It’s today…one year since my diagnosis. I knew it would bother me today; I just wasn’t sure how. Right now, I feel a little but numb about it…kind of how I felt that day.

I remember a lot of snippets from that day. I had just sat down for a meeting at work. I was about to start eating my burrito bowl. I answered my phone in a panic…seeing my doctor’s number on the screen. I went to sit down in my office to talk to her but ended up in my co-worker’s office by accident. And there I sat. Alone. Listening to the words “it IS cancer. But you’ll be ok.” Emphasis on the IS. Just confirming what we all thought but were too afraid to say.

The next bit is a blur. I remember looking at my boss and he instantly got up to walk me to my car. I sat there for a minute, wondering how in the hell I was going to drive the 30 seconds to my then boyfriend/now husband’s office.

I showed up at his office. He got into the car and I went in “the zone”. The zone is quiet. It’s a void. It’s where I can go to be alone when I’m actually in a room full of people. The zone is where I go to mull over my thoughts, where I go to solve problems.

Little did I know just how much time I’d be spending in the zone throughout the next year.

I got a call while Chris was driving me home. It was from my oncologist. MY oncologist. It’s funny. We go through our lives with a slew of doctors that we call “ours”: my pediatrician, my ob-gyn, my primary care doctor, my dentist, my eye doctor, my dermatologist. All of the normal ones. In that instant, I added a heaping handful of doctors to MY list. My oncologist, my nutritionist, my psychologist, my breast surgeon, my plastic surgeon, my oncology gynecologist.

I set up an entire day of appointments with all of these faceless names that would soon help to save my life.

We got home. My parents met us there. I turned on The Office for comfort and normalcy. I washed my face. And then I took a nap.

Apparently, according to my therapist who told me this very recently, I deal with hard things through avoidance. Which sounds counter productive but is actually my way of chopping up the big hard things into smaller hard things in order to deal with them. It doesn’t work for everyone and it doesn’t work for me every time. But on that day, it’s the only way I knew how to get through.

When I went back downstairs, my parents and Chris were still talking together. I had recently put in my 2 week notice at work. I was going to stay home with the kids again. Which also meant I was going to lost my health insurance. And so that’s how Chris and I decided to get married. He called the courthouse. The judge only performed weddings on Mondays and we needed it done ASAP so he scheduled our wedding for the following Monday. What should have been one of the happiest times of our lives turned into something that needed to be checked off of our to-do list. That sounds bad. Obviously, we wanted to get married but this was clearly not the most romantic moment in time.

After that, I don’t remember much. I don’t know if I ate that day though I must have. I’m pretty sure that boys were with their dad because I don’t see them popping in and out of my memories from that day. I don’t remember when my parents left my house.

I just remember fear, anxiety, dread, despair. How was I ever going to get through this? Could I even do it? How bad was it all? All I knew was that it was triple negative. That’s the aggressive kind, the kind that doesn’t want to leave.

But I’m the aggressive kind too, the kind that doesn’t want to leave. So could I do it?

And now, here I am one year later. Everything is different. But I’m here.

I came out alive on the other side. Sometimes it feels like maybe that’s not enough. Like, aren’t I supposed to be this enlightened being with a new lease on life? Someone who drinks celery juice and only wears organic linen? But I’m not. I just want to be who I was. I’m still just me. I’m not a pink ribbon.

My double mastectomy is tomorrow. This is the final section in the cancer chapter of my life. Am I scared? You bet I am. I’ve been taking Xanax basically around the clock for the past several days. But do you know how I know I can do this? Because look at all the hard things I’ve done in the past six years.

I’ve been pregnant twice, recovered from 2 c-sections. I lived through a divorce and raising my two crazy and wonderful boys on my own (with the help of my mom). I went through 5 months of chemo…and never threw up once. It’s all been an emotional roller coaster and I loathe roller coasters but I did all of these things. I had to. To bring life, to be happy, to survive.

All of that to say…I’m scared as hell. It’s a 12 hour surgery. What if they find something bad? What if the tissue from my stomach doesn’t connect to make my new boobs? What if I don’t wake up? What if I don’t like how I look after? What if I don’t feel like me?

So this is the lesson I’m working on learning right now. Letting it go. I will have 0 control over everything happening in my life tomorrow. I will be in some lovely la la land while my surgeons and nurses and anesthesiologists use their vast knowledge to take out what wants to kill me and put me back together. I have to trust that they will take care of me. I have to trust that they can do hard things too.

