Tag: Cancer

The More Things Stay the Same, the More They Change

(Title image: Photo by Edward Howell on Unsplash)

Maybe it’s time to talk about impermanence.

This is something that I have to remind myself constantly: just because things are a certain way now, no matter how set-in-stone they appear, there’s a high likelihood they will change.

I wish more people understood this. I’m old enough to have experienced a litany of changes in my life, some of which completely blindsided me, like cancer, for example. I was not expecting my entire life to get flipped on its back by one little lump and a subsequent scan. And yet, here we are.

That diagnosis brought a whirlwind of changes as I was assaulted with more medications and procedures that I had ever imagined possible in my life. And they came at me fast, one after the other. Recovering from surgery, dealing with chemo side effects, tearing through loaded weeks of radiation…and then, several years of endocrine therapy, which in retrospect threw me into what felt like the longest-lasting changes.

Those, I consider negatives. I tried to maintain my “normal” through them all, which meant consistency with my workouts and nutrition, just so that I didn’t lose myself in the mess of it. It felt like I was barely holding on with my fingernails.

Just when I thought this was the way it would be from now on, the light broke through.
(Photo by Sharon Co Images on Unsplash)

But…there was a flipside to this. Another change that I didn’t expect, but was actually quite positive: the realization that establishing effective coping strategies like meditation and maintaining existing healthy behaviors were the keys to eventually getting a handle on the negatives.

So everything bad that I thought I was stuck with—decreasing strength and endurance, low libido, thinning hair—all those things that we associate with old age and the relentless march of time gradually started turning around.

Again, impermanence smacked me on the back of my head.

So, there’s a lot I can write about this. I added creatine to my diet and over time it has had a significant impact on my workouts, in particular my strength. After years of watching my “gains” decrease, I could confirm that I was building strength up again at age 60.

My hair, which had been falling out, slowed that regression. Springing for better quality hair products helped, but so did moving to a quieter, updated apartment. The reduction of environmental stress, even in the presence of existing stressors of work and finances, had a dramatic effect. On top of that, becoming aware of the cyclical nature of my hair loss relieved anxiety about it. As did bucking the trend of “embracing” my gray (in my case, white) and instead welcoming light blonde back into my life.

But one of the most striking changes was the return of my libido. This is so delicate and important a topic because I am convinced that many cancer survivors-slash-postmenopausal women suffer in silence about loss of libido, no doubt due to the potentially embarrassing nature of the issue. Many of us were raised to not talk about such sensitive topics, and particularly not with male oncologists.

And all the hype about hormone replacement therapy for postmenopausal women…ah, but breast cancer survivors get locked out of all the positives associated with that…

The topic of libido deserves a post of its own. I will indulge this in the future. Suffice it to say, for me it was one of the changes that had the greatest effect on the current trajectory of my life because it was the one that (I had read? I had been told?) was irreversable and expected and I should just shut up and deal with it.

I thought this was the way it was going to be from now on. And I was afraid of the effect that it would have on my marriage.

Ah, but that beautiful concept of impermanence reminded me that I should never settle into expectations based on what came before me or what happens to others, because everyone has their own individual set of conditions. What a lovely awakening to the rest of my life!

Nine-Year Mammogram; or, “One is the Loneliest Number”

(Title image: Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash)

It happened again.

I had a mammogram last week, this one being nine-years-post-cancer.

It was the very first one since my original diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound that I went to alone, without my husband.

And I figured that by now it wouldn’t matter, that I felt positive enough about the process that I wouldn’t feel unsettled in the least. Especially since it hadn’t been very long since this year’s clinial breast exam by my oncologist.

But, dammit, it was freaky. I had an uneasy feeling about it mirroring the original visit nine years ago with the mammogram and ultrasound that revealed my tumor. I had gone alone then too, even though I had been panicky, telling myself that I just needed to get through the visit and then I could exhale again and have a good laugh about how I had worried about nothing.

Obviously, that’s not how things went. The mammogram had shown nothing (!) but the tumor was visible in the ultrasound. The ultrasound technician worked absolutely stone-faced…a bit TOO stone-faced, I had noted at the time.

The lights were low. She left the room to meet with the radiologist, and I sat there alone and getting progressively more uneasy. And when she returned with the doctor and he told me it was cancer, it felt like someone had poured me out of a jar and onto the floor.

