Cancer, Cheese, and Doing My F***ing Best

Language warning. There will be swearing. There has been cancer. If you’ve met me, this probably isn’t necessary.

I’ve always had regular mammograms. I had my first lumpectomy in my early twenties, many biopsies, but everything has always been benign. My last mammogram before my diagnosis was in August 2024, so when I started feeling something in my left breast in February 2025, I wasn’t immediately convinced it was cancer. But by May, it had become much more evident, and I knew I needed someone to look at it.

I called my OB/GYN. The earliest they could get me in to be seen or have a diagnostic mammogram was October.

OCTOBER.

Now, I’m no doctor, but six months seemed like a pretty *** long time to wait when I could feel something changing in my breast. I called several times and asked them to please get me in somewhere because I was sure something was wrong. I kept getting pushed off.

In August, I went to my family practice physician and asked her to take a look. She examined me and immediately scheduled a mammogram and ultrasound for the following morning. After all those calls and months of waiting, she got me in the next day.

That was August 20, 2025.

I didn’t get an official diagnosis that morning, but I felt like I knew before I left. The way they treated me, the conversations they were having with me, and the information about their therapy programs told me what they were concerned about. Nobody had said the words yet, but I was already trying to wrap my head around them.

The results confirmed Stage III invasive lobular carcinoma in my left breast, with lymph node involvement. The MRI revealed an area of abnormal enhancement measuring roughly 4.9 × 8.3 × 6.7 cm, with several suspicious lymph nodes in my left underarm. That’s a sizable area. For those in the know, it is ER+, PR+, and HER2-. Suddenly, I was learning what all of that meant and trying to understand a treatment plan I had never imagined needing.

In September 2025, I started five months of chemotherapy. That included four rounds of doxorubicin and cyclophosphamide, followed by twelve weekly treatments of paclitaxel. Then came a bilateral mastectomy, reconstruction with implants two weeks later, and three weeks of radiation. I’m now taking an aromatase inhibitor and targeted therapy, with parts of my treatment continuing for years.

It’s easy enough to fit all of that into one paragraph. Actually going through it took considerably more effort.

Losing my hair was hard. Especially my eyelashes, because those are working hairs! Looking in the mirror and getting used to a face that didn’t quite look like mine anymore was hard, too. Now my hair is growing back, and I’m getting used to that curly-haired, Blanche Devereaux version of myself. Meanwhile, there have been rashes, mouth sores, fatigue, and plenty of days when I’ve wondered what else my body could possibly come up with.

I really need to stop asking that question.

The targeted therapy has made me so sick. Diarrhea. Dehydration. Feeling lightheaded. Trying to get through an ordinary day while my digestive system behaves like it has a personal vendetta.

Honestly, at this point, I’m waiting to sh*t my pants again.

Yes. Again.

There is an older story involving food poisoning, a Target parking lot, and a coat that made the ultimate sacrifice. I was hoping that would remain a one-time event.

Apparently, my bowels are considering a sequel.

I can joke about these things when I’m telling you about them. When I’m actually sick and exhausted and trying to decide whether it’s safe to leave the vicinity of a toilet, I’m not necessarily laughing. Sometimes I’m just trying to get through the day without another problem.

But humor is how I’ve handled a lot of this. I’ve rarely cried because crying just isn’t usually my response. I’m more likely to ask questions, figure out what needs to happen next, or say something inappropriate that makes me and whoever is with me laugh.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been scared, and it doesn’t mean tears are wrong. If you need to cry, you should be able to cry without feeling like you’re somehow handling cancer badly. I wouldn’t want someone comparing their worst day to one of my jokes and thinking they should be doing better. You’re seeing how I tell the story, not every moment it took to get through it.

I’m still angry about how hard I had to push to get someone to take me seriously. I knew something was wrong, and I kept saying it. I wasn’t asking for a diagnosis over the phone. I was asking to be examined. I don’t know how things might have been different if I’d been seen sooner, but I do know I should not have had to make that many calls.

Once I was diagnosed, there was so much information coming at me that keeping track of it became its own job. I had questions for different doctors, medications to remember, appointments to schedule, and side effects to explain. That’s what led me to create my breast cancer planner. I wanted a place to write things down so I wasn’t trying to remember everything while feeling like crap.

And while all of this was happening, the rest of my life was still happening, too.

I worked full time through chemotherapy, then took medical leave for my surgeries and radiation. I’ve continued spending time with friends, enjoying good meals, and making plans for things I want to do. I love watching my son do what he loves, and I want to be around for as much of his life as possible.

Working through treatment was what I did. It doesn’t mean anyone else should have to do it, or feel bad if they can’t. I’m telling you about my life, and some days I’m honestly not sure how I managed it either.

I still eat all the cheese, and I still love my wine. I know saying that won’t earn me any perfect-patient awards, but I’m trying to be honest here. I want to take care of myself, and I also want to enjoy dinner without examining every bite for evidence that I’m failing at cancer.

Please don’t use my cheese consumption or wine preferences as medical advice. I have enough responsibilities already.

I take my medication, go to my appointments, and talk to my doctors about what’s making me sick and what I can tolerate. I’m doing my best to give myself a long future, but I can’t do every part of this perfectly. Some days I have enough energy for work and a nice evening. Other days I need to sleep and would appreciate everyone leaving me alone.

I’m still me, even with everything that’s changed. I want to keep laughing with my friends, enjoying my food, making plans, and living a life that feels like mine. I’m doing my best, and I’m going to have to let that be enough.

I would also really appreciate keeping my pants clean this time.