I’m done with you. Sixteen rounds of dreadful, harmful, harsh medicines pumped into my body through a port in my chest. Sixteen rounds of life saving, energy sucking, emotional roller coaster inducing medicine to save my life. While saving my life, you took so much from me. You took (hopefully) my cancer. I’ll know more about that after surgery in August. But no one can feel it anymore so you did your job.

But you also took things from me that mattered so much to me. You took my hair. My red hair. My actual identity. You took my energy. You took my confidence; my confidence as a woman, my confidence as a mother. You took away my ability to handle my own anxiety. My skin has changed. My taste changed. My eyebrows are only half there. And now your final blow. The one side effect I was most afraid of…my eyelashes. My favorite feature. They get more sparse every single day and soon, they’ll be gone.

I’m done with you, Chemo. Yet you’re still taking things from me. You threw me into complete menopause at age 32. I’m moody. I’m irritable. And the hot flashes in the middle of July? That’s a cruel joke.

So while I wait for you to detox from my body and learn some patience as all the things I miss start to come back, I’m anxious about my next step. Surgery. I guess anxious is an understatement. What’s a worse feeling than anxious? Terror? Horror? Because that’s what I feel. I’m terrified.

I’m not me right now. I’ve never felt less like me in my entire life and it’s SO hard. I want it all back; my hair, my confidence, my life before. This life after you, Chemo, is draining and scary. I’m struggling to find a comfortable new me. I know she’s in here somewhere.

So thanks, Chemo. For helping me live. I’m not sad to see you go.

xo – Me

I keep thinking I should be documenting this weird time we’re living in. But every time I think about it, I start to panic. The anxiety hangs over me like a hum. Sometimes it’s loud and can only be drowned out by a Xanax. Sometimes I can barely hear it but then my kindergartner asks me a question about his math school work and I have to Google what the hell verticies are. So the anxiety is always there. This isn’t new territory for me. What is new territory is navigating my health and cancer treatment while there is a literal worldwide pandemic.

The pandemic really ramped up the day before my third chemo treatment. I had come to terms with the fact that my life was going to be weird and sometimes awful in the coming months. I knew I’d feel pretty crappy a lot of the days. I’d be more tired. My hair (all of my hair) would fall out. My taste would change and I’d be nauseous. I could handle all of that for a few months. It wouldn’t be fun but I could do it. But then everything changed. We knew this virus was coming. We didn’t know just how it would effect our every day.

We’ve had to change our parenting plan. Since my ex-husband is a pharmacist, he’s essential. He has to work so people can have their meds. This means he comes into contact with god knows how many people per day. He comes into contact with the people who aren’t taking this seriously. The people who just have to get out of the house so they go to one of the only places open, the pharmacy. What they don’t realize is that they’re putting him at risk of coming into contact with COVID-19. If he had it, he could pass it to the kids, who could then pass it to me. Which is why we’ve made the difficult decision to keep the kids at my house until all of this is over. He hasn’t seen his own children in weeks. And won’t see them for weeks more. Obviously, they’re video chatting. But can you put yourself in his shoes for 2 seconds? To keep me and his children safe from the virus and all the asshats who will not abide by the stay home order, he is not seeing his children. So when I get livid about people not staying home, this is why. The more you go out, the longer the rest of us have to stay in. The longer the kids don’t see their dad. The longer I have to deal with the mom guilt of being a sub par home school teacher. It makes me SO mad that I can’t even find the words to voice it.

My anxiety has been manifesting at anger lately. I’m angry because I have cancer. I’m angry because I learned about my cancer right after I decided to be a stay at home mom again. I’m angry because I have to deal with treatment during a pandemic. I’m angry because it feels like the fate of Oliver’s education rests in my exhausted hands. I’m angry because of mom guilt. I’m angry because what was supposed to just be difficult is feeling nearly impossible to get through. I’m angry because people are just living life as normal. Nothing is normal.

So cry me a river because you’re bored at home. Go read a book. Bake a cake. Take a nap. For the love of god, please stay home so we can all get through this on the other side. Order your groceries once a week. Don’t go to Walgreens unless you absolutely HAVE to. Wash your hands. Maybe pretend your life depends on it, because mine does.

