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December 1: .06
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): Ooops it has been 5 months since my last update. Let’s see… in terms of fast facts I have been on Verzenio officially for six months, with a year and a half to go; I went to Europe in September and enjoyed my ~dream trip~; I completed in my first CrossFit competition and also had COVID for the fourth time literally days before; and I was supposed to have reconstructive surgery on November 11 and received a call a couple weeks before surgery that it would be cancelled indefinitely due to saline IV shortage, only for it to be rescheduled for February 3, 2025. It has been a wild couple of months.
Countdown to last day of Verzenio: 546 days
Countdown to reconstructive surgery: 64 days
TO THE LONG VERSION!
Ask any cancer survivor and they can likely tell you the date of their last day of treatment just as easily as they can tell you their birthday. Hell, most can tell you the exact day and time they received their diagnosis. It is hard to forget a life-changing moment like that, with these benchmark dates just as memorable as the quantity of years that pass.
The first five years after a metastatic cancer diagnosis are considered the most crucial because most recurrences of cancer happen within this time frame, and the five-year survival rate is often used as a benchmark to assess a patient’s prognosis; meaning if a patient survives past five years, their chances of long-term survival are generally considered higher.
Each day I feel like I am banking more time in my survivorship fund, but I wonder when life will come back and ask me to cash out. Even as I approach my three year cancerversary in February, the paranoia of cancer ravaging my body once more looms like a dark far off storm cloud, and for good reason.
Every three months I take a blood test called Signatera that compares my blood sample to my tumor sample, looking for the unique “footprint” (for a lack of a better term) that is indicative of my specific cancer DNA. I started taking the test in 2023 shortly after I finished active treatment. My insurance has been a bitch and has been refusing to cover it (each test is about $5,000 out of pocket) but my oncologist told me to take it anyway and to ignore my insurance. Yeeeaaaaaaahhhhh ok. It is fairly new to the breast cancer world, only being FDA approved in the last couple of years if I remember correctly. It feels very science fiction but it is one of the reference tools we have in our arsenal to monitor for recurrence. It is not the end all be all decision maker, but it is insightful and helpful.
Since I started taking the test, all of my tests have come back negative. The little chart reads 0.0 and I get to go back to pretending that I am invincible because I take all the drugs and do all the things to keep cancer away.
That is, until my most recent results.
I went in for labs November 18. We had my normal labs to pull, as well as the three vials that came in the Signatera box. My favorite nurse Jessie saw that my oncologist did not ask to pull labs for my other two (less impressive) labs that also monitor specific proteins in my blood that can be indicative of cancer, but she pulled additional blood for it anyways per my request. I didn’t see a provider and I went and got my monthly Capri Sun stomach stabbing. It was a regular visit with nothing impressive to note other than I did not get my free cheese (and I am still upset about this.)
I haven’t been receiving the results of my Signatera labs the last couple of times I’ve had them done. I don’t know why. For a couple of tests, I received something in the mail about them being negative, but lately I stopped getting any communication and my oncologist would just report back that they were negative. This time around I felt like it would be no different. But on Wednesday, November 25 I received a text at 8:30 in the morning that I could log in to view my Signatera results. Weird, but cool since I am nosy and enjoy that flexibility. I created an account and logged in to see an uptick in my chart and the worlds “Final results summary: Signatera positive” with a flat line of results and a big line up to the .06 range.
Well this is dumb. When I tell you that I spiraled, I SPIRALED. I felt sounds turn to white noise, my hands became clammy, and the air was sucked out of my lungs. Why do terrible things happen to me right before the holidays??! Or on Fridays. The universe really loves to see me squirm. I generally have bad luck with bad news on days that I can’t do much about it. Decidedly, I needed to talk to an adult who was smarter than me. I screenshotted the results and sent them to my nurse friends and then to my oncologist via MyChart. And then I just went emotionally numb.
This was a day I didn’t want to ever have. The paranoia has been justified. Is this is punishment for thinking everything might be okay, that I could be one of the lucky ones? I irrationally rationalized and justified the blip in my blood work timeline as a fault of my own doing, despite the lack of evidence. Even almost three years into this, I feel immense guilt for a disease I cannot control.
Most of the time spiraling gets you nowhere except farther into a land that is hard to come back from, but it worked out on Wednesday. Nurse Jessie (my favorite!) messaged another nurse working with my oncologist directly that day, which triggered a call directly from my oncologist (lucky me) about how I don’t need to worry and that (and I quote) “this is why you are taking pill after pill because you are high risk.” And that these pills will go after anything that is trying to stir up trouble and in three months we will re-evaluate with another test and see what’s up. She said it as if it was of comfort to know that in THREE MONTHS I CAN GET MORE ANSWERS and as if lines of treatment can’t/won’t fail.
I feel defeated. I trust my oncologist. She is aggressive in her approach and has not led me astray as of yet. But something no longer feels right. I am trapped in my body with no way of knowing if, when, and where cancer is hanging out. I have no boobs to feel for local recurrence. If I could reach in and feel up my liver (or any organ, really), I would. All I have is gut instinct and some blood tests and that is it. That little .06 has torn apart any sense of security I had built from surviving up until this point and it has left me vulnerable. I am at the mercy of my targeted therapies and the possibility of false positives. But I can’t help but wonder if it is enough?
I see my oncologist on December 16 and maybe I can advocate for some scans or something. At the very least guess I’ll get more assurance and clarity about what this .06 really means because my oncologist is on chill mode and I am over here planning my funeral. But what’s fucking new?
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Linkin Park.
“I let you cut me open, just to watch me bleed
Gave up who I am for who you wanted me to be
Don’t know why I’m hoping for what I won’t receive
Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine” -
More Than a Slogan: Rethinking Breast Cancer Awareness Month
Prologue –
October is a hard month for me and for some reason I have really struggled this year more than the previous two.
I am one of the estimated 200,000 women living in the US with stage IV breast cancer. Is this disease treatable? Yes, but sometimes the disease outruns currently available treatment options. Stage IV is the only stage you can die from. We still have no cure.
The longer I live with this disease, the greater the distance grows between me and the pink ribbon. It is hard to relate to “save the tatas” when you’ve had yours amputated in order to get a chance at surviving. This year I am calling on you all to rethink Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Put stories not slogans at the center of awareness. Start the critical dialogue with loved ones about the risk of breast cancer in your family. Remember to do your monthly self exams and schedule your annual breast exams and mammograms. Learn the signs and symptoms of breast cancer. And most importantly, if you choose to buy and wear pink this month, please do your research and find organizations that donate those profits back to patients and research for a cure.
