THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #fuckcancer

  • Why I’m Crashing My Own Funeral

    Seriously, hear me out on this one. I went to a funeral recently. It was lovely, truly. There were tears, beautiful flowers, and grandchildren telling stories that made everyone laugh and cry in equal measure. But as I sat there, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous.

    Not of the being dead part, mind you – I am not in a rush for that. But I was jealous of the honesty and raw emotion.

    We spend our whole lives being polite, nodding at brunch, and sending “thinking of you” texts. But at a funeral? That’s when the real stuff comes out. That’s when people finally admit that your weird obsession with rocks was actually charming, or that the way you made your home made chocolate chip cookies changed their childhood. (At least I am hoping I am remembered by this.)

    And it hit me: Why on earth should I have to be dead to hear the best stories about myself?!

    With this second round of cancer making itself at home, I’ve decided I am not interested in being the guest of honor who can not enjoy the catering. If I am going to be the subject of a eulogy, I would like to be able to fact-check it (sorry, that is the Virgo in me talking).

    The Ultimate Party Plan

    People often spend their later years “planning” their funerals – picking out favorite verses and hymns or poems and songs. It is practical, but let’s be honest, it is a bit of a chore. (I’ve already had to plan a husband’s funeral and I don’t want that chore for my family.) I do not want to plan a service. I want to plan a party. I want to curate the vibe, the menu, and the laughter. There is something incredibly profound about taking the power back from a diagnosis and saying “if we’re going to talk about my life, let’s do it while I am still living it.”

    A Gift for Both Sides

    I know, some might say it is a bit “main character energy.” But I have realized that this isn’t just for me. It is a weirdly beautiful, healing gift for everyone involved.

    For me: I get the rare treasure of closure. I get to see the ripple effect of my life. We all wonder, “Did I matter? Did I do okay?” I get to hear the answer in the voices of my children, my family and my friends.

    For you: It is a release valve. Usually, we carry our best tributes to the graveside, heavy with the regret of “I wish I’d told them.” By showing up to my own send-off, I am letting you off the hook. You get to say it to my face. You get to cry on my shoulder instead of a headstone. We get to trade the “if onlys” for “I’m so glad we dids.”

    Celebrating the Presence

    Death is a thief, but it doesn’t have to be a party pooper. Most ceremonies are about a person who WAS. I want this to be about the person who IS.

    I want to see the tears, but I want to be able to hand you the tissue. I want to hear the “remember whens” so I can say, “Actually, it was even funnier than that!” I want to say my goodbyes not through a legal will or a pre-recorded video, but with a hug that lingers… just long enough.

    So, consider this my “Save the Date” for the ultimate “Life Premiere.” There will be laughter, there will be stories, and yes, it might be a little awkward – but the best parts of life usually are.

    I have spent my life doing my best to show up for the people I love. I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss the biggest party they ever throw for me.

    So til then…. let’s go make some more memories!

  • The Double Bind: Fighting for Certainty in Limbo

    The air is thick here, heavy with unspent possibility and the dust of plans that might never settle. This is limbo, the strange, unscheduled stop between breaths. It is not a place on any map, but a cavern dug deep within my heart, a silent, echoing chamber where the future refuses to send back an answer.

    I hit the pause button myself, or maybe the world did it for me. Life, which once rushed forward in a torrent of deadlines and five-year plans, is arrested. The usual, comforting momentum – the feeling that I am the captain charting the course – is gone. Now, I stand on the shore, the compass spinning wildly, and the waiting itself has become the main, exhausting act.

    The Tyranny of the ‘Right’ Attitude

    And here is where the deeper struggle lives: the relentless, suffocating pressure of attitude.

    *If I just think positive enough….

    *If I visualize my healing vividly enough…

    *If I maintain that warrior mindset….

    They tell you, everyone tells you, that attitude is everything, that it will manifest the cure. I am doing the hard work – mentally, physically, nutritionally. I am reading the books, choosing the affirmations, saying the prayers, forcing the smile. I am working as hard on my mind as I am on my body, convinced that my will alone can rewrite my cellular structure.