Yeah, I know, I know. But still…
(Photo by Outcast India on Unsplash)

I struggled to text my husband and my mother, trying to get the news out as quickly as I could, as if to share the burden in an attempt to lighten it.

That, my friends, sucked.

And this time around, nine years later, even though I knew I was fine, that feeling of loneliness crept in again. I wanted to hold someone’s hand and talk about something else.

Most days I don’t entertain the possibility of this cancer coming back. I do feel positive about my future. So much has happened since my initial diagnosis; I’ve learned a lot about myself and my body and especially my mind, which I’ve practiced reigning in so that it didn’t drive me into a panic.

Yes, there have been positive things that resulted from having my world shaken up.

But never in a million years do I ever want to experience anything like that again. So every time I joyfully call myself a survivor and am so willing to tell anyone who’s willing to listen about my experience and how it has changed me, there is heavy part of the experience, the fear, the awareness of my mortality, even the loneliness of feeling so removed from the other members of my family.

Next time, I’m bringing my husband again.

A Survivor’s Perspective: Gray Is In So Why Am I Coloring My Hair?

(Title image: Photo by Markus Kammermann on Unsplash)

Seems like a big thing in hair these days is the concept of “embracing your gray”. You can see it adopted by both celebrities and the average woman on the street. And I respect that, as accepting your gray hair is a positive change from the mindset that we should erase all signs of aging as if older people don’t exist and older women have no value.

You might be surprised to learn, therefore, that some months ago, I started coloring my hair blonde, my original color.

Why would I do that?

Because some of the collateral damage from going through cancer treatment was that I was pushed through sudden physical changes to the point that I could not recognize myself in the mirror.

It literally felt like I lost my sense of self.

Let me back up a bit: chemotherapy obviously brings on hair loss, but it’s not just the hair on your head. It’s also eyelashes and eyebrows, and surprise surprise, due to their relative slow growth as compared to your head hair, these last two might continue falling out after you’ve finished treatment. Just when you think you might be on the road to getting back to “normal”, your face may become even more foreign-looking.

And then there’s the speed with which your hair grows back. I kind of thought my follicles would resume functioning after the side effects from my last chemo faded away. Maybe that happens to other people, but for me, it took about three months before I started to even notice regrowth. This was in part due to the fact that my hair came back white even thought I was only 51 years old (thanks, genetics), so the new hairs were harder to spot.

Pastel pink hair was very pretty and I got into it for a while. But it was not the real me.
(Photo by laura adai on Unsplash)

It took a long time to grow my hair out because I kept cutting it to maintain a pixie cut…and then a longer pixie. Cute cuts for sure, but all the different iterations that my hairstyles went through were SO different from what I had worn pre-cancer.

As a result, even though I was years out from chemo, I was still struggling to recognize myself. During COVID lockdown, I dyed my hair pastel pink a number of times, even tried pastel purple (which I hated). After a couple of years of this I stopped with the wild colors because as fun as they were, they were so different and so far away from the real “me” that had been wrenched from normal life and thrust into cancer treatment.

It wasn’t until about 7 years out of chemo, I decided to try growing out my hair. Just a bit, into a bob. And FINALLY, when I shook my head, I felt movement at the back of my head! Up until that point, I hadn’t realized what a difference it would make psychologically. I was shocked to walk by a mirror and actually see a familiar face! And with some very gentle semi-permanent color, I found myself again.

After 9 years of stumbling around, lamenting the loss of my self to cancer treatment, I got her back. Coloring my hair is less about what age I am and more about getting myself back on even footing after feeling off-kilter for almost a decade.

It also doesn’t help that my hair turned white before its time.

I admit that when I let my hair stay white, people automatically identify me as way older than I am. One gentleman assumed that I was my husband’s mother. His MOTHER! No matter who you are, I cannot imagine any woman not caring that she has been mistaken for her spouse’s parent!

For me, that mislabeling was particularly difficult. It came at a point that I felt very distant from my husband and children. Dealing with a lot of tiredness, often the first in the family to go to bed while every one else was still up. I felt like I was being erased from their lives, watching them engage in activities that I should have participated in. A heavy loneliness set in.

It hurt a lot. For a long while, I thought that this was going to be what the rest of my life would look like.

I am delighted that this has not been the case. Time marches on and brings changes, once again. My body has continued to strengthen. Familial bonds have been revitalized. Attitude has improved. And while it’s not the greatest factor in this turnaround, enjoying a head full of blonde hair again has helped.

