Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): New year, same medical nightmares. Except I am now another year in and another year wiser. We started 2026 off strong with an MRI of my lower back due to a cry for help I made to my onco in December (hello horrific back pain!) And somehow, that was the least of my worries during the first week of January. Lord Voldeport took over the spotlight, not giving blood two days in a row and I once again left the cancer center in a fit of tears. I am just going to say it now: this needs to be a year where I am not suffering from constant medical trauma.

TO THE LONG VERSION!

For as publicly as I have chronicled my cancer journey, I feel myself pulling inward now, afraid of being too much, of being seen as overdramatic, because there is always something going on with me medically. For a journey I once believed would have an end, it turns out at least for me there isn’t one.

Instead of posting stories about appointments going sideways or the weird new things I’m learning about my body, I’ve chosen to swallow them whole. In turn, it’s made me mentally sick. I often leave appointments in tears, unsure where to place the burden of my chronic illness when it feels too heavy to share with anyone but myself. Once a month, I purge it all in therapy… and then I start the cycle again.

I’m trying to be better about sharing, at least informing the people closest to me about what’s going on with my care, but I’m exhausted. And I know everyone else is, too.

I’m not saying my support system is exhausted because of me. But medical fatigue is real, and in a world that already feels crushing—politically, socially, existentially—sometimes people just don’t have spoons to give. I understand that. I grieve alongside everyone else. It’s hard to care deeply about anything when everything feels like it’s on fire.

In September, I shared about my surprise surgery for a new port, a decision I didn’t make lightly. There were people in my support circle who didn’t understand why I would choose another surgery, another device implanted in my body. But the mental gymnastics of peripheral blood draws and the “will Harry Porter or won’t Harry Porter give blood today” had become more than I could handle.

The first couple of draws went semi smoothly. I could finally breathe. And then… December happened.

I’m nonconfrontational by nature, but I’ve made it my personal mission to be better at saying how I feel, especially when it comes to my medical care. Self-advocacy is one of our greatest superpowers, but it takes time, education, research, introspection, and knowing your rights as a patient. None of that comes naturally when you’re exhausted, scared, or just trying to survive.

I was supposed to have my monthly set of appointments on Christmas Eve. Two days before, I found myself sick with the flu. I called and canceled, and was told, No worries! See ya next year!

SIKE!

Christmas Eve, my phone rang. It was the cancer center. My oncologist wanted me to come in that Friday for my injection but said I could skip labs.

“But I’m sick with the flu,” I said. “I should be fever-free by Friday, but I probably still won’t feel great.”

“Wear a mask,” they said.

Uh. Okay?

So I made my way down to the cancer center for my monthly stabbing and left with my prized Tillamook cheese. Things are going to be okay, I told myself. (They were, in fact, not okay.)

The following Monday, I got a call from Priscilla, one of my favorite medical assistants and who I liken to my personal liaison with my oncologist’s office and staff. My oncologist wanted me to come in for my quarterly ctDNA blood draw.

“But I was just there on Friday,” I said.

We talked at length about how I’d just been there, how I’d be back in three weeks anyway, how often I’m already at the cancer center: once a month for labs, a provider visit, and an injection, and then sometimes another separate visit just for ctDNA. I complained about how it takes me away from living my life, from being at work, and how I didn’t understand why these labs couldn’t be combined.

“Tell my oncologist I’m not coming in,” I said, suddenly very brave. “We can do it in a couple of weeks.”

She agreed. I hung up feeling like I’d won.

Wrong.

On Monday, January 6, she called me back. “Z wants you in this week. I am so sorry.”

The rage I felt in that moment was cartoonish. I was seeing red. Steam out of my ears. Full Looney Tunes meltdown. I was too tired to fight and made the appointment for Wednesday at 7:30 am and hung up.

Meanwhile, I was also trying to psych myself up for an MRI scheduled for later that night because why have one emotionally destabilizing medical event when you can have two?!

Sometime after Thanksgiving, I started experiencing intense back pain. Sometimes it was in my lower back, sometimes between my shoulder blades, sometimes shooting straight down my spine. For several nights in a row, the pain was so intense I couldn’t sleep. When I was first diagnosed in 2022, my metastatic lesions didn’t cause pain, so I had no idea what to make of it.

