When I first faced the diagnosis no one wants to hear, I was determined to go the alternative route. All natural. Food as medicine with some herbs thrown in for good measure. A biopsy and MRI later, I changed my mind. “Worse than we thought.” “Aggresive, quick growing.” Their treatment plan for me is chemo, surgery, radiation, then hormone suppression. A few months of low quality of life traded in for several years of better quality of life. A down payment on nothing certain.
The port is in. It is not pretty. Two incisions, a small one right at my collar bone and larger one a little lower with a noticeable bump just below it. I reacted to one of the chemicals used in the port implantation. A kind and concerned nurse circled the rash with a deep purple pen; marks that my careful shower did not wash away. I have joined the ranks of old women who no longer wear bras. This goes against everything I ever believed about aging gracefully. I never wanted to be Ma Kettle, but the bra hurts. So many surprises of the uncomfortable kind.
That said, there is much to be grateful for. Fresh peaches on Swedish pancakes. The rumbling of WWII era plane engines as they practice for an airshow tomorrow. A sleepy little dog on my lap. Life is good.
Finding my way 