The following piece was originally published in Tumbleweird’s October 2024 edition.
“Save the tatas!” we all screamed in unison. It was Pink Night at a high school football game. We were decked out head to toe in pink shirts, Mardi Gras-style pink beads, tutus covered in glitter, and our faces were decorated with small pink ribbon tattoos. Was this an awareness campaign night? Was it a fundraiser? I don’t remember, but it always happened in October, and I always went because it was fun to get dressed up monochromatically and ‘support a good cause’. It was a mainstay in the high school program routine. Breast cancer sounded shitty but it also was this far away thing that I didn’t understand at 16 years old. Everyone loves a good theme, even when they don’t know what it really means.
Fast forward to fourteen years later — when my breasts were amputated off my body at the age of 29 with a diagnosis of stage IV breast cancer. I endured 20 rounds of chemotherapy, 28 rounds of radiation, and have been on hard maintenance drugs ever since (and will be indefinitely) that target potential abnormal cells looking to gather and take over once more. For now, my cancer is getting the memo that my body is a no cancer zone, but it often feels like I am on borrowed time and at the mercy of medical advances and existing treatments. We couldn’t save my tatas; and two years into being breastless, it’s hard not to wonder if saving myself was enough.
We’ve all seen the breast cancer awareness shirts with slogans like: “I am here for the boobs,” “Squeeze a boob, save a life,” and “Save second base.” Nowhere in the vernacular of commercialized breast cancer awareness is the life and soul of the breast cancer patient put front and center. The disease has been hijacked by the hypersexualization of breasts, reducing a life-threatening illness to a series of flirty catchphrases and trivializing the very real suffering it causes. This focus on breasts as objects of desire — rather than integral parts of a person’s body and identity — perpetuates a culture that overlooks the physical and emotional trauma faced by those battling breast cancer. It diminishes the gravity of the diagnosis, turning a fight for survival into a cheeky play on words.
This hypersexualization also alienates many patients who feel that their experiences are not being taken seriously. It glosses over the complex and painful realities of treatment, such as the loss of breasts or changes to breasts following a lumpectomy, the fear of recurrence, and the impact on one’s sense of self. For those who lose their breasts as part of their treatment plan, these slogans can feel like a cruel reminder of what’s been taken from them, reducing their struggle to a punchline and insinuating that they did not do enough mammograms or self checks to prevent breast cancer. This narrow portrayal also neglects the stories of male breast cancer patients, further entrenching the idea that breast cancer is only about female sexuality rather than a serious health issue that can affect anyone.
In the process, the true message of breast cancer awareness — early detection, support, research, and survivorship — gets lost. The focus shifts from saving lives to preserving an idealized image of femininity, leaving those who don’t fit this narrative feeling isolated and unseen. We need a shift in how we talk about breast cancer — one that centers on the humanity of those affected rather than on the commodification of their bodies. Awareness should be about more than just saving breasts; it should be about education, advocacy, compassion, and a commitment to supporting those who face this devastating disease.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As we navigate through this month, it’s crucial to redefine breast cancer awareness beyond the slogans and superficial campaigns. We must challenge the narratives that reduce a life-altering illness to a series of catchy phrases, and instead focus on the real, human experiences behind the disease. Let’s prioritize the stories of survival and those we have lost along the way, the importance of early detection, and the need for ongoing research that could save lives.
I urge you to look beyond the pink ribbons and truly engage with the realities of breast cancer — by supporting patients, advocating for comprehensive care in all stages of breast cancer and survivorship, and pushing for a more authentic representation of this disease. Together, we can create a culture of awareness that honors the lives and struggles of those affected, and work towards a future where no one has to lose their life or sense of self to breast cancer.
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July 1: Shit happens
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): I’ve been on my new nemesis of a drug Verzenio for one month and it has been a shitty time, both literally and figurately. Cancer is truly the gift that keeps on giving. My blood work showed today that I am not making up feeling like crap. My white blood count, platelets, and absolute neutrophils have dropped. All it took was 30 short days to return my body back into a fatigued, sad landscape. Womp womp.
Countdown to last day of Verzenio: 699 days
Countdown to reconstructive surgery: 133 days
TO THE LONG VERSION!
To my sister who most likely will read this… I am so sorry but I promise to treat this story with dignity. This story has haunted me on my Verzenio journey.
My memory has always been poor, now further amplified from chemotherapy and all the drugs I take. Memory recall takes great effort and focus, especially my short term memory. However, there is this core memory I have as a young sprout, sitting in my mom’s maroon mini van with my sister. It is pitch black out and my mom left us in the van as she ran inside a store to get something. Cassidy’s stomach was upset which was a regular occurrence but that night… oh that fateful night something was truly amiss.
If you have decent instincts, you might understand the feeling of knowing that something is about to happen. You don’t know what or how, but you know something is looming. I think I had that feeling that night. I don’t remember much that happened leading up to the climax of this story, but country music was playing softly in the background and we were wearing velvet pants, a perfect scene of two millennial girls in the early 2000’s. Suddenly, a weird scent filled the van and my sister started to cry. I was sitting behind her in the three row van and I peered over the seat to get a look. To my absolute horror, she had pooped in the car, but it was not just any poop. It was severe diarrhea and it was EVERYWHERE.
As the older sister, I panicked and debated whether or not to go into the store to shout for my mother to come back to the van to help. I ultimately stayed in the stink. The next entry of the memory involved arriving home in a state of chaos. My sister was lifted out of the booster seat from her yellow-orange puddle. She was whisked off to the bathroom and I just stared at the mess. I was horrified. How did this happen?
Fast forward to June 26, 2024 and I learned how that night might have unfolded for my sister and I now fully understand the agonizing feelings that those struggling with IBS or other bowel-related issues face on the daily. After starting my new oral targeted therapy on May 31 (read more about it here), I have learned some incredible life lessons: You cannot trust a fart, always know where a bathroom is, and never leave my poop bag at home (the fond name I have given to a repurposed makeup bag that carries Imodium and kaopectate to help when the urge of shitting myself strikes.)
