Breast Cancer

The Sympathetic Magic of Dolls

There are many cultures where dolls are considered a magical item. Animism attributes a soul to the inanimate: plants, objects, and natural phenomena. I remember the first time I read about the Shinto belief that there is a spiritual essence, or kami, in all things.

I Am the (Cancer-y) Lorax. I Speak for the (Cannabis) Trees.

In a world where I’ve dedicated my life to caring for others, it took a cancer diagnosis to realize that sometimes I needed to be taken care of. Who would have thought? As an INFJ-T Myers Briggs personality type, the turbulent “T” has only intensified post-cancer.

I Found My Inner Voice Again

Do you occasionally look in the mirror and say to yourself, “I love you?” Honestly, I still find it difficult to say those three words to myself today. Five years ago, before I developed breast cancer, I would occasionally stop restlessly in front of the mirror.

Deciduous: A Poem for Processing Chemo Hair Loss

This year, I get to be deciduous.

Drop my cells to the floor, prep the soil for this post-traumatic growth that I’m sowing.

After Cancer You 2.0

It’s not always straightforward. It doesn’t “end after treatment ends.” Of course, treatment doesn’t always end. Even when it does, the wonder at whether treatment will be needed again flickers continuously on and off in my brain. On. Off. On.

As an active young mom, writer, contemplative, and AYA cancer survivor, I think a lot.

Cancer Free!?

Is it possible to ever be free of cancer? The mutated cells can be erradicated, health can return, life can move forward, but the grip cancer holds in my mind will remain. The fear that it could come back. That I must be on my guard, on the lookout for signs.

Inevitable Change

Change.
Auburn leaves fall to the ground.
Magenta skies fade to black.
A lotus thrives in muddy water.
A caterpillar transitions.

How the Berating Surgeon Lost Her Power Over Me

Before the vaccine was available to the layperson, when the CDC was recommending double masking in public, in January of 2021, I attended my diagnostic breast biopsy alone. Double masked and still carrying the weight of my postpartum anxiety that caused a debilitating fear of germs, I entered the small, stuffy waiting room, forced to sit very close to my nervous comrades.

A Way With Words

You never know what you’ll find out about yourself when you put it down in writing; you can learn so much. You can say things you wouldn’t dream of saying out loud. You can be frank with yourself in ways that you can’t be with your partner, your mother, your best friend. You can tell the truth.

Reconstruction: A Never-Ending Story

My mastectomy scars started out as the midnight blue of my surgeon’s pen, deftly scrawling the path of his scalpel on the white canvas of my chest. After he came, drew, and left, I found myself in front of the mirror over the sink of the pre-op bathroom, staring at the roadmap he’d sketched. I was met with an array of curved and straight lines; dictating symmetry, outlining what would be kept and not kept, and measuring how long, how wide, and how far down.