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Category: Run For The Rabbit

The Latest Episode: Listen Now

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Yesterday was a hair-washing day. I’m only supp

Yesterday was a hair-washing day.
I’m only supposed to wash my hair (in cold water, brrr!) once or twice per week during chemotherapy and for six months (!!!) after.
I hate hair-washing day. I hate washing my hair in the sink (because I’m not tough enough for cold showers), and hate how much hair I always lose on these days. They’re the sheddiest ones of the week.
I know I’m lucky to still have a lot of hair on my head. I’m so grateful.
And I have little bald spots and patches where my scalp is more visible than I’d like. (Sure noticed that on the overhead security camera at the Hannaford self-checkout today…)
My shedding had seemed to slow after my third round of chemo. But yesterday was a big one. Lots of clumps coming out. And that’s never easy. I was feeling pretty discouraged and sad and frustrated.
And then: Annie’s “holiday spectacular.”
Her first performance on a big stage — the same one I grew up performing on — with bright lights and a packed house.
And it was magical. She shined, and she loved it, and I bawled and beamed with pride.
And then everything was OK.
My hair is still coming out, the Round 4 side effects have officially set in, and I’m going to be dealing with cancer stuff in some form now and for the rest of my life.
Last night, though, for a few hours at The Audi, everything was more than OK. (“Everything is beautiful at the ballet.”)
Maybe that’s oversimplified.
Maybe sometimes it just can be that simple, though.
Maybe sparkles and sequins and tiny ballet slippers can heal some part of me. Last night they definitely did.

LINE ‘EM UP AND KNOCK ‘EM DOWN: 4/4, baby! Fo

LINE ‘EM UP AND KNOCK ‘EM DOWN: 4/4, baby!
Four rounds every three weeks. One unplanned hospital stay. Nearly 100 cold cap changes. Seven different friends who traveled to be with me for my treatments, and to manage the very intense cold capping process. Those same seven different friends who managed to make my chemo days some of my best days. It’s not how I would’ve chosen to spend our time together, but any time is time I’ll take.
With that final IV insertion, final round of loopy pre-meds, final taxotere and cytoxan infusions, and final removal of the final cold cap: I am done with chemotherapy.
So many thoughts. So much to say. An insurmountable amount of feelings to try and process.
But first: a whole bunch of “I love you” phone calls to make, and then settling in for that final post-chemo snooze with Top Gun: Maverick.
🫶🏼

213 days ago, I felt a lump in my left breast. 20

213 days ago, I felt a lump in my left breast.
209 days ago, I felt a second one.
202 days ago, I went to the doctor and was told, “It’s probably nothing. You’re young and healthy.”
But in my gut, I knew.
So 198 days ago, I had a mammogram and ultrasound. They found a third lump. This one on the right side.
194 days ago, I had all three areas biopsied.
And on May 19 — 191 days ago, and just 13 days after my 38th birthday — I got a diagnosis with the word “carcinoma” in it. Breast cancer.
Life since then has been an absolute tornado of phone calls, appointments, surgeries, new medical vocabulary words, and fear-induced late-night Googling.
Now, tomorrow — 213 days after feeling that first lump — is my last day of chemotherapy.
My biggest fear. My greatest unknown. Tomorrow is the last one.
So tonight, I’ll pack my bags (overnight bag, hospital bag, backpack that I always bring and never open because LOL as if I’m going to edit a podcast episode while on those chemo drugs, snack bag, giant Peanut M&M-filled bag for the hospital staff), my blankets (one from @jules5837, one from @mikeannebailey), my cold caps, my dry ice cooler (70 lbs. getting delivered in the AM!), and the stuffy Annie picked for me to bring (a tiny little pastel unicorn).
Tomorrow, we start to wrap up this chapter of the breast cancer story.
I’m so very ready for this one to end.
And so ready to start working on the next one.

🫶🏼 🫶🏼

I sent this picture to a friend on Saturday mornin

I sent this picture to a friend on Saturday morning when I was getting ready for the day and realized that I’m a week out from my final chemotherapy session, and I still have a good amount of hair on my head.
I asked my oncologist at my last appointment if the fact that I still have hair halfway through chemo means it’s going to stay. That the cold caps are working, and I won’t lose it all.
“Not necessarily,” she told me, which was the exact opposite response I was hoping for. 😂
But I’m one week out from my final chemo session, and even though I’ve lost a lot, and it’s really thin, and I’m wearing a lot of headbands, and I can’t do much with it…it’s there.
And it’s about the hair, sure.
But it’s also not about the hair.
It’s about being able to feel some semblance of self throughout all of this.
About looking in the mirror and recognizing the person I see.
About dropping Annie off at school or going to dance class and not feeling self-conscious about being or looking like “the sick mom.”
I haven’t been able to control much this year. But cold capping has helped me try to control *something,* and it has helped me stay rooted in optimism and positivity. That maybe, just maybe, it will work.
And it is WORK. It’s hard. These caps are COLD. And they hurt. And each cap change at the 25-minute mark is like another interval. It burns and it’s hard and my head gets tossed around while I try to be really tough, and I know I just have to trust the process.
It’s also a LOT for my people. My loved ones have traveled to be with me and strap ice to my head 20+ times in a day, while also dealing with my fainting, my runs to the bathroom, my complete uselessness once those pre-meds hit. (Another long, sappy post for another day.)
It’s about the hair. And it’s not about the hair.
I think, ultimately, it’s about relinquishing control and clinging to hope.
The first part is hard.
The second part? Unwavering.

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