At this point I bet you thought you were going to read a story about me shitting my pants and I am really happy to report that although I have been too close to such fate, I have yet to ruin my leased vehicle (or anyone else’s for that matter.) But the danger of a cramping stomach on the road, the inability to find a bathroom safe enough to hunker down in, is a new fear I live with daily. Yes, you may mock me and laugh (or close out of this tab and cringe in disgust) but diarrhea haunts me in the same ways that tortured ghosts do in haunted homes: always lurking and always a surprise.
I made a grave mistake joining countless Verzenio support groups and forums before starting the medication. I tormented myself with so many stories of patients shitting themselves, losing all of their hair, and their inability to function due to extreme fatigue. The trauma I have from chemotherapy began to claw its way out of the depths of hell that I had buried it in. I had promised myself that I would not allow myself to endure two years of extreme side effects. I don’t think I have the mental fortitude to do it right now. Everything I read just wreaked of violence on my body and I was having extreme anxiety over it.
I started Verzenio May 31, a week before my 32nd birthday, days before a big Pride event in Pasco that I was photographing, and just two weeks away from graduating from my leadership program. No better time to fuck up my intestines and colon than when I am busiest! Everything went well the first couple of days. But by June 3, the day I had my monthly labs and check in with my oncologist, things began their slideway decline. After my morning appointments, I went to a luncheon for work and ate a slice of greasy ass Domino’s pizza. I mean first mistake was eating that pizza when I have been eating so clean, thanks to my nutrition coach. Second mistake was thinking that I was going to be fine. No more than 15 minutes after gobbling down the pizza slice did I find myself releasing a higlighter yellow liquid into the wild. Okay, so pizza was going on my no go list. No biggie. I got this.
But as the month has dragged on, the frequency of what I politely call GI attacks began to evolve. It went from triggered from certain foods, to a pattern of every couple of days I could expect a flare up. But now I have learned that my flares just happen and I cannot figure out what is triggering them or why. I was content knowing I could avoid certain foods and drinks. I even went a strong 5 days without an attack! And then something changed and now I am at the mercy of the universe. I bargain with my body daily to let me be free of the sudden diarrhea and cramping for a social event or outing in favor of a time that I am at home and less vulnerable but do you think my body cares or listens? No. I mean it isn’t really my body’s fault. It is Verzenio holding my cells captive, ruining my immune system and deleting the power I once had over a strong colon. Clenching used to be my super power. I am now a pooping machine and nothing can stop me.
So yeah, June was really shitty and it shows no signs of stopping. Verzenio has diarrhea as the #1 listed side effect, followed by nausea, stomach pain, fatigue, anemia, and leukopenia. There are more, but those are the ones I am currently dealing with. I have noticed I bruise easier and for longer as well, but thank fucking god I have not experienced hair loss. I’ve suddenly gained weight quicker than normal, even without shifting my diet. I dream about napping all of the time again. My immune system is returning to its nonexistent status. Oh, and my hot flashes are way worse now.
But other than that I am… fine. I am alive.
In the grand scheme of things, these are small prices to pay for remaining NEAD (no evidence of active disease.) The goal of this drug is to kill off cancer cells that might be too inconspicuous to detect on a scan, but have the ability to be extremely dangerous if left to their own devices. The longer I go as NEAD, the better outcome, statistically speaking, I have long term. I hate the things I have to do sometimes, but I will always choose the path that give me the best outcome. Life is too great to not.
I have the option to lower my dose, but I do know my oncologist wants me to ride this high dose as long as possible to see if my body can acclimate. I have agreed to go another month raw dogging the toilet bowel in the name of experimentation, but if things continue to escalate (and if I poop myself in any vehicle) I will be asking to lower my dosage. It is preferred for me to stay on this high dose because I am high risk for recurrence so I am trying to negotiate that with my emotional side. You want cancer again or five trips to the bathroom within an hour? I will gladly wear the porcelain throne crown for now.
As I settle into my new temporary normal, I have noticed I am returning back to some of my old habits from my first round of oral chemo: I am not as responsive to texts and calls, I want to nap more, and when I am really feeling well I only want to do things I feel strongly invested in. My energy is so limited. Cancer is literally the best excuse for me to not do things. I hate using the cancer card but it is back in full effect. My body only has so much energy these days. Please forgive me for being a shitty friend. I am trying my best right now to keep my shit together.
Literally.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Teddy Swims.
“Something’s got a hold of me lately
No, I don’t know myself anymore
Feels like the walls are all closin’ in
And the devil’s knockin’ at my door, whoa” -
May 6: A hero’s journey
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): I completed 3 of the prescribed 6 Zometa infusions today. I have one more later this year and two next year and then I am done with that infusion type!
I met with my oncologist today and was blindsided with some news that I now have to go back on oral chemo. If your mouth just dropped, just keep reading. This time we are fucking around with a different medicine.
And I won’t be covering it in today’s post, but I met with a breast reconstruction surgeon two weeks ago! I will save that for another post because this one is pretty shitty. Literally.
TO THE LONG VERSION!
Star Wars. Jane Eyre. Homer’s Odyssey. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Interstellar. The Hunger Games. Hercules. If you’ve read or seen these works, then you might have been exposed to a concept called “the hero’s journey.”
According to Wikipedia, the hero’s journey is described as, “In narratology and comparative mythology, also known as the monomyth, is the common template of stories that involve a hero who goes on an adventure, is victorious in a decisive crisis, and comes home changed or transformed.”
A hero’s journey feels good at the end. It feels justified. These individuals faced extreme circumstances and overcame them, regardless of the occasional sprinkle of movie magic or writing assistance. We do not doubt their stories as something worth sharing and learning from. Or maybe we do. But for the sake of this conversation, let’s say we don’t.
Today as I laid in my chemo pod chair, my sweater rested over my eyes as one of my favorite nurses prepared me for my monthly stomach stabbing. I was in an emotional state and in the pitch black of my fake cave she said, “You’re an inspiration. You’re a hero on your journey.” Tears silently flowed down my face.
I don’t think I have ever felt more alone.
-20 minutes prior-
I haven’t met with my oncologist since February. Our last conversation was delightful because it was a bold confirmation that oral chemo was over. I survived a fucking year taking meds that made me feel constantly tired and like I was living in an emotionally vacant and dense fog in my brain. All I could think about was how incredible my labs were going to be when I saw her again. No more low white blood cell count! 10/10 perfect patient.