Time to Stop Complaining?

(Title image: Photo by 光术 山影 on Unsplash)

Nine years after my initial breast cancer diagnosis, I was still finding things to complain about. Yes, it’s 100% true that cancer treatments (surgery, chemo, radiation, endocrine therapy, etc.) are kind of like taking a 2-by-4 between the eyes. You do your best to keep yourself afloat but, with the exception of the effectiveness of the treatments on the tumor cells, you could argue that they are a net negative for the rest of your body.

Once treatments are done, side effects can linger. Some of them may linger for quite a long time, years even. And that’s where I got caught up in all of this.

The problem is that along with cancer treatment, other things are happening in parallel. Because I was pre-/peri-menopausal at the time of diagnosis, the onset of chemotherapy also resulted in a hard stop to my menstruation. This brought with it effects, although luckily mild, that aligned with a menopausal transition.

But there was more. At one point I was so panicked about memory issues that my oncologist decided to do a brain MRI, which found nothing (well, it found my brain…but no brain tumor. I’ll take it). But this was also during a particularly anxiety-driven point in my life, and that’s something that can also affect memory and basic mental functioning.

Imagine taking one of these planks to your face; that’s my impression of cancer treatment.
(Photo by Patrick Robert Doyle on Unsplash)

And so it went, on and on. I saw a cardiologist because I was experiencing heartbeat irregularities—probably anxiety-related also—but even after a stint wearing a Holter monitor (which reminded me of my chemo port, ugh), nothing serious was identified. In fact, the cardiologist remarked that I had a very strong heart. Not what I had feared, but good news.

I was frustrated with the effects of endocrine therapy on muscle wasting, something that I perceived as a huge loss, but when I finished up physical therapy for my shoulder a month ago, the therapists pointed out my strength and flexibility.

I was focused on how much I had lost, somehow ignoring the fact that I just turned 60. I was comparing myself to my abilities in my 40s, which—no big surprise—isn’t reasonable.

It really hit me when I attended an online event with other cancer patients and survivors. I wasn’t experiencing the level of impairment that others described.

This made me think hard about how I perceived myself. I finished my main treatments over eight years ago. That’s a long time, so why was I attributing anything that went “wrong” to cancer? I was doing very well. Still exercising. Still working my job. Still trying new things. Still not feeling my age.

I have nothing to complain about and a lot to be grateful for. The fact is, I left my post-cancer struggles behind some time ago. The “side effects” I thought I was still experiencing are miniscule compared what others, particularly those my age, are dealing with.

So I’m going to do my best to shut up about them.

A Date with the Oncologist…and the Office Scale

This past week I had my “9-years-since-biopsy” oncology appointment. I have sat in that same exam room numerous times since March 2017.

It still smells the same—I think it’s the cleaning solution the Cancer Center uses, but I’ll never forget that scent. On the other hand, numerous improvements in treatments have taken place since my first time there.

One thing that hasn’t changed is that I still get weighed before every doctor’s visit, just like I do for a lot of other health appointments. It’s also been my least favorite part of getting a check up. No, I am not overweight, but as a child I was taller than all my classmates; basically a lean kid with perfectionistic tendancies who was occasionally teased about having a higher number on the scale, which I can assure you is a shortcut to disordered eating. As a result, even now I am sensitive about how much my healthcare team reads into my weight numbers, even though my weight fluctuations tend to be only a few pounds up & down that are not reflected on my frame.

Yes, you would be correct if I seem to get a bit touchy about this.

I weigh myself twice a week at home with a pricey, high-quality scale that provides all sorts of other metrics. The bodyfat percentage is not accurate and tends to report a lower-than-truthful value, so I don’t swear by it. But I have a great deal of confidence in the weight measurement, especially because I control for as many variables (time of day, clothing, etc.) as possible when I weigh myself.

The scale in the exam room isn’t even one of the “good” ones!
(Photo by Samuel Ramos on Unsplash)

The scale in my oncologist’s exam room literally looks like a bathroom scale. It’s not even the typical mechanical doctor’s scale with the weights that you move across that “T” thing that stands in front of you, if you know what I mean. It’s just a basic electronic scale. I’m sure it’s relatively accurate but not what I’d consider a gold standard.

Why am I making such a big deal out of this? Because my weight at my appointment was about 5 pounds heavier than it had been when I weighed myself at home a few days before and about 3-4 pounds heavier than the last time I was at the oncologist’s office.

