breast-cancer

Reality Check

This week while I was at the infusion center one of my new friends had a very serious medical emergency. Witnessing this during something as personal and emotionally charged as my chemotherapy infusion was a deeply jarring and surreal experience. I already feel I am in a vulnerable state – physically from the infusion and emotionally from the weight of my own illness. The room suddenly shifted from quiet perseverance to one of immediate crisis.

At first I wasn’t sure what was happening. As the nurses were rushing and 911 was being called, I still struggled to process that my new friend’s life was at risk right in front of me. Suddenly this cheery, quiet room was filled with urgency: sharp commands, the crash cart being wheeled from it’s dusty corner and the hurried movement of staff trying to save a life.

This reality hit me like a wave: this isn’t just something I read about or saw on TV. It’s happening here, in this room, to someone who has sat in the same chair as me. Someone who I sat and talked with the day before, someone who has a family, someone I rode in the elevator with 30 minutes before. I think of my own vulnerability, how fragile life is, especially in a place where everyone is already fighting for survival.

I also feel so helpless. I felt like I should do something or, at the least, leave the room but I was tethered to my IV line, facing my own battle. The dichotomy of life and death playing out so vividly in one place was overwhelming.

A few days have passed since this tragic event but the images replay in my mind: the stillness of my friend, the urgent efforts of the team, the uncertainty of what happens next. I feel shaken, it’s all a visceral reminder of mortality. I am also grateful for nurses and doctors who fight so hard for their patients. I am extremely blessed with wonderful doctors and nurses.

In that moment, I witnessed both the fragility of life and the strength of those fighting to preserve it. It was a sobering, life-altering experience. I am thankful I know my Father in heaven, as did my friend. I will see her again one day.

The Numbers Game

My cancer journey started on September 13, 2023. I have had multiple blood tests and scans. Waiting for results is like holding your breath, hoping for air but bracing for a wave. Every scan feels like a coin flip with my future on the line. Yet each test tells a story to the physicians caring for me – should I continue with chemo, what drugs should be used and at what dosage, is the cancer still active or is it gone. Blood counts, tumor markers and PET scan results – they all blur together, yet each one has the power to change everything. Living scan to scan feels like my life is measured in percentages and probabilities, not moments and memories.

It’s not just the results – it’s the days, sometimes weeks, of waiting. Even when the news is good, it feels like a temporary reprieve, like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Despite it all, I’m still here, still fighting, still hoping and trusting God to give me strength, peace and clarity with each new day. I’ve learned to focus on what I can control – cherishing the small victories and finding joy in the moments in between scans and treatments. I realize each day is a gift and spending time with the people you love is what matters. Focusing on others and being a light for someone suffering takes your mind off yourself. I hope I will continue to try to do this everyday I have the opportunity.