When I was diagnosed with you, Cancer, the news came via a phone call. “It is breast cancer. It’s triple negative. You’re going to be ok.” I cried pretty hard in the car for about five minutes and then I went numb. I was feeling TOO many emotions. I was terrified, angry, worried. I felt so stupid for letting this, you, happen to me. The girl with the BRCA gene who put off going to her screenings because of divorce and her new job and the drive is two hours and a whole host of other inconvenient excuses now has breast cancer. The Lifetime movie basically writes itself.

I found you myself. I can’t remember the day. I do remember getting out of the bathtub, grabbing my lotion, grazing over my right breast, and immediately saying out loud “what the fuck?” I should have called my doctor then. But I was afraid so I decided to keep an eye on you for two weeks. I had just had my annual exam with my ob-gyn and he didn’t mention anything so I wasn’t TOO worried. And you know what happened in that two weeks? You, the little fucker, went away. I went to see my PCP when my two week waiting period was over. She couldn’t feel anything either. So I convinced myself that you were a cyst. You would come and go like an unwelcome guest. You would get bigger and smaller. Sometimes you hurt me. These are all large, flashing, loud warning signs. But I was afraid and it was almost Thanksgiving and I had just fallen in love with the most remarkable man and I just could not deal with this black rain cloud ruining my life.

Then it was the end of December and my insurance from my ex-husband was about to end so I decided to see my PCP again. And this time, you were there. She suggested a biopsy. That’s when I knew I’d let you stay too long. I called my high risk doctors at OSU. I’m not a fan of this particular doctor. She’s harsh and straight to the point and not very warm. I need someone to hold my hand in a medical setting. She immediately felt you, lingering there, and said “why did you wait so long??” It seemed that the two of you were on a team and your main mission was to make me feel like a complete and utter idiot.

Why did I wait so long? Because I was scared. I know what you can do, Cancer. I’ve seen you invade bodies of the people I love. You’re quiet and sneaky. You don’t fight fair and that’s cowardly. You take things. You’ve taken my energy, my good cells, my hair.

But that’s all you’re taking from me. Because Cancer, I know what I can do. I can be put through the ringer. I can fight and still laugh. I can cry and feel ok. Because I am strong. I can be pumped full of poison and knocked out for hours. That poison and I? We’re best friends. She’s not trying to kill me. She’s trying to kill YOU. And together, that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Every last little cell of you is going to die. All that’ll be left will be the perfect cells that are me.

So that’s my letter to you, Cancer. You’re a jerk and a coward and you chose the wrong girl to pick on.

xoxo,

Emma

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to broadcast this into the ether but then I tried to find some stories like mine and I felt more alone than ever. I might share a little, I might end up sharing too much. But I finally decided that sharing might be better than holding it all in. So. Here it goes.

I have breast cancer. That’s a hard sentence to type. It’s even harder to say. I really hoped I’d never have to say it but, here we are.

A few months ago, in the midst of the holidays and falling in love, I felt a tiny little bump in my right breast while I was moisturizing after a bubble bath. My first thought was, “what the fuck was that?” I kept an eye on it for 2 weeks (like you’re supposed to) and to my surprise, it disappeared. But then it came back and then it would disappear again. Life was moving fast and I was actually finally happy and, against all of my better judgement, I just did not want to deal with this little black rain cloud hovering over everything good that had been happening.

I decided to get it checked out. I made a call in the morning to my high risk doctors at Ohio State and by noon I was in the car to get checked out. This is where I should mention Chris. This is the moment I gave all of my emotions over to him and let him take the lead because I was not okay. All in one day, I had a breast biopsy and a biopsy on one lymph node. And then it was back to being a parent and pretending everything was okay while I waited for my results.

My results were not good. Not entirely horrible. But most certainly not the news you want to hear. I have triple negative breast cancer, which is fairly common in a woman with the BRCA mutation.

I have a plan. The next 5 or 6 months are going to be trying and exhausting and terrifying but WE CAN DO HARD THINGS. I’ll have have 12 weekly chemo treatments (which I’m calling therapy because therapy is a less scary word) and then 4 more treatments spread out over 8 weeks. I’ll heal for 4 weeks and then do a double mastectomy. My doctors are wonderful and are completely confident that by the time I have my surgery, I will be free of disease.

Here’s what I’ve dealt with thus far…2 biopsies, 2 mammograms, an MRI, 3 CT scans, a bone scan, and one therapy treatment.

I am afraid, yes. But I am also so very strong. I have the best support team in the entire universe. My husband, my mom, my family, my kids, my best friends. We’re all going to kick this thing’s ass.