    But then, the quiet, cynical voice whispers: Is that enough?

    I know the answer. I do the work, not because I know it guarantees success, but because to not do it feels like surrendering. It’s a way to feel some semblance of control when the real outcome is dictated by forces I cannot see, bargain with, or command.

    The Problem with Faith and Blame

    When the fear creeps in – when I falter in my resolve – the blame is immediate. If the scans come back wrong, is it because I didn’t believe hard enough? Did I not have enough Faith?

    The weight of this expectation is crushing. It places the failure, if it comes, squarely on my own shoulders, on the quality of my spiritual life, on the depth of my optimism. It turns the fight into a moral test, and I hate it. I hate feeling torn between the hope that fuels me and the cold terror that one bad day, one moment of doubt, will be the thing that seals my fate!

    This is the misery of this limbo. It is not just the disease; it is the double bind – the obligation to feel joy and certainty when I feel utterly terrified and uncertain.

    Suspension, Not Failure

    I am so tired of being suspended in this state. I need to move forward, to know the result, to stop living between sentences. I need the numbness to lift so I can feel what is real, but I need the numbness to stay so I don’t collapse under the weight of the “what ifs.”

    I am living in an ellipsis (…). But perhaps, in this exhausted suspension, I can choose a different kind of strength. Not the fierce, demanding strength of manifestation, but the quiet, humble strength of acknowledgement. I acknowledge the fear, I acknowledge the exhaustion, and I acknowledge that I am fighting my absolute best, regardless of what the scales of Faith or attitude are supposed to demand of me.

    I am not stuck; I am suspended, fighting for today.

  • On Aging, Not Growing Old

    The question came, quiet and earnest, from someone whose love for me is a palpable thing: “Do you see yourself beating this? Do you see yourself growing old?”

    The second part of that question settled in my chest like a misplaced stone. It’s the kind of query you immediately recoil from, not because the truth feels irrelevant, even insulting, to the life you are actively living. I have thought about it, of course – who wouldn’t? – but I usually stop myself. The answer, if I’m honest, is No.

    And yet, that “No” feels like a lie, or at least a misinterpretation of the terms.

    It’s a strange thing, this definition of “old”. I look at people in their seventies and eighties and they do not look “old” to me. They look like people who have lived longer, whose faces are simply maps of resilience, joy, and sorrow. They are still learning, still loving, still doing. Maybe if you reach your nineties, you earn the title, but anything less than that just feels like a magnificent middle ground.

    Perhaps that’s why the question troubles me. It’s not about the years.

    I know I will age. I will gain new lines around my eyes from laughter, or maybe from sleepless nights spent in wonder. My hair will go silver. My body will change. This process – this aging – is a gift of continuous experience, a slow, beautiful becoming. It is the texture of a life lived, and I claim every year of it that I can have.

    But growing old? That phrase carries a different weight. To me, “growing old” sounds like a surrender. It implies a kind of internal shutting down, a retreat from curiosity, a dusty acceptance that the best days are behind you. It suggests a time when you start simply waiting for the end.

    And that is what I refuse to see. That is the answer I cannot provide.

    I will not grow old. I will age. I will age with defiance, with passion, and with the full, vivid knowledge of how precious and brief and utterly present every moment is. I don’t see a distant, faded future; I only see the next morning, followed by the one after that, each one a chance to live fiercely.

    Maybe its a good thing that I can’t picture the traditional image of being “old”. Maybe that refusal is my own small act of rebellion, my way of saying to this disease, or to fate, or to the cultural expectation of what a long life should look like: “I am not done being vital. I am not done being me.”

    The question still bothers me, perhaps it implies a choice between ‘beating this’ and ‘growing old,’ when what I truly want is to simply live, right here, right now, as fully as possible, for as long as I am able. I don’t know the end of my story, but I will make the words I’m writing today count.