Here is the thing about my experience with my type of cancer: When things are going well, it is great news but it also means that there is opportunity to see how much more I can take. I thought I had reached the boundaries of what I could handle. I mean, I have done a lot of fucked up things because of cancer. I honestly thought that my previous oral chemo was my last encounter with active treatment.
My oncologist has been cooking up other plans.
My time with her always starts off pleasant. I am honestly surprised she did not ask me today if I was exercising or not. That is her favorite thing to ask me. I wish she would have so I could have told her that I am practicing handstands and I even have a nutritionist. Would that have impressed her? Probably not, but I love to try.
She asked me how I was, I responded that I am great. And then she asked me a weird question…. she asked me how I was on oral chemo. Girl, I’ve been off of that for two months now. Ah, it was all coming back to her. That was my first hidden red flag. She asks me some other questions that were mild mannered and then she brought up my favorite subject: family planning. (That is sarcasm.)
I want to be very clear here that normally she gives me a heads up about what is coming down the pipe in terms of my treatment plan months in advance. Not for all things, but for most. I knew I was going to do chemotherapy for 22 weeks. I knew I would have a double mastectomy. I even knew about radiation and oral chemo. I knew all of this when I started this stupid adventure two fucking years ago. I knew that all of this meant to save my life so that maybe if I wanted to have little Madison’s running around someday, this would be the best way to go about it.
I knew. I knew. I fucking knew.
What I did NOT know was today as she asked me (but did not let me respond) about my future life plans, that she now wants to put me BACK ON FUCKING ORAL CHEMO. FOR TWO YEARS! All in the name of helping me avoid recurrence. I mean, noble cause. But this time it would be a different kind of oral chemo: Verzenio.
I am not new here folks. I know about Verzenio. I am in enough stage IV support groups at this point that every time I see a post about Verzenio side effects, I count my lucky fucking stars that my oncologist has never brought this up to me. Until today. I am never counting fucking stars ever again.
According to the Verzenio site, here is everything you as a cancer muggle needs to know:
Verzenio is a CDK4 & 6 inhibitor used to treat HR+, HER2– metastatic breast cancer. Verzenio works to block specific proteins called CDK4 & CDK6. CDK4 & 6 proteins help control how fast cells grow. These proteins, along with hormones like estrogen, play an important role in the growth and division process of normal cells.
But if you have HR+, HER2– breast cancer, CDK4 & 6 proteins become overactive, causing the cancer cells to grow and divide uncontrollably, which makes the tumor grow. This can also lead to cancer cells spreading to other parts of the body, which is called metastasis.
Verzenio can be taken alone, but it is usually taken with hormone therapy to slow the growth of cancer cells. Hormone therapy (an aromatase inhibitor or fulvestrant) works outside the cell to help cut off estrogen that feeds the cancer. Verzenio works inside the cell to block CDK4 & 6 activity and help stop the growth of cancer cells, so they may eventually die.* When Verzenio inhibits CDK4 & 6 in healthy cells, it can lead to side effects, some of which may be serious.
Recap: I am 80% hormone positive (HR+), BRCA1+ (a gene responsible for a dramatic increased risk of breast, ovarian, and pancreatic cancers), and stage IV, the final stage of cancer. So I mean, okay this medicine makes sense. But the side effects. YOU GUYS. Here are some of my top favorites: nausea, infections, low red blood cell count, headache, hair thinning and hair loss, abdominal pain, tiredness, vomiting, low white blood cell count, and low platelet count. But my absolute favorite side effect that can last the first month up to three months is DIARRHEA! There is a whole page dedicated to diarrhea management!
“Overall, the key information to know about diarrhea: it can be managed with the appropriate steps, so EXPECT, PLAN, and ACT.“
I am sure all of you are like “Madison, its not a big deal.” Yeah well it will be a big deal when I am deadlifting in CrossFit and I shit myself.
All jokes aside, the diarrhea is whatever. I will just shit myself. It is fine. My problem is I was completely blindsided by the fact that I got two beautiful months off from being poisoned, was bamboozled into thinking that things were going to be fucking great for a while, and now I have to go back to poison town.
I am sorry but I am so sick and tired of chemo. This is as close as I have been to experiencing life before cancer again. I feel more normal, less foggy, and more like me. I missed me so much. I missed my vibrant feelings. I missed feeling energized. I missed having a brain. And all of that is about to go away in roughly one month. She has to go get my insurance to approve the medication and then my two year time clock will start.
There is nothing heroic about the journeys cancer patients take. We do it because we want to live. So being called inspirational and a hero is especially hard when I feel like I have done nothing except choose the path that many would select for themselves: to extend their time earthside.
But as my favorite nurse stabbed me in my stomach, as the tears of sadness rolled down my face, I had a moment of clarity: I may not identify as a hero to others, but in my own journey, I am the hero of my own story. I am making the choice to keep moving forward, to live, to endure hard things I do not want to do. I do not want to be on oral chemo, but in my appointment I already knew I would give my doctor the consent she needed to order my medication. I am on an adventure (maybe one I would have never selected), I continue to encounter crisis after crisis, and I am so far achieving the goals I set: to survive and say that I’m still fucking here.
Fuck Verzenio. Fuck cancer. I am not fucking done.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by a Disney classic, “Hercules.”
“I will find my way, I can go the distance
I will be there someday, if I can be strong
I know every mile will be worth my while
I would go most anywhere, to feel like I belong” -
The in-between
Listen to the audio experience as you view my pieces and read my story below.
Then: I’m not a monster, but my body scares me. I’m not dead, but sometimes I feel like I’m dying.
Now: I know I am worth more than a metaphor for trauma. I am currently the product of science working at its best and the timing of the universe. I’ve mastered survival mode. Now it’s time to stop and smell the roses.
The in-between: Late at night, when darkness envelopes me and shapes turn into shadows, I wrap my arms tightly around my torso and feel the gap between my arms and my chest. I run my fingers gingerly over the raised map of scars that decorate my body. Tears stain my pillow, a welcomed coolness as my body radiates warmth from the rolling hot flashes.
Inhale. One. Two. Three.
Exhale. Three. Two. One.
I gave so much away to be alive: I sacrificed my body, I lost months of my life. Cancer took and took and took until I had nothing left. I had to make a choice to surrender to my situation in hopes that surrendering didn’t mean that I was giving up, but to make way for what was next.