So that’s my update. This hasn’t been easy and it’ll be so much harder in the coming months, but I got this.

“You guys aren’t supposed to be getting along,” his attorney said. And no, I guess we shouldn’t be getting along. I should be vindictive and ruthless and horrible. He deserves it and then some, that’s for sure. But we walked into the courthouse downtown together on the morning of our divorce hearing. It was like walking into a coffee shop. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t mad. In fact, I felt nothing…just nothing.

It’s been one and a half years since I felt my stomach drop to the floor and my heart beat through my chest. It only took me seconds to decide what I was going to do but it took me months to put my plan into motion. One and a half years of planning and moving and organizing and saving and spending and worrying and worrying more. One and a half years of learning who I am. One and a half years of remembering what it’s like to feel, what it’s like to be touched, what it’s like to be wanted.

So maybe that’s why when the magistrate said our divorce was so ordered by the court I expected to feel something. Was I expecting confetti and balloons to fall from the ceiling when she hit that gavel? Was I expecting fireworks and fanfare and a New Orleans style parade down the courthouse steps? I mean, I guess not but I would have welcomed it. I was expecting to feel relief, joy, gratitude, closure. But I literally felt nothing. I waited the whole day to feel something. I thought for sure it would hit me like a ton of bricks later in the day. But still, nothing.

I also expected a barrage of texts and phone calls and flowers and a cake. That’s what happens when you get married so why shouldn’t it happen when you get a divorce? But still, nothing. It’s just this really lonely thing.

Divorce is something that happens to you. Of course, it happens to your partner and your kids too but not in the way that it happens to you. When you get married, everyone is always around to help you make every decision (cake, food, dress, stationary, registry, hair, make up, flowers, and the list goes on forever). Everyone is with you literally every step of the way. But when you get a divorce, it’s just you. You’re SO alone. It’s the time of your life when you need all those people and all of that support and it’s just not there. No one knows how to act around you. It’s like you have a contagious disease and god forbid anyone get too close and have take a hard look at their own relationship.

This was my decision so I should be totally okay with it, right? And I am totally okay with it but that does not mean that I didn’t/still don’t struggle with the aftershock. It’s just very strange to be a feeler who isn’t feeling anything.

All of this to say…what the fuck is my problem? My divorce wasn’t good enough for me. I even set those expectations too high. I’m consistent, you have to give me that.

I’m about to get vulnerable and honest and brave. Or at least just vulnerable and honest.

I am struggling. I am struggling in basically every facet of life. My stress level is the highest it’s ever been and it’s making me break out like 13 year old. In true Emma fashion, I’m going to make a list of my sources of stress. Maybe they won’t look so bad. Maybe they’ll look so much worse. But at least I’ll be able to see them and then maybe I can make a plan.

My divorce will be final next week. And while this is what I’ve wanted all along, the actual idea of going to court and hashing it out is terrifying. It doesn’t have to be horrible and I really hope it isn’t. It’s just so much. And endings are always sad.

I got a puppy and here is why that was a horrible idea: there’s more poop in my life, it was a stupid financial decision, everyone is judging me for it, she’s in a crate all day, and I just do not have the patience to take care of one more living thing. Hell, even all of my plants have died. It’s a wonder the kids and I are still breathing.

Oliver is adjusting to his new school and it’s taking a toll on him. I think he likes it for the most part but I just worry about him being there and having to make new friends. I know I project my anxiety onto him and I try really hard not to. His behavior has just been pretty awful lately. He’s throwing tantrums like a 3 year old when he doesn’t get his way. I’m kind of at a loss with him right now. We just aren’t clicking.

I’m constantly worried that I’m being a sucky mom. I know every mom gets this feeling from time to time but with me, lately anyway, it’s been pretty constant. Am I spending enough time with them? Am I engaged when I am spending time with them? Are they learning the correct social skills so they won’t grow up to be sociopaths? How do I fix what I’m doing wrong? Do they know I love them? Are they actually happy?

The guilt I feel for working all day is nearly overwhelming. I don’t get to do school drop off or pick up. I don’t get to hang out with Henry while Oliver is at school. I’m missing out on these major every day things and it breaks my heart. And I do like the independence I have working and living on my own but this is not how I wanted to raise my children. A lot of the time, I feel like a third string parent.

My obsessive thoughts have been out of control. I’m literally thinking of a million things all at once. There’s nothing that ever has my full attention because one thought is always fighting with another thought which is fighting with another thought…repeat forever.

