Keeping Abreast of Ellen

Sometimes you think your week is going to start out one way, then it takes a sharp turn and leads you on an entirely different path. Sometimes the day wakes you up full of promise and hope, then tucks you in at night, numb and devoid of feeling. Sometimes you plan to write a light-hearted post on the age-old question of "how to find more time", and instead find yourself with a heavy heart, cursing time, and grieving the loss of one of your dearest friends. So you decide to write about that instead.  Today is that day. This is that post. Her name was Alice.  She was alive on a Wednesday. She died on a Thursday. I cried with disbelief for many days leading up to that day, and with unbridled sadness every day since. This was not the script that had been written for this leading lady. There were many more pages in her book, beautiful blank canvases full of imagery, ready to be captured. Her life had more volumes than the treasured  Livraria Lello  in Porto, and it was more breath

This week was a milestone - my 10th Cancerversary, a term some use to reference the anniversary of either diagnosis (my case), or the end of active treatment. I felt called to resurrect my blog, begin writing again, and set in motion a plan to write my first book. While there have been many constants, my perspective on cancer has changed in many ways since those early months when everything was a big, black hole. What does reflecting on a decade of living post-cancer reveal? Here are ten things I hate to admit about cancer: 1. Chemo was worth it While active treatment was no walk in the park, I navigated the initial chemo bombs far better than the post-rads fallout years. My aggressive treatment plan brought late side effects (heard of late-COVID? similar), many of which remain to this day. I remember being connected with a breast cancer survivor when I was preparing to return to work. Impatient and overwhelmed by brain fog and the inability to remember common words or to multi-task, I

Ten steps I climbed to the hospital door, Ten hallways I walked late at night. Ten strangers I passed on the MRI floor, Ten faces that mirrored my fright. Ten minutes I waited alone in the room, Ten pages I turned without reading.  Ten tears that transported my feelings of doom, Ten sighs that my heart was still beating.  Ten voices I heard, when there was but one, Ten tones that deafened my ears. Ten seconds I counted, then wanted to run, Ten pauses that silenced my fears. Ten breaths I took as I ventured away, Ten thoughts that entered my mind. Ten days I pondered, just what they would say, Ten reasons I feared they would find.   Ten months of treatment to help me survive, Ten fingers and toes to discover.  Ten years celebrating being alive, Ten birthdays of being her mother.