  • My New Life: Where Everything Is A Carbohydrate Conspiracy

    “Eat to live, not live to eat.” That’s the new mantra now. It sounds so noble, doesn’t it? Like a line from a black – and – white movie starring someone with impossibly perfect cheekbones. The reality? It feels more like a full-time, unpaid detective job where the criminal is Sugar, and the scene of the crime is… well, Everything!

    I used to think of a grocery store trip as a casual outing, maybe a chance to snag a free sample. Now, it’s a terrifying, fluorescent-lit labyrinth. My hand hovers over a box of something innocent-looking, say, “All Natural, Gluten-Free, Artisan Crackers.” I flip it over, my eyes scanning the ingredients list like a seasoned bomb disposal expert. Suddenly, “Dextrose,” “Maltodextrin,” or some other sneaky ‘ose’ pops up, and my internal alarm blares: Carbohydrate!!! It’s everywhere! It’s in the spice rub, the salad dressing, the canned tuna, and probably the air freshener in aisle seven!

    I’m exhausted. My brain, once used for contemplating things like world peace or what show to binge-watch, is now solely dedicated to calculating net carbs and wondering if a single radish is going to throw me into a sugar-fueled freefall.

    The little things – oh, the glorious, spoiled – society little things – are ghosts of a past life. The siren song of a Dairy Queen drive-thru on a hot day? Might as well be a viper pit. My beloved mid-afternoon Scooter’s coffee? That mocha latte is basically a milkshake in disguise, a sugary betrayal. Now, my “splurge” is a meticulously sourced, grass-fed ribeye, or maybe – if I’m feeling really wild – a second handful of raw spinach. Yay! I’ve become the person who brings her own unseasoned, unadulterated food to every social gathering. I look at a slice of beautiful, fluffy artisan bread and feel the same way a vampire must look at a clove of garlic. Tragic.

    And wine? Forget the comforting, contemplative glass of Riesling after a long taxing day of, you know, battling cancer. Now, my unwinding ritual involves sitting quietly, perhaps communing with the universe in a sauna until I’m a puddle of detoxified determination: Who needs a Moscato when you have the quiet hum of an infrared heater? (Okay, I still want the Moscato, but my mitochondria have veto power now.)

    It’s frustrating. It’s ridiculous. It’s a culinary prison guarded by nutrition facts. But then, as I chew thoughtfully on a stalk of celery – a vegetable I once relegated to the “dip delivery vehicle” category – a wave of something profound washes over me.

    Gratitude

    Every single label I read, every beloved indulgence I refuse, every hour I spend in stillness, is a choice. It’s purposeful, deliberate, and sometimes a humorous act of war – a fight not just for more time, but with more quality, more awareness, and a hell of a lot more raw vegetables. I no longer live to eat. I eat to live. And honestly, that’s the sweetest thing left on the menu.

  • Embracing the Buffalo: Strength in the Storm

    The cancer journey often feels like being caught in an endless storm – a relentless blizzard of appointments, tough treatments, and emotional turbulence. It’s natural, even human, to want to hunker down, turn away, or simply endure the cold and wait for it to pass.

    But a new friend Craig G. offered a different, more powerful path: the path of the buffalo.

    He sent me the message: “The Buffalo is the only animal that does not hunker down to ride out a storm or endure a blizzard. It walks or runs straight into a storm. Just like charging headlong into a cancer diagnosis and treatment. Be the Buffalo!”

    This image of the magnificent creature, head lowered and deliberately walking or running straight into the heart of the storm, is a striking metaphor for how I now choose to meet this challenge. Craig’s analogy reminds me that the buffalo’s strategy is one of pure, forward-moving efficiency. By charging directly toward the storm’s center, they pass through if faster, minimizing the time they spend exposed to the worst of the elements. They know the quickest way to the calm on the other side is a direct line.