I’m alone. I hate it. Pretty self explanatory.

I don’t feel supported lately. I feel very much alone in more ways than one. I know I should just reach out (and maybe this is my way of doing it because I’m a weenie) but I actually don’t always want to be the needy girl. I know that’s who I am in my core but maybe I want to appear that I have it together. In reality, I don’t have anything together.

So that’s what’s happening now. I’m on the struggle bus. Actually, I’m driving the struggle bus and I’m completely lost. But I have to keep going. Eventually, I’ll park the struggle bus and get off of it…and then set it on fire.

Lessons 5, 6, and 7: Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Know when to throw in the towel. And take some time to yourself.

My 32nd birthday is tomorrow. I put pressure on myself to do 7 blog posts in 8 days. But then I didn’t feel like doing it on some of those days. So I didn’t. I’m not in the business of doing things I don’t feel like doing (except all of the adult things that I don’t want to do but that I have to do). You could say it’s selfish. And it probably is. I think putting limits on what you’ll say yes to is important. It creates a boundary between you and the rest of the world.

Which leads me to lesson 6. It’s important to know when something is a lost cause. You have to know when to let something go. Whether it’s a relationship, a job, a friendship, or an idea that you can’t quite suss out. Our society is very driven by “if at first you don’t succeed, try try again”. But honestly, I think it’s more important to know when to stop. Some things just aren’t meant for us. That guy you fell in love with in college? Imagine still being with him today. What would you have missed out on? What lessons have you learned between then and now that you wouldn’t have learned otherwise? And you could flip the coin and say, “Emma, but what about the lessons you might have missed out on by not being with him?” To that I say, that relationship ended for a reason. You’re better off…even if it doesn’t feel like it now.

My marriage ended. I had to throw in the towel. It wasn’t working. There were years of lies. So I walked away. It hasn’t been easy. It’s still not easy. But I think it gets a little easier every day. I know what I want. I know what I won’t put up with. I am remembering who I really am. And the next man that gets the privilege to love me will have the best version of me that’s ever existed.

And finally, lesson 7. I’m a huge proponent of self care. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” As a single mom, I cannot stress this enough. It’s SO easy to get burnt out when you don’t have a partner helping you with the daily parenting struggles. There’s no more tag teaming bath time and dinner clean up. I have to do it all on top of working full time. It’s exhausting. So we’re schedule oriented at my house. Both of my children, but Oliver mostly, thrive when they know what’s coming up next. A before bed conversation always includes where he’ll be going the next day, who will be there, who is picking him up, and what he’s doing afterwards. It kind of breaks my heart that not every day looks the same for him. But he’s doing really well…as long as he knows what to expect (I wonder where he gets that from).

There you have it. Seven lessons I’ve “learned” in my 32 spins around the sun. In no way have I mastered any of these lessons but I work on them every day. Thank you, 31, for being the weirdest year of my life. I’ve had to do things I never thought I’d do. Everything has changed and for that, I’m grateful. I’m looking forward to what 32 has in store for me and my little family. The dust is settling from all the fires I started. The sky is clearing. I have a really good feeling about it.

Lesson 4: Don’t let the world make you hard.

I’m not really sure how to stay sensitive in a world that looks down on sensitivity. What I do know is that being sensitive is my favorite character trait.

I’ve really been struggling with keeping my sensitivity in the last year, especially over the last few months. Divorce, being lied to, constant disappointment, and working have all made me want to harden my shell. But for all of those exact reasons, I HAVE to remain sensitive.

Working at a halfway house can make you harden up really fast. I don’t know what addiction is like on a personal level. I don’t know what it’s like to grow up in a cycle of crime. But it’s my sensitivity that lets me be empathetic and want to help these people who are struggling. On the other hand, there’s always a bit of manipulation happening. In my work world, sensitivity is a sign of weakness and most of our clients can smell it like blood in the water. I’m lied to on a daily basis. It’s hard not to take that personally but I can’t. And that’s where my skin is thickening.

With my kids, sensitivity is the most important tool in my mom toolbox. It helps me relate to their little world issues. I want to raise boys who will turn into men who are not afraid to feel and show their emotions. I want them to know they’re loved and I want them to love.

So. In a world that’s terrifying and backwards and seemingly getting worse by the day, how does one remain sensitive? By staying true to who you are. And that’s my plan.