And my oncologist pointed it out. It struck a chord. Maybe I sensed concern on his part, maybe I interpreted it as disapproval, maybe I just imagined his reaction. But I immediately felt defensive. This was not a 20-pound difference. This was, for all intents and purposes, a few pounds higher than last time.

I work out 4-6 times a week. I lift weights. I do high intensity interval training. I row on an erg. I take the stairs two at a time. And I cannot shake the feeling that it’s never good enough.

I have been a pescetarian for the past 42 years. I eat mainly vegetables and protein. I don’t put sugar in my coffee. I rarely indulge in alcohol or rich desserts. I have been told that I’m TOO disciplined. And it doesn’t seem to matter.

So, yes, I’m sensitive about this because I’ve spent my entire adult life being very careful about diet and exercise. I have been big on avoiding the things that the general public may consider indispensible treats, even though they’re not healthy. And, quite frankly, I prefer it that way and regret nothing.

Eat healthy, exercise, get cancer—but will people believe you did your best?
(Photo by Nadine Primeau on Unsplash)

But still I feel pressure.

Now, if I were decades younger, this might have sent me into an “I-must-be-even-more-disciplined” state and triggered a clamp-down on myself. But I take a deep breath because I know what I look like naked. I can’t change how people think. I can’t change the healthcare system. The scale is here to stay.

But I can say that as judge-y as people get around weight, the negatives extend way beyond those who might be struggling with weight loss or seem not to care. The effects of perceived judgment touch everyone else too, no matter what shape or size you are. And numbers without context can ruin your day.

As cancer survivors we may already have a difficult relationship with our bodies: changes experienced through surgery, not being able to recognize ourselves after chemo, dealing with unexpected effects of endocrine therapy, even the beliefs of others that we did something to bring cancer upon ourselves. That’s a lot to handle when you’re worried about recurrence or a degraded quality of life.

Hey, it’s okay. I get why we get weighed. But sometimes I hate how it makes me feel.

Breast Cancer: Know When to Say When

(Title image: Photo by Marius Serban on Unsplash)

This is going to be short because I’m on the cusp of moving my family to a new apartment…and that’s going to take more work now that one of our cars is finally having its damage repaired.

So this is a gentle reminder to slow down and look around once in a while. Life’s obligations can push us like a bulldozer and we might not notice that we’re worn out until something happens that forces us into a mini-vacation.

Something, perhaps, like chemotherapy.

Who needs some love? You do.
(Photo by Mayur Gala on Unsplash)

And if you need a cancer diagnosis (or a broken bone or the flu or…) to give you a break from the pressures of work and family, then I think we can all agree that your mental health needs more love than you’ve been giving it.

Yes, easier said than done. But there are little breaks you can take. A 10-minute body scan meditation or guided breathing practice. A matcha tea break where you focus on the movements of your hands as they prepare your cup. Staring out the window and counting trees/people/cars.

It doesn’t have to be a pricey spa day. You can have a spa inside your head with a phone app and a set of headphones. You just need to care enough about yourself to allow this.

Believe me, I care about you and I don’t even know you. You are the whole reason why I started this blog and why I keep it going, even eight years after my diagnosis. I hope it helps you remember that you are worth being cared for. ❤

Breast Cancer: Life in the Breakdown Lane

Last week, I walked out to my car, which had been parked on the street, to find that someone had hit it. The driver’s side mirror was ripped off, the wheel cover was smashed and the side was dented.

Two things immediately became evident: 1) we were lucky that the person responsible had left us a note with their phone number, (2) we were going to have to completely restructure our travel expectations for the foreseeable future.

While I found a lot to be grateful for in the situation, it also reminded me of a traffic analogy that I have used to describe what happens after you’re handed a cancer diagnosis.

Diagnosis? That’ll throw a wrench into your current plans.
(Photo by Scott Greer on Unsplash)

Being told you have cancer is like getting into a traffic accident: you’re moving along with everyone else in their cars, focusing on getting to where you need to be, and then all of a sudden *CRASH*.

You pull your car over to the side, still stunned by the collision, and take stock of the damage to both your vehicle and yourself.

And as you stand there, all that traffic that you were moving along with has left you behind. You are no longer part of the natural flow of things. All the plans that you had to be somewhere and expectations for what you were going to do this week and next…all of that stops.