In the cancer world people often talk about finding a new normal after cancer, but nobody tells you how to find it. The dust has settled, but I am finding that I am too scared to step fully into the “now.” When your survival rate is 30% at the five year mark, when a new normal feels like a constantly moving target you cannot seem to grasp, planning for the future feels like I might be getting ahead of myself.
Will I ever feel safe to dream again?
So for now I sit in the in-between, with hope a prerequisite for my survival like it never was before cancer. I can’t go back, but I can always move forward.
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February 21: Hard to kill
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): Happy two year cancerversary to meeeee. On this day in 2022, I was diagnosed with stage IIIa breast cancer, later moving officially to stage IV. If I thought my first cancerversary was a big deal, this one feels even sweeter. Two years down! Oh and I end oral chemo on February 25. Fucking finally.
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Official last day of oral chemo: February 25!
TO THE LONG VERSION!
730 days with breast cancer.
I’m hard to fucking kill.
Did you know that my maiden name Rosenbaum means “rose tree” in German? It was a random fact I learned from the German exchange student in high school. My grandmother’s name was Rose and she sure did love tending to her rose garden in front of my childhood home. I have many memories of creamy white and blush pink roses in vases growing up and even more memories of sticking my nose so deep to chase the sweet scent that I found myself nearly snorting an earwig. Fucking bugs. And now as an adult, I have obnoxiously hardy rose bushes in my back yard that refuse to quit despite my neglect and attempted removal. It is not because I don’t like roses because I have a strange connection with them. Rather, I want to excavate and create a garden where they are perfectly located. I gave up on that dream last summer though.
Rose trees 1. Madison 0.
Dead roses hung from the ceiling in one of my first self portraits bald in 2022. I felt like I was dying. It felt metaphorical, connective, and tragic. And a part of me did die. Somewhere in the scorching hellscape of cancerpocolypse, a version of me in fetal position surrendered to the impossible journey that laid ahead of me. What I did not know was that under my body curled so tightly to preserve as much as me as it could was a rose tree. You can cut the tree back, literally to its roots, and slowly as the sun passes through the winter and transforms into the warmth of spring, the stems and roots begin to grow.
I began to grow.
I know I am worth more than a metaphor for trauma. I am a product of science working at it’s best and the timing of the universe. I’ve mastered survival mode. Now it’s time to stop and smell the roses.
I’ve been counting down the end of fucking oral chemo since I literally started it on February 14, 2023. You’ve all see the countdown on my blog and my social media. It has kind of sucked living with an immunocompromised body for the last two years. Sure, it was a step up from doing infusion chemo and my side effects improved a bit once I was acclimated to the medication but being fatigued all the time, the fear of catching whatever viruses float about is really terrible. Other reasons I hate oral chemo:
- I have literally hated that I had to refill my prescription via phone tag with the special pharmacy every 15 days or so for the last year.
- I have to take two pills twice a day literally as close to 12 hours apart as I can get in order for them to work well.
- They are decent sized pills so I always gag when I take them.
- They make me feel nauseous if I forget to eat before taking them for breakfast.
- The brain fog and memory loss and confusion is awful. I feel like my brain is fried all the time! A flat airspace full of nothing but fluff and a couple of bugs.
However, I do know that the benefits outweigh my annoyance. They are pills designed to track down cancer floating all nilly willy in my body and destroy them from the inside out. Science is fucking rad. And I am not going to lie, there is a part of me that is very uncomfy not being on oral chemo. It has been my weird little safety net. All I will be on now is my hormone blocking injection and pill. That is ALL that will exist in assisting in preventing more cancer. In theory, it should be enough but cancer is a sneaky bitch. Never trust a cancer sneaky bitch.
I met with my provider on Feb. 12 and got the all clear to stop chemo once I finish my bottle. I’ve been diligent to not miss any doses so that I really end on Feb. 25. So far, so good. I also learned that I have no scans in my future (again, terrifying…) unless my labs indicate that something is amiss. And now my labs are moving from monthly to every three months. My labs were monthly because of the oral chemo but now that I am finishing, there is no reason to monitor me so closely. CUE PANIC.
It is strange to be stage IV, a stage that has a 30% survival rate at the 5 year mark and my providers are like, “Mmm you good. Have fun out there!” I cried a lot in the appointment. My tears were happy but also terrified. These are milestones I rarely even allowed myself to fantasize about because I was afraid of not making it and here I am… being pushed out into the world and told that I am okay. You would never know I have cancer unless you look at or know about my breasts being amputated, lymphedema in my arm, constant bruising on my stomach from the monthly injections, my derpy port, and ongoing neuropathy in my fingers and toes. Am I okay?
I am okay. I am going to be okay.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Kaskade.
“I am not afraid of the things under my bed
Plus the things inside my head
They scare me, they scare me
When I am alone, all my fears, they show their face
Yeah, I swear there’s no escape
They scare me, they scare meKnock, knock, knock
Someone let me out
Knock, knock, knock
I try and shut them out, but…Walls cave in
I guess it’s time I let them fall
I’ve been holding in
Everything for far too long
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
I’ll share this gift
And when it’s time I know I’ll fly again” -
January 16, 2024: AYAs in the waiting room
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): 29 DAYS UNTIL (APPROXIMATELY?) UNTIL I STOP ORAL CHEMO! Labs are still coming back stable. I am looking forward to February with awe, excitement, and major anxiety.
Countdown to last day of oral chemo: 29 days
TO THE SHORT VERSION!
“Not trying to be creepy but are you at the cancer center right now? I think I’m sitting right across from you lmao.”
Before clicking send, I did one more once over of the girl across from me, assessing that accuracy was at 95% and above and that this indeed was my friend I haven’t seen in over a year. She was already on her phone so I figured if I was right, she would see my message instantly. If I was wrong, well, my friend would read it sometime later in the day.
Her thumb slid down the screen and her eyes met mine. She beckoned me over and so began the 20 minute catch up between two stage IV AYAs in the waiting room at the cancer center too early in the morning.
The room was quite full considering it was a Monday at 8 am. We were the only under 40 years old patients (from what I could tell) in the room. Almost two years in and I don’t think I get less stares of pity/curiosity/wonder between appointments. I think it is a mix of my age and my bright hair. Something about me just screams, “LOOK AT ME! I HAVE CANCER AND I AM REALLY COOL. LET’S BE FRIENDS???” Or that is the energy I am trying to give.