    My Commitment to Be the Buffalo

    To “Be the buffalo” in my cancer journey is to harness this unique, fierce strength. It’s not about ignoring the fear or pretending this isn’t difficult; it’s about accepting the diagnosis and treatment as my current reality and choosing forward motion through it.

    *Acknowledge and Advance: Instead of feeling paralyzed, I am choosing to walk straight into the treatment plan, the tough conversations, and the emotional work required. This is me lowering my head and taking the first step.

    *Efficiency in Courage: Every challenging appointment, every difficult recovery day is a step through the storm. By meeting these challenges head-on, I am actively moving toward the finish line, refusing to be stalled by fear or avoidance.

    *Focus on the Goal: The buffalo’s goal isn’t to fight the storm itself – it’s to reach the clear, sunny pasture that lies beyond. My goal is the healthy, peaceful future I am fighting for. Keeping my eyes focused on that “calm after the storm” gives me the purpose to push through the present difficulty.

    I am pulling on the power of this buffalo image that Craig shared. It reminds me that the fastest, most courageous way through this difficult time is straight ahead. I have already taken the first steps, and with every subsequent one, I am proving that I possess that unwavering incredible strength.

  • The Malleable Heart: Finding Light in My Shadow

    My heart is not a simple battlefield. It is a place of perpetual, exhausting motion, an endless oscillation between hope and despair.

    I was taught to see these as opposites, but I’ve learned they are merely two faces of the same fragile truth. There is a terrifying wisdom I’ve begun to grasp: that hope, unchecked and untethered, can become a disguise for despair. It’s the mistake of waiting for the grand, sweeping miracle that leaves me devastated when it doesn’t arrive. It is the setting of a rigid expectation that only prepares me for a crushing fall.

    But here, in the crucible of this experience, I have discovered the secret: I must stay malleable. I refuse to be hardened by the blows. I let the despair wash over me, recognizing it as natural, and then, slowly, I allow myself to be reshaped by the currents. I am not a statue; I am a river stone, worn and smooth and strong by the struggle, forever changing, forever moving.

    The overall scenario of my life may indeed seem disparaging – a landscape shrouded in fog and fear. Yet I force myself to look closer. I hold my gaze steady, not on the vast, overwhelming mountain, but on the small, brilliant things scattered at its base:

    The pure sound of my children’s laughter.

    The unexpected warmth of a hand holding mine.

    The strength I mustered just to get out of bed this morning.

    The small, scientific victory on the doctor’s report.

    These are not trivialities; they are small, fierce pockets of hope. They are the necessary proof that life persists and that my own profound strength continues to radiate.

    This is my fight, and it is a sacred one. So I take this truth and hold it tight: I must hold tightly onto what I believe in. I cling to my inner knowing, my faith, and to the people who are my anchors. I will not wait for the perfect moment or the perfect feeling.

    I know what must be done. I do the small things. I take the breath. I make the next phone call. I attend the next appointment. This is the work of a warrior with a malleable heart: one who accepts the darkness, honors the despair, and then, with quiet, unyielding power, uses the smallest fragment of light – the memory of a kind word, the effectiveness of a medicine, the strength of the day before – to illuminate the path forward.

    That fragment is all the light I need right now. I am strong, I am human, and I am finding my way through the beautiful, terrible complexity of this journey.

  • A New Dawn: Finding Grace in the Recurrence

    The whisper of recurrence, though a cruel sound, has become a startling call to a deeper way of living. There is a peculiar clarity that comes when one stands face – to – face with a stark biological truth: an adversary within. This awareness, sharp and immediate, has not diminished life, but intensified it – coloring every moment with a profound, almost startling grace.

    This journey is not one I walk alone. It has illuminated the preciousness of my “army” – the loved ones who stand guard around my well-being. Their commitment is the truest form of love, manifesting in hours spent researching, in nourishing meals prepared with meticulous care, and in the sheer constancy of their presence. They are the earthly anchors who refuse to let me drift.

