Roller Coasters, Turkey Tail Mushrooms & That Not-So-Vacation Package Deal

Imagine riding a roller coaster blindfolded—no idea when the next drop is coming, but your stomach’s already in your throat. That’s what this week has felt like.

The chaos of the holidays mixed with the waiting-for-test-results dread is… brutal. And somehow, my tear ducts have decided to work on their own schedule. No warning. No build-up. Just bam—floodgates open mid-sentence, mid-sip of coffee, mid-Walmart.

Yesterday I had a full breast MRI and more blood work. I brought Dancer and Prancer (because obviously, my reindeer slippers are emotional support now), and a beautiful prayer blanket from the Methodist Church in Port Orchard. I couldn’t take my woo-woo healing rocks or the blanket into the MRI tube, but I could take deep breaths and sarcasm. So I laid very, very still while the clunky machine played its remix of bangs, zaps, and low-grade terror.

The tech asked, “Is this your first breast cancer diagnosis?”
I wanted to yell, “YOU HAVE THE WRONG WOMAN. I DO NOT HAVE CANCER.”
But then I woke up this morning with a knife-in-the-boob kind of pain and remembered… oh yeah. I do.

Today starts the real work. The consults. The swoosh of the hospital doors that make me want to bolt. The antiseptic scent that punches me in the soul. Mindfulness will be my armor.

We’re meeting with both the radiologist and the oncologist today. Together, they’ll lay out a treatment plan—a package deal, but not the kind with palm trees and fruity drinks. More like: port implants, surgery scheduling, chemo/radiation cocktail discussions, and treatment timelines.

BUT—there was good news yesterday.

HER2 negative.
Cue the confetti (or at least a relieved exhale). HER2 negative means this isn’t an aggressive type of cancer. “Lazy cancer,” they call it. And lazy is very on brand for my cells. This also means surgery comes first, with some combination of chemo or radiation after.

I also learned:

• Not all chemo makes your hair fall out (hallelujah!)
• Turkey Tail mushrooms are basically little woodland warriors for healing
• A port might be my new best friend

I’m suspended in this weird space between overwhelming gratitude and righteous rage. I want to scream: “THIS ISN’T FAIR!” But gratitude is less exhausting. So I try to live there most of the time.

Still, sometimes a full-on tantrum sounds great. Crying into a pillow. Stomping dramatically. Swearing at the injustice of it all. And then… regrouping. Re-grounding. Refocusing.

We’re still waiting for a call back from Valley Women’s Breast Center to schedule our second opinion. It’s nearby (a huge plus when energy and traffic are both depleted), and we’re hoping that’s our place. Fingers crossed.

Please keep the prayers coming—especially that the MRI shows no spread. And thank you for every single message. We read them all. We feel you beside us.

Steve remains my rock. My laugh partner. My co-navigator on this blindfolded ride. And when I hurt—he hurts. That kind of love is pure grace.

Sometimes the best medical news comes wrapped in clunky language and sterile rooms. Sometimes, love feels like fuzzy slippers and handwritten cards. And sometimes, even lazy cancer is still a total jerk—but at least it’s one we can face with coffee, community, and one hell of a battle plan.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
It’s okay that this sucks. It’s okay that you cried in line at the grocery store. You don’t have to be the strong one every moment. Just the honest one. Let your people love you. Let your reindeer slippers do their job. You are showing up in every way that matters. You’ve got this—even when you don’t feel like it.
With fierce grace,
Me