I don’t think we were being super loud during our 20 minute catch up session before our appointments, but I am willing to bet it is rare to see two young people at the cancer center so engrossed in conversation that I was mindful there were ears listening in. We chatted about where we were on our treatment plans, upcoming surgeries, and the fact that not a lot of people can relate to our life experiences and staging. Although my friend’s cancer is more advanced and different than mine, she’s the only person I know personally (and can meet up with in real life, not on a chat forum or Facebook group) that is young and stage IV. Cancer: the glue that bonds you for life!
I found myself getting emotional mid conversation at the rarity to be seen and not have to preface conversation with additional information or emotions so that someone without a diagnosis or someone with not as advanced of a diagnosis can have a clearer picture. Don’t get me wrong…. I am super grateful for those who show up for me despite not fulling understanding me. However, she just *gets it* and I just felt really grateful to be understood so perfectly in that moment.
Our conversation ended in a hug as I got called back for my monthly hormone blocker stabbing with promises to connect. My nurse said I could stay in the waiting room longer if I wanted to keep chatting, but delaying the inevitable that I hate so much would have just been worse, so off I went to my lil pod.
Another month of decent labs and nothing new to report. February is when things will get funky. The excitement of oral chemo ending is intertwined with fear and anxiety. What if recurrence happens in the next six months? What if oral chemo has been the only thing holding me back? What if the hormone blockers are not enough?
What if? What if? What if?
I am at the mercy of my destiny. Come what may.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Matroda.
“I can’t fight the feeling
That I’m feeling
You can’t fight the feeling
Can’t fight the feeling” -
December 31: The only way out is through
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): We are a couple of short months away from some significant milestones: my two year canverversary, one whole year of NEAD, and ditching oral chemo (if all goes to plan!) Oh and another year of meeting my out of pocket deductible very quicky! Booooo. I recognize that my blog updates are few and far between, but I feel repetitive talking about how fucking depressing all of this is sometimes. Plus, there is not much to report in terms of treatment. I survived my most recent zometa infusion for bone density loss. I didn’t get knocked on my ass like last time. And I am still NEAD. I have lymphedema in my hand, but I am currently in physical therapy to help manage it. I’m out here surviving. What more can I say???
Countdown to last day of oral chemo: 45 days
TO THE SHORT VERSION!
I think there is pressure on people to turn every negative into a positive, but we should be allowed to say, ‘I went through something really strange and awful and it has altered me forever.’
Marian KeyesIt seems that 2023 for many of us has been a year of transition, transformation, alteration, processing, pain, and unexpected fluctuation. I would include myself in that group. I can reflect now that for me 2022 was a year dedicated to just simply surviving and 2023 was a year of immense grief and healing. I don’t know how I made it through the year, yet I am here.
How grateful I am to be here.
The farther I get away from my initial cancerversary, the painful days of chemotherapy and radiation, surgery, and my body acclimates to its new normal, cancer just feels more and more like a bad dream. Yet, it has completely transformed my reality into a landscape of unknowns. The cells are dormant in my body. There is no timeline or map to know when, if ever, they will activate and spread once more. Life just feels like one big question mark.
I’m living on borrowed time, but aren’t we all?
The five year survival rate for stage IV breast cancer is 30%. That statistic follows me around like a ghost, especially the farther I get away from the painful memories of 2022. I’m scared to build something that can be taken away from me again. I’m scared to make plans for the future that are more than weeks to a couple of months out. I’m scared to think I could be the 30%. Hope is a beautiful thing, but I never want it to cloud my reality. I am still figuring out the balance between living without fear and the fear of living with a chronic illness that is primed to kill me.
It’s a work in progress.
I like the trend of selecting a word or phrase for the new year to manifest what is to come. I felt like there were a couple that I gravitated towards, but one just felt the most fitting: bravery. No, I am not a brave person. Doing hard things in the name of cancer doesn’t mean I am brave. But I recognize that I have to keep moving forward and the fear of planning for a future that is more unknown than I could ever imagine cannot be a barrier to me thriving. I have a feeling that 2024 will be a year of hard choices, filled with moments of facing what has happened to me head on. Life requires some bravery for me to continue to endure.
Endure I must.
The year ahead is also filled with promise: oral chemotherapy ending, the option to undergo reconstruction, my second cancerversary, and a little special trip to Europe. Yup, I booked a trip to Europe in September! Look at me making plans and shit! I won’t lie, it literally was the hardest decision EVER to choose to book so far out but I fucking did it.
But that little voice of fear in the back of my mind is still there.
Quitting oral chemotherapy is scary. Technically, when you are a stage IV patient you stick with your line of treatment until it fails and then you move on to the next available option. My oncologist and I talked about this two weeks ago and although this line has not failed, she feels like I can come off of it as scheduled. I’m scared of recurrence, especially when I am finally tolerating the medication so well, but I also don’t want to be on oral chemo forever. I mean, I could if I had to, but I really like the idea that I will get to know my body not on chemo. And then of course at the same time, what if I have recurrence and then I regret not just staying on it? The decision will be a gamble. February both excites me and terrifies me at the same time.
2024 will be a big year. I just hope to make it out alive.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Kanye West.
“Damn
Here we go again
But everything I’m not made me everything I am” -
September 7: Hello, is it me you’re looking for???
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): I guess August flew by? I celebrated one year of being infusion chemo free on August 4 and I am fast approaching my chop chop anniversary. Things have been hard lately, not going to lie. Emotionally and physically things are changing again and I feel like I am getting closer to understanding more about the new version of me.
Countdown to last day of oral chemo: 160 days
TO THE LONG VERSION!
People talk about survivorship as this magical land full of promise and healing and good vibes and I am just here to tell you that it is anything but fucking that. Survivorship is like traveling without a compass or Google Maps. You’re missing half of the exits to get off the highway, there’s a baby screaming in the back of the car, and you forgot to pack underwear. You’re excited for the destination but you’re also as impatient as a six year old complaining, “Are we there yet?”
Turns out that survivorship is not a tropical vacation destination like they make it out to be during active treatment. (I use “they” loosely because it refers to providers, people rooting you on, and those on the other side.) Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but everyone wants you to get through treatment to get to the other side because it is better. The cancer should be “gone”and you should be happy again! But now that I think of it, survivorship is laced with toxic positivity and really shitty tequila. Just when you think you’ve reached the promise land, you get out of the car and you’re still in the middle of the fucking desert.