    The changes within my daily life are testaments to this fight, but they are also acts of self-reclamation. Eating choices have transformed from casual decisions into mindful commitments to healing. My mental fortitude is not a given; it is a muscle I work daily, building resilience through intentional positive thinking. The collective effort – the fusion of personal discipline and the inspiring research poured over by everyone in my circle – has created a shield of knowledge.

    I am carried on the wings of this support, a dual face of the tangible and the spiritual. The army of this earth provides the strength to face the daily treatment, the fears, and the shifts. The army from the heavens provides an ethereal peace and unwavering hope.

    Without this incredible outpouring – this collective well of strength, wisdom, and love, I know I would falter. Instead, I stand today, not merely fighting a “dis-ease”, but thriving through a renewed appreciation for life’s beautiful fragility. For this unparalleled, abundant support, my heart overflows with eternal gratitude. It is, in every sense, a blessing.

  • A New Chapter: Standing Strong on Shifting Ground

    A few weeks ago, I shared the anxiety of waiting. The routine blood work that was anything but routine. The CAT scan that showed unsettling spots. The liquid biopsy and the PET scan that followed felt like a countdown to a moment I desperately hoped wouldn’t arrive.

    Well, the wait is over. The results are in. And with a profound, deep sadness that I’m allowing myself to feel, I have to share that the unwelcomed guest has returned. The scans confirm that the Invasive Lobular Carcinoma has metastasized, and I now have bone cancer.

    It is a heavy blow. It’s a moment that steels your breath and makes the world pause. After all the fighting – the mastectomy, the chemo, the radiation – I find myself standing at the beginning of yet another battle. The scans show there are many compromised areas, and the road ahead will be complex.

    But here is where the story shifts.

    I have faced this beast before, and I will face it again. And this time, I am armed with five extra years of strength, experience, and an even deeper well of gratitude.

    My heart is absolutely hopeful for the treatment plan ahead. I truly believe that gratitude and a positive attitude are key to navigating the complexities of this disease. My focus is not on the darkness of the diagnosis, but on the bright possibility of the future. I believe with every fiber of my being that I have decades of new adventures ahead of me.

    How do I find this courage? I look around.

    My support group – my amazing friends and family – are my bedrock. My children are my living, breathing reason to fight. My beau offers a new love and future to grow into. And my faith is the unwavering, solid ground beneath my feet. Without this incredible circle of love, I know I would not have the strength and courage to be this brave and this hopeful right now.

    This is a new chapter in my life. It is not the one I would have written, but I will read it, live it, and approach it with fierce determination. I am ready to fight again. I am ready to live again.

    Thank you for holding hope with me.

  • In the Face of Fear

    Today marks five years since I started treatment for stage 3 Invasive Lobular Carcinoma ( breast cancer). It was a life-altering experience, one that forced me to face my own mortality before I was even 50. I chose to fight with everything I had – a double mastectomy, dose-dense chemotherapy, and weeks of radiation. I won that battle, and for five years, I have been blessed with the gift of health.

    But my cancer is metastatic. It has a reputation for returning, and in these past five years, I have lived with the ghost of that possibility. You live your life, you build, you grow, but a part of you is always looking back, hoping it never comes again.

    A week ago, I had some routine blood work done, and the results brought a moment of pause. A subsequent CAT scan revealed some spots on my spine. Now I’m waiting for a liquid biopsy and a PET scan to get a clearer picture. It’s a moment of truth, and a part of me has just gone numb. You put on a brave face, but you freeze. The quiet hope you’ve been holding onto for years is suddenly tested.

    I am trying so hard not to let fear take over. There is still a chance that it’s nothing, and I’m holding onto that hope with both hands. I’m focusing on gratitude. I am grateful for my life, for the people in it, and for every experience I have been blessed with. I have children to live for, grandchildren to hope for, and a new love to cherish. I am choosing to keep the dark thoughts at bay. I am begging for healing. There is so much life left to live, and I am not done fighting for it!