I let it go on for two and a half weeks before finally calling triage. Either this was a fucked-up back injury or it was cancer. I just need to rule out the cancer.

To my surprise, my oncologist agreed to order imaging. I was disappointed there were no open appointments in December. I’d already met my out-of-pocket max, and the idea of waiting weeks for answers felt cruel. But as time passed, I noticed improvement. Stretching helped. Physical therapy helped. Massage helped. Modifying CrossFit workouts helped.

Maybe it wasn’t cancer. But then what was it???

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my roommate when my phone rang.

“If you’re able to come in sooner, we have availability right now.”

“Oh cool,” I said. “I could be there in about 30 minutes. I’m just about to put lidocaine cream on my port.”

“Your port? We can’t access that tonight. Nurses go home at four. We’d have to use your arm.”

Panic. Immediate panic.

If I went in, I’d be reliving the mental torture of my first MRI with my first cancer-related needle experience. If I rescheduled, when would I get back in? I’d already waited weeks.

“That won’t work for me,” I said. “I’m a hard poke and I have a port. When can I reschedule?”

“How about tomorrow at 3:30 pm?”

I hadn’t realized how much air I was holding until I exhaled. I accepted immediately.

The next day was gloomy as I zipped across town to the hospital. I checked in, sat down, and started casually circling answers on my paperwork when a man yelled my name across the lobby.

“Hi, I’m Travis. Let’s go do your MRI.”

Here’s the thing, Travis. I have terrible memory recall for important things—birthdays, names, passwords—but my brain is excellent at remembering trauma. And as soon as I heard his voice, I knew.

You’re the guy.
You did my MRI four years ago.
You’re my grim reaper, dude.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Instead, Anxious Madison took the wheel and started oversharing about every piece of metal in my body: my tragus piercing I can’t remove, the permanent bar behind my front teeth. Travis was not impressed, nor interested in making me feel better. I basically talked into the void as we walked down the creepy hallway.

After escorting me to the room to change into more MRI-friendly clothes, I sat on the oversized chair waiting for the nurse to access my port. She was not a beacon of comfort. As she prepped her materials, I looked across the room and saw four men in scrubs, including fucking Travis, yapping and telling jokes. It felt like a frat house somehow sandwiched between two MRI machines.

The nurse pushed me back into the chair, stretched the skin around my port with two fingers, and inserted the needle. The aggression of the insert caught me off guard. It was not a sensation I was familiar with. She flushed the port and asked, “Is it normal for you not to have blood return?”

“This is a new port,” I said. “It should be in perfect working order.”

Sure enough, blood appeared briefly, and I was whisked off to the land of doom.

Travis robotically instructed me on where to lie down and asked what kind of music I wanted to not hear through the headphones.

“EDM, please,” I said.

He slid the headphones over my ears, placed something over my arms and hands, and pressed a button to slowly send me into the machine.

“This okay for you?” he asked, pointlessly.

Yeah, Travis. Being forced into a magnet tunnel is exactly how I wanted to skip work today.

I nodded. He handed me the panic squeeze-ball and stepped away. And once again, just a month shy of four years later, I was alone with the violent beeping of the machine, my spiraling thoughts, and Rihanna whisper-singing, “Please don’t stop the music.”

The amount of times I had to tell myself not to move was honestly hilarious. Have you ever laid so still that you become convinced you’re moving? The sudden itches were out of control. My body was deeply offended by the request to remain motionless, and the thirty minutes in the tunnel of doom felt like an eternity.

But all scans, thankfully, do come to an end. Before I knew it, Travis was helping me out of the machine. I sauntered back to the oversized chair and waited for the nurse to return and de-access me, bracing myself for whatever came next.

“Okay, one, two, three,” she said, and aggressively yanked the needle out. I turned my face to the side from the force and heard the device clatter loudly into the plastic trash can.

“Oh! You’re bleeding all over,” she exclaimed.

I looked down to see a trail of blood from my port, gathering into a little pool and soaking inside of my white camisole.

“I didn’t know you were a bleeder,” she said, genuinely shocked.

Me either, lady.

I raced back to work, still buzzing, still sore, still smelling faintly like antiseptic, only to be greeted an hour later by a new notification in MyChart.