You hear the noisy din of traffic and the “Dopplered” sounds of cars zooming by, feeling the whoosh of air as they pass. But when there’s a lull in the traffic, the quiet brings on loneliness, as if the other travelers have moved on and you’ve been forgotten.

The rest of life whooshes by you.
(Photo by Viktor Kiryanov on Unsplash)

Now you have to rework your life. Instead of taking your ability to move through the city for granted, you’re scrambling to figure out what you’re going to have to cancel, how you’ll get to where you need to go and what the immediate future will look like until you get your car back in working order.

In the meantime, you see everyone else progressing along, as they have been, completely unaware of what life looks like in the breakdown lane. Having pleasant conversations, arriving at work on time, meeting with business associates, eating from cafeteria salad bars without the need to double disinfect their lettuce and tomatoes.

Not needing to schedule multiple appointments or surgeries or infusions or radiation treatments. It is such a different life!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly after receiving a cancer diagnosis there’s so much going on that it can be difficult to articulate everything you’re feeling, and those around you might have a hard time relating. I’ve found that this analogy can be helpful in relaying what the experience is like.

See if this works for you too.

Breast Cancer: Finding Gratitude as a Cancer Patient

(Title image: Photo by Diego PH on Unsplash)

I’m not going to lie, gratitude can be difficult to navigate as a cancer patient.

When you’re mourning your diagnosis and trying to hold yourself together from the shock, the last thing you want is for some sunny person to tell you to think about everything you’re grateful for.

At such a time, it can be very difficult to think of anything. I, personally, felt a lot of anger, bitterness and even betrayal after I was told I had breast cancer. It wasn’t a great set of feelings to sink into, but that was my reality.

While I tried doing gratitude practices, in the beginning the process was miserable and felt “fake”. The whole notion of being grateful struck me as forced and required me to think about things I didn’t want to focus on.

Tough to be grateful? Make a list of what doesn’t suck.
(Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash)

However, what helped me was making a list. It started out as a list of things about which I could say, “well, at least this didn’t happen” and slowly shifted to “well, this thing made my life easier”. It enabled me to find positives that I had otherwise overlooked.

I wasn’t grateful for getting cancer. But having bosses whose wives had survived breast cancer made it easier for them to understand what I was going through…and also to offer some useful advice (as did their wives).

I didn’t have the luxury of not working throughout treatment, but I was glad that a series of big projects had ended the previous year, so I didn’t have a huge workload waiting for me at the office. And while I really wished I could have had a full-time income, my part-time position meant that I had an easier time shifting my schedule to accommodate appointments and days off following infusions.

Additionally, it was fortunate that the region in which I live had a number of highly lauded cancer centers. And my cancer center offered free counseling by excellent therapists specifically trained to work with cancer patients.

It was also a plus that the summer during which I had my chemo infusions ended up being mild—luckily, since we didn’t have air conditioning—and my fear of enduring nausea through hot summer days never became a reality.

My list got longer and longer.

Opening the door to gratitude soothes the overwrought mind.
(Photo by Pedro Ramos on Unsplash)

So little by little, I started to pick through all the things that ended up better than they could have been. I didn’t call it “gratitude” at first because I was still bitter and refused to accept that there was anything to be grateful for. But the more things that came up that made me realize how much better the situation had turned out…the easier it was to finally come around to the idea that, even in the midst of the crappiest-thing-that-could-happen, there truly were things that I could l squeeze out a bit of gratitude for.

It took time. But when I loosened my grip on bitterness, I allowed in a swell of gratefulness, so much so that it was almost overwhelming how, if I had to get cancer, if it truly had to happen, there were so many things that had gone right. I started feeling so much better emotionally.

So my advice to anyone who wants to try out that “gratitude stuff” to see why it’s so great for your mental health: be gentle, start slowly and don’t tell anyone you’re doing it. This is a private practice for you. When you finally allow yourself to zero in on those little things that aren’t so bad or are kind of fortuitous given the situation, you may find that they buoy your spirits.

That’s all it takes. Not need to rush. Let the appreciation come to you.

Breast Cancer: Surviving the High Cost of Treatment

(Title image: Photo by Alexander Mils on Unsplash)

Since we are now in the Pink Season, otherwise known as Breast Cancer Awareness Month, in the midst of encouraging mammograms and regular clinical exams, it’s also useful to consider a very important barrier to obtaining cancer treatment and services in the United States: cost.

