March 20, 2026

I have a big appointment today. I’ve been anxious all week about it, but mostly today. Part of the appointment is the typical quarterly booty shot that shuts off my ovaries and puts me in a medically induced menopause. My cancer was fed by estrogen, so suppressing estrogen production is one of the ways to reduce the chance of recurrence. Then there’s bloodwork and a check-up for any new concerns. But this week I’m also receiving an infusion for bone health to help offset some of the damage from the treatment. 

This is survivorship.

Hormone treatment is for at least five years. At the five-year mark, there is an evaluation to determine whether to stop or continue based on various factors and if the benefit outweighs the risk. There’s always risk. There is one pretty obvious silver lining, however, not having my period. But being in my late 30s, by the time I’m done with this part of treatment, I might naturally be in perimenopause. That’s a long time of living in a state of menopause! Fortunately, my symptoms are not that major. My hot flashes and dryness are manageable, I have new pockets of fat, and that’s not really bothersome. Fatigue is the biggest thing. But who knows if that’s because of the hormone treatment, the oral chemo, or the chasing around after a toddler and two years of sleep deprivation (wouldn’t change it for the world!). I’m sure it’s all of it.  

This is survivorship.

I am at about the one-and-a-half-year mark of hormone treatment. And before I started, I already had osteopenia (pre-osteoporosis) in my left femur. How? It was likely from the initial chemo, my doctor tells me. So, I will up my squat game and do my part in getting back that bone density and undo the damage that saved my life.

This is survivorship.

I arrived early to my appointment to sit down and write, maybe that will ease some of the anxiety. Since I no longer have my port, this infusion will be intravenous. I hate needles. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But no. Going back into the infusion room and sitting in that chair is retraumatizing, even if this time it’s not for chemo, but rather preventative maintenance. I still can’t help but feel shaken.  

This is survivorship.   

I worked earlier today, and I should have just taken the full day off. I’m also anxious because at every appointment they ask if I’m feeling okay, and my answer today is no, other things are going on. It’s nerve-wracking to report back any issues, big or small. Will it be a cancer-related concern? Will it raise a red flag? Most likely not. I have questions about orthostatic hypotension and chronic exertional compartment syndrome. Could those be why I’m pooped when I reach the top of the stairs and need a minute to recover? Or am I just that out of shape?  

This is survivorship.

Have you had any falls? That’s another routine question. A shameful yes. I slipped and fell down the stairs and landed hard on my right hip. I screamed from the impact and took some time to stand up. But I was fine. Just badly bruised. All I could think was, thank God it wasn’t on my left side.

This is survivorship.

My oncologist is retiring soon, and I will be assigned a new doctor. We’ll talk about that today. I wanted to make my outgoing oncologist my delicious granola as a thank-you and farewell, but Bryan and I snacked on the cashews all week, and there wasn’t enough to make the recipe. Anxious snacking on my part? Definitely. I wanted to write my doctor a nice card, too, and include a photo of our family now. We’ve come so far under his care. I couldn’t sit myself down to do any of this. Not until today is over. I’ll just have to pop in and drop off another time. No big deal. 

I hope my white count is up and my defense has improved. Hoping my echo turned out okay and there is no reduced function from past treatments. I’m still taking oral chemo, and I forget what kind of damage that does to the body. I should feel less tired when I’m done with that. It’s something to look forward to. The final countdown is fast approaching. Just two more monthly refills to go!

This is survivorship.

I’ve tried working out, and it’s been so hard to get into a routine. I think it’s the chemo. It makes sense. I get whooped from just a little bit. I decided I will not try to start any workout routine until I am done with this part of the treatment, and I’ve given it time to leave my system. In the meantime, I am moving in whatever way feels good. Active stretch, perreo, arm circles, squats while I wait for the microwave to warm up my lunch at work, or that somatic shaking trend that helps regulate the nervous system.

The infusion is only 15 minutes, I keep reminding myself.

Survivor’s guilt. Another layer that drapes heavy. I’m a peer mentor to a young survivor who was in a similar situation as me. It’s been so beautiful connecting and getting to know this person. I thought by now she would be all better, similarly to how I am “all better.” But she has hit some big challenges along her journey. The exact challenges that I feared most when I was in the thick of it. I am learning how to be a support to her. You’d think it would be easy-peasy because I’ve gone through a version of it myself, but I still break down and feel so much sadness witnessing all that she is going through. I don’t want to say too much, because it’s not my story. I just want to be there for her in the best way I can. 

This is survivorship.

Just had my IV put in. Glad that’s over with. As I anticipate the chair and walking into that infusion room and past people fighting for their lives, it’s my heart that aches. I am feeling the past in my subconscious, and it’s opened the floodgates

Solo 15 minutes. 

The lab has my blood now. I am so curious about my white blood count. I want to see if the malt extract my mom has me taking will have made a difference. I’ve been taking it for a month. It tastes like liquid sugar. But it causes constipation, which is fine for now, because my chemo does the opposite. I have a history of constipation, and that is one silver lining of the oral chemo: I have pretty regular and complete BMs. The kind where you feel like your waist is snatched and you walk around feeling sexy and in the best mood. You know what I’m talking about! When I finish this medication, I will probably have to go back to taking Colace daily. But fingers crossed, my guts just remember this pattern and have it forever ingrained, and my constipation history is just that, history.

(That was a big tangent. Thanks for staying with me.)

I’m a little nervous about my blood work because my counts have been low, and if they continue, another bone marrow biopsy might be order. If I have to relive that again, I will ask to be sedated.

This is survivorship. 

My appointment went well! Nothing to be concerned about. The fatigue takes time to resolve. My treatment was rigorous, and healing is slow. Maybe my white count will normalize after the chemo is done. One referral to PT and homework for more lymphatic exercise. My new oncologist is no-nonsense and a woman of color. LOVE IT! 

We walk over to the infusion suite. I’m happy to see that it is mostly empty. How wonderful! I want to believe that it means that we are collectively doing well at fighting cancer. 

The nurses were so happy to see me! Your hair!!! I can put it up in a ponytail now without a ton of escapees. It’s at the length where it almost looks like an intentional haircut. So glad to finally be at that stage. Before, I felt like I needed to explain to others that I did not choose this haircut; this haircut chose me. But not no more! It’s just simply cute. 

This is survivorship.

They want to see the baby. How old is he now? What’s he doing? Show me a picture! Crazy to think he was in my belly when all this started. 

I’m offered all the comforts I so vividly remember: the warm blankets, a sandwich, tea, coffee, water. I say yes to the blanket. Everyone understands that it’s hard to be back in this chair. I feel supported. 

My bloodwork returns. Things are looking better! My white count is up by .4. That’s not much, and is still low, but we are on the rise! Maybe that malt extract is working after all. Mami will be so happy to hear. I have one more bottle to take. I will get bloodwork again as soon as I am done with it, before I declare that it works. 

This is survivorship.

The infusion is actually closer to 30 minutes. Not bad though. I journal, take a photo, and send it to Bryan. Everything is going well. He understood right away.

I’ve opened up about my anxiety to my care team. It’s normal. It’s expected. But how did I not anticipate these feelings? My journal carries me through today, just as it did from the start.  

The long-awaited appointment is now over. I can’t wait to be home with my baby! The stress has melted away, and I’m full of joy. I turn on Spotify to Bad Bunny, dance in my seat, and sing the entire ride. I’m okay. I’ll be back for a visit around the next solstice. 

This is survivorship, for me, today.   

Happy Spring, ya’ll!

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