MRI results already???

I opened them and learned that three of my four metastatic lesions were completely resolved. No new lesions were seen in the area. I also apparently have a disc bulge, which has made appearances on other scans and neatly explains my back pain.

Objectively, this was very good news. Incredible news, even.

But that relief was quickly overshadowed by my inability to understand what was written about the fourth lesion:

Vertebrae and vertebral marrow signal: No acute fracture is
demonstrated. There is a small area of reduced signal intensity on T1
imaging measuring 13 x 9 mm within the L1 vertebral body on image 6 of
series 3 previously measuring 9 x 12 mm. There is progressive fatty
metaplasia of the marrow at L1 which may reflect post radiation
changes. This lesion reveals no significant enhancement. Previously
noted enhancing lesions at L3, L4 and L5 are resolved. No new
enhancing lesions are seen of the lumbar spine.

Anxious Madison clocked in immediately. My heart was jumping in my ears as I reread the report over and over, trying to make sense of it. You say there’s a lesion with reduced signal intensity, but then you say there’s no significant enhancement. And then I initially read it as being on my T1 instead of my L1 which, for those unfamiliar with spines, is much higher, and I was baffled because I thought all my lesions were in my lower back.

So, naturally, I spiraled.

Later that evening, a few friends graciously read the report for me and confirmed what my anxious brain could not: the lesion is in my L1, the report is just written weird, the lesion is inactive, and I am still no evidence of active disease.

I wish I could take the win. I wish I could celebrate the fact that THREE OF MY FOUR LESIONS ARE FUCKING GONE.

But no. I had barely come down one mountain before I was already climbing another: an unnecessary port draw.

Day 1 at the Cancer Center –

Wednesday morning came fast. I arrived early, optimistic, cheerful even. I’d seen blood return the day before during my MRI, so I felt confident. I’d be in and out, no problem, and then off to get myself a lil treat as a reward before work.

That confidence faded quickly.

After her second flush, nurse Megan began pumping for blood return.

“I literally had blood return yesterday,” I offered, politely panicking.

For thirty-five minutes, we worked my port. I did squats. I walked in circles. I did elephant breathing. I turned my head in every direction like a possessed owl. Lord Voldeport refused to give up the goods.

“I need to go to work,” I finally said, defeated. It was almost nine, so this would mean no treat for me.

We de-accessed with the plan for me to return the next afternoon.

On my way out, I stopped to chat with a few nurses and Priscilla. Back in November, I’d asked her to see if my oncologist would order a blood type test because I am four years deep into this nonsense and still have no idea what type of blood is inside of me!

“So… bad news,” she said. “Z denied your request.”

I wonder if my eyes looked like daggers.

“Seriously?” I said, doing my best to restrain my rage.

I understand it’s not a necessary test. But if I’m already having blood drawn, and I’m happy to pay for it, I don’t see the harm. Maybe insurance needs justification, sure, but it felt like just another reminder that I have very little agency over my own body or really any of the testing.

“If we can get my port to work,” I asked before leaving, “can you also ask Z if we can do my other labs so I don’t have to do this again in two weeks? This is just too much.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

Day 2 at the Cancer Center –

I intentionally scheduled my next blood draw for 3:30 pm. That way I would’ve already gone to the gym, moved my body, drank a shit ton of water, and eaten. I consider these the holy trinity of port success.

I sauntered into the lab, once again ready for the assault on my chest.

And once again déjà vu.

We lined up the vials for my sacrificial offerings, flushed my port several times, and watched… nothing. Not even a tinge of blood. Forty-five minutes later, the nurses decided to send me to the chemo pods for tPA.

“This is going to work,” nurse Hanane assured me as she injected the medication. “Your port is new. It’ll work like a dream.”

I left thirty minutes later with a bruised ego, a chunk of cheese, and a very sore accessed port.

Day 3 at the Cancer Center –

If you’ve ever slept with your port accessed overnight, you know my pain. My chest was tight and sore when I woke up. I slept like shit because sleeping with a needle in you is not comfortable, and I couldn’t shake the thought that if I turned just right, the needle would somehow escape and stab me somewhere else, and I’d slowly bleed internally.

Sounds like a great episode of “House.”