Granted, these feelings ebb and flow but I am shocked that I was led to believe that getting through active treatment was the hard part. Don’t get me wrong, getting massive doses of poison pumped into you is not a great time either. The side effects are awful. I don’t have any rose glasses on about that. But treatment is out of your control! You are doing what you are told and going through the motions. Survivorship is a completely different beast that is constantly evolving. The training wheels are off. Nobody is telling you how to do things or what to do next. One minute you’re staring at a friendly cemetery ghost and the next you’re battling it out with demons straight from hell. Just when you knock one out, another comes out of the shadows.
In short, the last month-ish has been hard emotionally (and a little bit physically, too.) I truly believe that our bodies remember anniversaries and significant moments in time that go beyond our consciousness and unconsciousness. Things were going okay around my chemoversary (August 4), but as I approach my mastectomy anniversary (September 15), my body feels angsty and upset.
To be fair, my oncologist switched my hormone blocker at the beginning of August from anastrozole to tamoxifen. She sold the switch under the guise of less joint pain (which I was not really reporting any but ok….) and better for my type of cancer long-term, but with more ~mood swings.~ When she said this, I recalled my initial mood swings when I started zoladex injections and laughed fondly over the memory of crying over pancakes. Instead, I am crying before exercising every morning and having fits of rage. Life just makes me feel a bit uneasy overall. I feel a bit on edge.
I saw my oncologist last Thursday and reported the mood swings and additional joint pain in my knees and weight gain when she asked how I was feeling on tamoxifen. She offered to up my antidepressants (which I declined) and told me to just keep exercising because the weight gain was because of menopause. That perplexed me because I was doing JUST FINE on anastrozole in terms of mood, body confidence, and joint pain until I switched. My routine hasn’t shifted all that much since starting the new medication. I am exercising almost every day and I am still in therapy. What gives??!
I also started experiencing some intense pain in my right forearm and hand last week, beyond the occasional soreness I get from not stretching my arm or chest enough. I was pretty swollen when I saw my oncologist and expressed concerns about lymphedema. Lymphedema is swelling due to build-up of lymph fluid in the body. Lymph nodes act like a drain in your sink. If the drain is clogged, the fluid cannot drain. It is very common for folks who have had radiation and for breast cancer patients. I thought I was keeping it at bay given how active I am, but surprise! This is not an area of expertise that I know much about nor was I educated on. And my oncologist just kind of brushed me off! It was kind of shocking.
I had concerns mostly because it is super uncomfortable and I have this insanely fear that it will increase out of of my control and I will have a permanent balloon of an arm. Lymphedema also increases your risk of infection in the swollen area and it makes me really insecure and self conscious. She sent a referral out to get help in managing it after I practically begged her, but she seemed unbothered and unconcerned which annoyed the hell out of me. I left my appointment feeling deflated.
Luckily ranting on the internet does have its perks. I posted a bit about my arm and several people reached out with tips and tricks to help with managing the swelling and pain. Honestly, what did patients do before social media to get additional information on how to survive? But on the flip side, I feel like an annoying bitch on the internet randomly appearing to complain about the never ending problems I have and then disappearing after that. I just simply don’t have capacity for much anymore.
I’ve been trying to get the root to that feeling… that feeling of not being able to show up for others the same way I did before my diagnosis. I was a “yes” person. I was willing to help with anything and everyone and often times my social calendar was packed to the brim. When I first started experiencing this distancing (for a lack of a better word right now) after finishing active treatment, I thought it was just residual effects from enduring a year of complete shit and it was a feeling that would fade away. But it is still here.
Group conversations on Facebook messenger have gone unopened for months. Part of me wants to hop in, but I have been gone for so long I question if I even deserve to be in those spaces anymore with people who have chosen to keep in touch while I have withered away in the corner. My phone is clogged with unanswered texts. The colorful chat bubbles taunt me. I have notification after notification that sit unaddressed in other social media apps.
Why is it so hard for me to participate in connection?
I’ve been trying to pinpoint it in therapy and I’ve talked with other patients and it just seems to be a common thread. Our priorities have shifted to us. We no longer are in positions of giving everyone complete access to ourselves. Our functional time is limited and finite. And we are figuring life out of again. It has left me guilt ridden lately. I don’t know how to explain this experience to cancer muggles. Things just kinda suck right now and I thought it would suck less, but it still sucks. And I am sorry. I wish I could show up the ways that I used to, but I am genuinely struggling.
And then there is also the feeling that I feel like I talk about my caner too much. I’ve joked about it feeling like a personality trait (which I genuinely hope people don’t think that) but it is a massive part of my life now and impacts literally every facet of who I am. From my emotional and physical state to the never ending appointments and advocacy work I feel drawn to, it is just sorta…. there. Mix that with feelings of feeling like I am too much for others and feeling alone, it has become the perfect storm of ceasing communication across the board.
I came across this quote on one of my cancer social pages and thought it summarized my feelings perfectly:
I think the hardest part of cancer treatment is at the end, when everyone assumes you’re “cured” and you no longer need their help. You’re in your weakest, most devasted state, plus you no longer have the mission you had when you began this journey: to kill the cancer. The cancer is toast, but so are you, and now, like a soldier at the end of war, you need help putting yourself back together, only everyone has gone home since they assume the war has been won.
AnonymousAs much as I try to force myself back into a semblance of routine, it is still painfully hard to navigate and I am struggling and for those who have been harmed by my inability to show up in the ways I used to, I am so sorry.
Really. I am so sorry.
I am trying to find solutions to return and I want to believe they exist and are in my future. I don’t have a timeline. So, all I ask is be patient with me. Don’t forget about me. Keep trying to throw the buoy out to sea. I am drowning and soon enough I will gasp for air and grab on for dear life.
*******************************************
Because I was not sure how to transition back to some interesting cancer factz, I put those asterisks so we could all compose ourselves! How kind. And I wanted to end on a cool note. Last month, I donated some of my blood samples to a new blood test that was recently approved by the FDA called Signatera. This test is a highly sensitive and personalized molecular residual disease assay (MRD) using circulating tumor DNA (ctDNA), custom designed for each patient to help identify relapse earlier than standard of care tools.