This is particularly distressing because breast cancer research has been very well-funded and treatments are quite effective for most forms of the disease, with great strides also having been made in understanding some of the most aggressive variants.

But according to a 2021 memo from the the American Cancer Society’s Cancer Action Network, 61% of (all) cancer patients describe paying for their treatment to be “somewhat or very difficult”.

It is striking that financial difficulty affects the majority of cancer patients. Obviously, the lower the family income, the greater the hardship, with 80% of patients having to “make financial sacrifices to cover their health care expenses, including 44% who’ve dipped into their savings, 36% who’ve gone into credit card debt to pay medical bills and nearly a quarter who say they did not schedule or cancelled an appointment or procedure because of cost.”

None of this will come as a surprise to you if you’ve ever had to pay for healthcare in the United States. Suffice it to say, we have a problem with affordability here.

Aside from the stressors of the disease and treatment side effects, many people have the added anxiety of not being able to afford the cost of cancer care.
(Photo by Woliul Hasan on Unsplash)

I was one of the very lucky ones in this regard, as my husband and I both work for non-profit research institutes with generous benefits. At the time of my diagnosis, we were enrolled in an employer sponsored PPO (Preferred Provider Organization) insurance plan with a per-person, out-of-pocket yearly maximum of $2000. When we initially signed up for the coverage, I thought the increased cost of the PPO was unnecessary as we were all quite healthy. However, after my diagnosis, I was struck by how blessed we were to even have this degree of health coverage as an option.

Clearly, my family is in the minority in our good fortune. We were able to avoid the financial fears and burdensome debt, even bankruptcy, that affect so many other cancer patients. Cancer care is devastatingly expensive, particularly for those with little to no insurance coverage, or insurance coverage with extremely high deductables.

What options do you have if you find yourself delaying care due to finances?

*Start with your cancer center’s social workers. They have experience in helping patients and survivors who are dealing with financial hardship and can point you in the right direction.
* Visit the Cancer Financial Assistance Coalition (CFAC) website, which has a database that you can search according to your cancer type and financial needs to find a list of charitable organizations that can offer support for your situation.
*For medicines that are not covered by insurance, pharmaceutical companies may offer deep discounts on their drugs. Reach out to them directly. They would rather sell you a heavily discounted medication than not make a sale at all.

Even when it seems that your luck has run out, there are still options available to ease your financial burden. Unfortunately, the healthcare system might not change anytime soon, but please know that supportive charities can to lend a hand as you make your way through the cancer maze.

The Stuff after Cancer Treatment: Even When It’s Over, It’s Not Over

(Title image: Photo by Leon Seibert on Unsplash)

I stumbled across an article about another celebrity who has gone through breast cancer treatment. That’s not surprising, given the relatively high percentage of women, in particular, who have been diagnosed or are at heightened risk of the disease.

But this one—about celebrity organizer Clea Shearer (of The Home Edit, a home organizing company/brand/empire)—gave me pause for the specific reason that there was so much cancer-related hardship that continued after she finished her treatment.

In 2022, Clea was diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer (“invasive mammary carcinoma”) and underwent the familiar treatments of surgery, chemotherapy and radiation therapy. However, it’s the complications of her double mastectomy that make her story very striking. To date (that is, as of the release of this article in People magazine a few days ago), she has undergone 14 surgeries and may be running out of options for breast reconstruction.

And just when you thought you were almost done…

This is not what anyone expects after they “finish” cancer treatment. In fact, Clea was declared cancer-free in November 2022. But it was clearly not the end of cancer-related effects for her.

I think it’s important for us to consider this when we try to be over-optimistic with cancer survivors. Pushing an upbeat attitude or telling survivors to “just be grateful” glosses over the reality of what they may continue to keep going through.

Yes, of course we are grateful. A cancer diagnosis is terrifying and for those of us who grew up when it was considered practically a death sentence, the idea of having it take your life is hard to get out of your head. In this day and age where social media describes the “condition” as d**th…well, cancer survivors have to meet the possibility head-on, minus the asterisks.

However long a survivor has survived is a cause for celebration and gratitude. But it’s not necessarily the end-of-story, fade-into-the-sunset ending. Clea’s experience is proof of that and I wish her strength and perseverance as she navigates the coming months.

Stories like Clea’s underscore the critical need to treat the whole patient, including offering emotional/mental health support, and not to simply stop the support when the cancer center-based treatment ends. Even when it might seem that treatment is done, it may just be the beginning of a new set of challenges.