February 5, 2019

I’ve always believed in telling the truth. So here it is: my left non-boob is currently cramping every five minutes like it’s having phantom contractions, my nipple is pissed, and I’m sleep-deprived enough to cry over Jello. Welcome to recovery.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

When I started blogging about my breast cancer journey, I made a vow: I’d keep it real. And today, “real” means I’m writing to keep myself from unraveling.

This week has been messy and maddening. The waiting between surgery and post-op appointments has stretched me thin. We thought we understood what we were dealing with—now new words like “metastasized” are swirling in the air, and I’m spinning. I’m trying to hold hope in one hand and reality in the other, but it’s heavy.

Physically, I’m not in the worst pain I’ve ever felt. But I’m having trouble finding a balance with medications. My drain is still pulling about 60ml a day—meaning it’s not coming out anytime soon. I wear it safety-pinned to my pajamas like a sad fashion statement. Steve’s still the MVP with his gentle drain duties, and yet I flinch and want to run every time.

And then there’s the weird stuff:

• Cramping in the phantom boob every five minutes (weirdly timed like labor pains).
• A nipple that feels like it’s sending out shards of glass in protest.
• A rogue internal vibration that hums every 15 minutes. Like a misplaced cell phone on vibrate.

Add that all up and you get zero sleep, a meltdown, and one highly cranky Tracy.

This is the part where journaling becomes my therapy. Where I laugh at the absurdity of it all. Where I slowly circle back to gratitude. It’s always there, waiting under the surface.

Yes, it’s ugly right now. But there’s still beauty. The dinners dropped at the door, the healing bracelet from MK, the roses from Mike, the furball unclogger from Vern (which is exactly what it sounds like). Grace in casserole form. Love in text threads. Miracles in the mail.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
This is the messy middle. The part where the fear creeps in and the body rebels. But you are not alone. Every ache is matched by someone’s kindness. Every anxious thought is balanced by prayer. Keep writing. Keep asking. Keep going.
Love, Me