or are thrown into sudden menopause. Menopause and hot flashes are just the tip of the iceberg of chaos that occurs in our bodies. Some survivors keep going through repeated surgeries for reconstruction to get their bodies somewhat similar to what they once had.

Dealing with cancer is grief and loss at multiple emotional levels. Even though, after the end of treatment, survivors are told they are cancer-free, we are anything but “free” of cancer and cancer thoughts. We are ridden with feelings of anxiety and uncertainty and stalked permanently by the fear of cancer. Many of us hardly get restful sleep at night. I remember how fractured my sleep was on Tamoxifen and how my joints hurt every single day. Women after breast cancer are on 5 or 10 years of hormonal treatment and live quietly with these side effects. They don’t say much because they feel that their life was spared so they should pretend to be happy and just suck it up.

When I was diagnosed with recurrence, there was a very strange relief from this horrible fear of recurrence. I was surprised but I do remember the feeling as if the other shoe finally dropped. For others, they are living with this dreadful anxiety of “what if it comes back” every day.

Most people look at survivors think, “They look well and are not complaining; they must have recovered.” But the truth is far from it. A survivor continues to deal with consequences of treatments and emotional aftermath of cancer for years on end. Every time there is an appointment, the whole thought process of fear and anxiety is reactivated. Going in for a test or scan or dealing with an unusual symptom always shakes up survivors and the dread of cancer being back is terrifyingly close.

Many survivors end up having clinical depression, anxiety and even post traumatic stress disorder. The battle with cancer continues for a survivor despite cancer being gone from their bodies. The fear of cancer lingers over most survivors and then about thirty percent like me have to deal with recurrence and start of the treatments all over again. For us with metastatic breast cancer, it is never over at all. Our fears just get bigger and scarier.

But all of us, no matter what stage of cancer, are scarred for life. Many times we feel like we are merely a shadow of what we once were. We try very hard to meet life halfway but then there are numerous days we fall short. And being told to “get over it” isn’t very helpful. Those are the days we need love and support. The fear sits on our chests every single day. It changes in magnitude daily but never disappears. I have yet to meet a survivor that has completely forgotten her cancer experience.

Those who are in the first five-year window after the diagnosis are especially vulnerable to complex cancer feelings and physical consequences.

So next time you are talking to a breast cancer survivor, please don’t tell them to
“get over it.” Hold back that advice. Instead, hold their hand and tell them that you know they are trying their best to recover and that you will continue to cheer them on

After the Storm

Wow - I can't believe it has been almost 2 months since my last post.
Sorry for the lack of updates.
I know some people check here to see how I am doing.
Please know that I am doing well.

Today is an anniversary date of sorts.
Two years ago today marked the end of the longest 18 weeks of my life.
Six rounds of toxic Chemotherapy - Docetaxel, Carboplatin, Trastuzumab, Pertuzumab.
As I look back, I honestly don't know how I survived it.
I remember Ryan or my mother having to get the kids ready and off to school because I was still in bed.  Soon I would finally get up, go to the restroom and get dressed. I would make my way to the living room.  By the time I would get there, the couch was as far as I could make it. I would need to sit down and rest because I was so tired, weak and in pain.
That seems a long time ago.
I am grateful that part is over.

I am grateful my side effects are settling down.
I am grateful my hair is growing back.
I am grateful my family is patient and willing to still help.

Upcoming is my annual breast MRI, this one - hopefully - is my last.
(I thought my last one was my last one but my new surgeon wants one more before the next surgery.)
I also have another Thyroid ultrasound in December to check if the nodule on my thyroid is growing and needs to be removed or if it is the same and can just be monitored.
More to come on these.

I read this article the other day and felt I totally related to it.

After the Storm 

What lingers most after breast cancer is my persistent worry.

by: Gwen Moran

"You look fantastic."

Lately, I hear this statement often from well-meaning people, usually before a heartfelt touch of my arm or a tentative hug. It puzzled me at first because I certainly don't feel like I look fantastic. I'm significantly heavier than I was two years ago and unruly shoulder-length waves have replaced my long, straight hair. Like a stranger trying to decipher a foreign tongue, I finally figured out what they mean: "I'm happy you don't look like you're dying."

That was not the case roughly two years ago, when I was wan, weak and nauseated from chemotherapy treatments for my early-stage invasive breast cancer, barely able to walk from the bone pain. Or when I was bald and shuffling slowly around the house with my arms wrapped gingerly around my T-shirt-clad breasts, trying to keep the left one, burned from radiation until it was blistered, wet and peeling, from any painful swaying.

That's what you get for trying to kill us, I wanted to tell it. Don't ever do that again.

Before April Fools' Day 2011, when I learned that my body had turned on me, I spent hours each week walking, biking, swimming and practicing yoga on the beaches of my beloved Jersey shore. Lightly tanned with visible muscle definition, I looked healthier than I had in years. A lie.

The sun's kiss is gone and so are the muscles. Steroids, chemotherapy and inactivity, not to mention countless trays of gifted lasagna, added bulk to my frame. But I'm not dying — at least, not any faster than most people.

But the façade others see is not "fantastic." Worse, it hides something dark and ugly; something few ever talk about in the tumultuous rush of stages, surgical options, hormone receptors and the alphabet soup of cancer-fighting poisons. More immediate decisions need to be made about how to best battle the disease that slowly eats people from the inside out. So, many months after chemotherapy annihilated everything in its path, followed by radiation beams that obliterated even microscopic cancer cells, I feel like parts of my brain and soul were killed, too.

Complaining feels churlish. After all, I made it through the storm and my prognosis is good. Surgery, treatments, and a year of $11,000-per-session gene-targeted therapy, administered through a needle piercing my chest every three weeks, have left me with 90 percent odds of no encore appearance in my breasts, lungs, liver or some other vital organ. This is according to some unknown statistician who calculates such things.

But even those odds, a bookmaker's dream, aren't a match for the persistent and lingering worry. Cancer is master of the sucker punch. What if it's just lurking within that 10 percent margin, waiting for the moment when I'm too weak or tired to fight again? Some days, contemplating that question fills me so completely with fear that relief comes only from deep, jagged sobs expelled from my throat.

My loved ones are quick to chirp, "You're doing fine! Remember those 90 percent chances!" I've stopped reminding them that breast cancer is funny that way. There is no disease-free "magic number" that actually does mark me cured. Each mammogram, stomachache or fever threatens to hold a devastating reprise, at least in my mind.

But now that my hair is back and the pink has returned to my cheeks, I suppose I do look fine — fantastic, even. I feel increasingly like my "old" self and there are times that I even forget about how cancer changed me. I run errands, giggle with my husband and daughter, and have thoughtful conversations with colleagues. I'm back on my bike and pedaled 10 miles the last time out. I make dates with my friends to go walking and to the gym. It feels good to move and helps push the fear away. I feel stronger, both inside and out.

Still, it's a struggle to rebuild what cancer and its treatment destroyed. While the rogue cells may be dead and gone, it's difficult to trust my body again. Accepting that this is over — "looks like it's cured to me," as my oncologist likes to say — feels like tempting fate. I'm told that, as time passes, I'll feel more at ease. For now, however, I wait for everything to feel normal again, wondering why the "after" of successful cancer treatment isn't filled entirely with unfettered joy.