I went to CrossFit before my blood draw, thinking tPA plus exercise would seal the deal. Working out with a needle in your chest is deeply awkward. I didn’t want to accidentally hit it with a barbell, and I don’t enjoy drawing attention to my chest, but my port was very much on display.

Workout done, I drove across the street to the cancer center, hoping this would be the last time I’d be there that week. As much as I love seeing my friends, every appointment feels like the start of a new trauma I’ll need several therapy sessions to unpack.

I plopped into the chair and watched as Rachel flushed my port. Blood slowly filled the discard vial.

“Oh fuck,” I said. “I am so happy.”

And maybe I should have shut the fuck up.

One vial into the seven I needed, my blood stopped moving.

“I’m scared to flush you because it might go away,” Rachel admitted.

But I had to be flushed. And sure enough, the blood return stopped.

Tears welled immediately.

I began the ritual again: coughing, massaging my neck, squatting, bending over. Panic crept in. Nurse Jessie appeared and joined us. After a few more minutes, she suggested I try laying down.

In another room, I reclined while Rachel continued working on my port and Jessie examined my chest, massaging around it.

“This feels weird,” Jessie said. “Does this hurt?” she asked, pressing along the noodle part of the port tubing.

“No, just really weird,” I said, as tears slipped down my face. I was already preparing myself for a peripheral draw.

Jessie kept massaging, then suddenly paused.

“Don’t move,” she said. “I think your port was kinked. I just unkinked it and you’re giving blood.”

The tears came faster; relief tangled with distress. Lord Voldeport isn’t even four months old and this little bitch is already fucking kinked. But suddenly everything made sense: why I could flush perfectly but get nothing in return, and why there’s been a weird little bump in my neck this whole time.

Epilogue

All of this happened in the span of four days.

Four days of living on the edge of my seat, unable to relax, waiting for the next call, the next appointment, the next thing to go wrong. I missed more work than I wanted to. And when I was at work, I wasn’t really there. I was being pulled away physically by appointments and mentally by the world I kept getting dragged back into.

That’s the part people don’t always see: you can leave the cancer center, but the cancer center doesn’t always leave you.

By the end of it all, everything technically worked out. My labs were eventually drawn. My port is kinked but not broken (so now we know what to do for my next draw!) My MRI showed good news. Nothing catastrophic happened. And yet the amount of strife this caused me, mentally and physically, was enormous. It was draining in a way that doesn’t show up on scans or lab reports.

In two weeks, I’ll be back again. I won’t even see my oncologist, just one of the ARNPs. And somehow I need to figure out how to explain how distressing all of this is, while also acknowledging that my cancer center appointments are not the only things on my schedule. There’s physical therapy. Massage therapy. Regular therapy. Sometimes all three in the same week, like a deranged wellness bingo card. I rarely go a full week without at least one appointment. At this point, I’ve joked that the cancer center should give me a punch card: ten visits and the eleventh is free, or maybe the prize is just a sticker that says “Congratulations! You’re not dead.” All of this, every appointment, every punch, every calendar alert, is in the name of keeping me alive, keeping me functional, and trying to rebuild a body that has been through more than one person should reasonably be asked to endure. It’s healthcare, yes. But it’s also a constant reminder that being alive like this means being a lot: a lot of appointments, a lot of effort, a lot of me.

I know this could have been worse. I know that. Compared to how January started last year with a DVT, this is just some bullshit I can sort out. A disc bulge isn’t great, but it’s a hell of a lot better than metastasis. I am grateful. Truly.

But also? I am so fucking tired of having fucked up things happen to me.

This is the part I usually swallow whole. The part I convince myself is too heavy, too repetitive, too much. Not the gratitude, not the resilience, but the exhaustion. The quiet accumulation of stress that never fully leaves my body.

Maybe writing this down is me setting it down instead of carrying it alone.

I don’t need miracles.
I don’t need dramatic wins.

I just need the sun to shine on me for a bit.

2026. Still here. Still in it.

Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Armin van Buuren.

“If you need a hero
I guess I’m not that guy
I’m running with the mile high club and we’re fucking in the sky
I’m just hoping that the sunshine shines on me
On me”

– Sun Shines On Me, Armin van Buuren, Glockenbach