Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): My two months away from work has sadly come to an end. I return to my mundane routine tomorrow and a chaotic October that will no doubt push my limits and Google calendar capacity. I am full of sadness but gratitude that I was able to take this much time off to nurture myself post-surgery. But of course, this blissful time was more than healing, filled with unexpected adventures including being attacked and bit by a dog and acquiring a brand new port. Who would have thought I would collect so many new scars?

TO THE SHORT VERSION!

When I first started planning breast reconstruction two years ago, I thought: winter. Easy excuse to miss awkward family gatherings (sorry, can’t pass the mashed potatoes, I’m recovering from surgery) and work would be at its slowest. The only con was getting over the snowy pass to Seattle. But by this point in my life, I know plenty of adults with four-wheel drive and a death wish. Where there’s a will, there’s a Subaru.

Then life said, “No, try again.”

First, a hurricane destroyed saline bag stocks, which apparently put boobs on backorder nationwide. My chop date got bumped. Then in January, my calf decided to audition for “Final Destination” with a blood clot, which bought me another six month delay. At that point, I figured the universe was just messing with me for sport.

By June, I’d resigned myself to calling for a November surgery slot. A co-worker asked why November, and I explained my “skip the holidays” master plan. She pressed: “If you could have it this summer, would you?”

Would I? Summer is my season. Why would I trade hikes on Badger Mountain dodging snakes like Indiana Jones for pain meds and endless reruns? But an hour later and a single phone call, fate sealed it: end of July surgery. And honestly, it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

The last two months have been endlessly joyful. Sure, my body is permanently Frankenstein’d, but I finally got my foobs and faced down some of my biggest fears. I learned how to dismantle my need for routine and replace it with choice. Mornings could be slow, with coffee and chocolate collagen while birds looted my sunflowers like tiny winged burglars. Fridays meant watermelons from the farmer’s market, evenings meant painting and talking art with friends, and afternoons were for tuna sandwiches and TV with my mom (a sacred ritual we didn’t know we needed). I also got to know every feral cat in my neighborhood. I’d go on walks, film them like I was documenting a nature show, and hand out nicknames like candy. Somewhere in between all that, I went to a cadaver lab at my sister’s work conference and casually hung out with dead bodies for an afternoon, and then balanced it out by screaming along to T-Pain at the Washington State Fair in Puyallup because he is, without question, a national treasure.

After everything cancer has taken, I finally cultivated something new from what was lost. This might go down as one of the best summers of my adult life.

But even great summers come with lows. My lymphedema is the worst it’s ever been. My body dysmorphia greets me every time I get dressed. I’m still swollen and scarred. Oh, and I got attacked by a dog and had to get a tetanus shot. To be fair, maybe the dog just sensed I was already stitched together like a chew toy.

Of course, the universe wasn’t done with its plot twists. Just as I was getting ready to say my summer goodbyes, I ended up with a surprise surgery.

It started with a blood draw fiasco. My oncologist wanted a circulating DNA test like yesterday, even though I had regular labs scheduled a week and a half later. That single draw spiraled into failed access of my port, an overnight TPA, countless pokes on both my arm and my hand from my favorite nurses to no avail. My veins basically ghosted us. We joked that I was dead, but the truth is, I’m just a terrible poke. And because of my lymphedema, only my left arm is an option, which makes IV access a gamble. My nurses advocated the hell out of me to get a long awaited dye study (I originally asked for this back in January), which revealed that Harry Porter and the Prisoner of Cancerban was indeed blocked by a fibrous sheath. Surprise, surprise. We were at a crossroads: remove it completely, or remove it and place a new one, this time on the right side of my chest.

I made the decision and asked to have one last surgery. Literally the next day, I had a call to schedule surgery for Tuesday. The universe received my manifestation of having this done before going back to work and I can’t help but wonder when my manifestation magic will end. This surgery? Honestly a 10/10 experience. I was consciously sedated, the team was amazing, and yes, I got to try fentanyl. It wasn’t as cool as I thought it might be. We even gave Harry Porter one last hurrah as the IV access point before retiring him for good.

As for the new port? I held a naming competition on Instagram Stories, and despite some excellent suggestions, I couldn’t escape the Harry Potter theme. Meet Lord Voldemort, he who must be flushed. (Thanks Heather for the name lol.)

Summer is now fall and I already miss the warmth and comfort with a season of life that gave me so much hope. Tomorrow I go back to work, and Tuesday I’ll be back in the infusion chair for my last Zometa treatment. My bones are going to hurt like a bitch, but at least it’s the final time. To mark the occasion, I made little brown butter, bone-shaped Rice Krispies treats to hand out to the nurses because if my skeleton is going to ache, we might as well have snacks. We’ll also get to test-drive Lord Voldeport for the first time.

By then, I’ll probably have my circulating DNA test results too. I’m crossing everything I can cross that I’m still NEAD. I’m still on my oral chemo and hormone therapy, still doing the day-in, day-out grind of survivorship, but right now I’m mostly thinking about how grateful I am.

Every single person who showed up for me these past two months via Meal Train, visits, chats, texts, calls, kept me from turning into a full-on couch potato. Friends who came by to clean my house and yard so I could focus on healing. My mom and sister, my roommate, my co-workers, my nurses, my feral cat audience. You all made this endless summer possible.

Cancer is the worst club to be in, but it has the best people. And because of you, I’m here stitched together, still healing, still choosing joy, still alive. Thank you from the bottom of my little cancer heart.

Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Lana Del Rey.

“Think I’ll miss you forever
Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
Later’s better than never
Even if you’re gone, I’m gonna drive (drive), drive

I got that summertime, summertime sadness”

– Summertime Sadness (Lana Del Rey Vs. Cedric Gervais), Lana Del Rey, Cedric Gervais