The Signatera Residual Disease Test is a custom-built blood test for people who have been diagnosed with breast cancer or other solid tumors. It can detect molecular residual disease (MRD) in the form of circulating tumor DNA—small fragments of DNA released by cancer cells. So basically, we submitted a tissue sample from my tumors from my surgery last year and current blood sample to build my unique test. Every three months I will have additional blood samples submitted to monitor any changes in ctDNA levels, which can help inform us if my cancer is shrinking, growing, or coming back.
This is a helpful tool for us to use in addition to scans which over time I will receive farther and farther apart as long as I remain NEAD. Of course we are not using this as our only tool for monitoring, but it is a fucking cool tool that makes me feel like I am living in the future. And because of this test, I am extra grateful I kept my port because ya girl still hates needles!
I was supposed to have baseline information at my last appointment, but I guess we accidentally sent the biopsy sample from February 2022 instead of my larger surgery sample from September 2022. Now we have to wait longer for results, but I guess no biggie since we know based on my recent July scans that I am currently NEAD.
Science is cool.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Justin Dust.
“I was left to my own devices
And now I am in deep
I’m dreaming of paradises
But I’m not asleepBring me alive
I need you to bring me alive
I need you oh oh oh oh” -
July 27: The stories we tell ourselves
Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): Last week I had a CT scan on Tuesday, July 18 and got my results at 7:34 am via MyChart. Per usual, I am always by myself when dramatic things seem to happen. Luckily, the news was not horrific and I am NEAD! I see my oncologist on August 3, a day before my one year anniversary of finishing chemo. We will see what she has to say about my results. Eeeek.
Countdown to last day of oral chemo: 202 days
TO THE LONG VERSION!
“Did she tell you I had cancer,” I asked my new co-worker. It was a question that followed two instances in the previous minute that I struggled with word recall. I hate that words escape me. It embarrasses me and I hate saying that chemo has made me lose my mind, but it has. It feels like a stupid excuse. “Oh the 22 weeks I endured high levels of poison has made it so I can’t go a single day without forgetting multiple things.” I wonder all the time if cancer muggles believe me or if they think I use cancer as an excuse for everything.
The moment that question slipped out of my mouth I knew the phrasing was wrong. I have cancer. Not had. Why would I say that?
“Well, I mean have. Did she tell you I have cancer,” I rephrased. I don’t remember her response. I was caught up in my foggy thoughts and my mind went back to five days prior: Wednesday, July 19 at 7:34 am I received my CT scan results and things once more changed for me.
Where did I “learn” the definition of stage IV cancer? Was it in movies? TV shows? Dramatic retellings from friends of friends who were diagnosed? The reiteration of stories in the stage IV breast cancer group I am in on Facebook? Loved ones literally dying from stage IV cancers around me? Somewhere I learned that stage IV was a death sentence and that stereotype haunts me like a ghost. Somewhere I had this reinforced in my brain so much so that I both believe I am very close to dying at all times and somehow I am very much alive.
Every day since I finished chemo and radiation feels like the closest I have been to who I was before cancer. Here I am, eight days away from celebrating my chemo anniversary and I am still struggling with some things, but a lot of my journey feels like a bad dream. Sure I walk around titty-less and my hair is still rather short, but unless you know me you might not know that cancer is my sidekick in life. I am grateful for every cell that is healing and has healed, but I am not pretending that something ominous doesn’t live in me anymore. However, my general day-to-day functions no longer revolve around cancer. It just is kinda… there? I don’t truly ever forget, but I can get lost in the mundane routine of life and cancer isn’t a doom cloud anymore. It is just a cloud.
How lucky I am to be alive.
I had told myself that when it was time to scan me that either cancer would be everywhere in my body or that it would not be there at all. It was very binary. I had done the poison, had my boobs hacked off, and I am still consuming poison so it felt like a very either or type of scenario. But my results were not binary.
1. Interval bilateral mastectomy and right axillary node excision. No evidence of new or progressive disease in the chest, abdomen or pelvis. 2. Stable to diminished sclerotic bone lesions consistent with metastases.
MyChart Official CT Reading ResultsIt is true at first glance that these results read that I am no evidence of active disease (NEAD). I should be THRILLED. And I am. But the flood of emotions I felt as I read my results made me angry. This is never ever fucking going away.
Bones: The previously described rounded sclerotic lesion in the anterior superior aspect of what is again designated the L1 vertebral body is stable in size, measuring 1.4 cm on series 602, image 66, but is decreased in density compared with previous CT imaging. Additional small sclerotic lesions in the T9, T12, L2, L4 and L5 vertebral bodies are similar in appearance, while additional previously visible sclerotic lesions at L3, L4 and L5 have diminished/resolved. There are stable small sclerotic foci in the femoral heads. No new lytic or blastic lesion is evident. No fracture or malalignment.
MyChart Official CT Reading ResultsI cried. I cried sad wet tears of happiness and sad wet tears that drowned my happiness and replaced it with February 21, 2022 rage. I had told myself this narrative that if you do all the things right, you get the cookie of being cancer free and that is just simply not in my life cards. The narrative I told myself was there to protect me; the armor I suited up and wore to endure chemo. Sadly, it is not armor that fits or can be worn in survivorship for me.
I recognize that stage IV is merely a classification and not a death sentence, but it feels like one when you are trapped in a body that is doing everything it can but cancer cures do not exist. Cancer treatments and medications can do a lot, but they do not cure. We pray, we hope, we cling on to anything when diagnosed with cancer. It is how people mistake us for being inspirations when we simply just want to live and will do/think/believe anything will cure us of this evilness. But the only results we can ever get that is close enough is NEAD. Or remission. Or whatever the fuck you want to call it. But once those little cells start fucking around, you are never safe again.
So I celebrate this milestone and honor the parts of me that are happy to be stable and devour life like it is the last pie slice at Thanksgiving. But I am always wondering when the shoe will drop and when my stage IV goes from being a classification to death knocking at my door.
Today’s song lyrics of the day are brought to you by Liza Minnelli.
“Well, all the odds are, they are in my favor
Something’s bound to begin
It’s gotta happen, happen sometime
Maybe this time, I’ll win‘Cause everybody, oh, they love a winner
So nobody loved me
‘Lady Peaceful’, ‘Lady Happy’
That’s what I long to be”
-
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