Processing the Process is a Process - June 15, 2026

Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen and everything in between! The weather has been so unbelievably beautiful lately I’m starting to expect, like, a meteor falling into Cape Cod Bay or something. Oh, wait…

Well, I’m still firmly on this side of the ground after feeling like there was a 50/50 chance for a bit there. It’s like a switch flipped the last week of May and I went from doing a spicy cat-and-mouse tango with the Grim Reaper to “oh, hey, things are healing.” Physically, at least. My surgeon remains downright horrified but she has given me the green light to start radiation on June 30. I didn’t realize this before but radiation is every day, Monday through Friday. I’m doing 3 weeks + 1 session, so 16 sessions total. Potential side effects include sunburn-like skin changes, fatigue, and sometimes muscle tightening on that side. As long as I’m careful and stay as active as possible, I should get through this without anything catastrophic happening, lol. That would be a nice change.

Alrighty. We’ve cleared the surgery hurdle. Radiation is on the horizon and we’re staring at the finish line of active treatment now. But the challenge with having a set of big, ugly post-op complications is quite layered; a lot of the time, it isn’t even just getting through the physical event itself. It’s when the dust settles and you finally have a moment to step back and say, “what the minty-fresh f*ck was all of that?” And then the weight of having to process it all sets in. All you see or think about is the scars and the bruising and the weight gain and the atrophy, how you scared (constantly, for 7 months beforehand) the love of god out of your friends and family, the sheer force of watching every crumble of your life crack into dust on top of nearly losing it a fair few times in the last year. Even I, the perpetual dark jokester that I am, have to admit sometimes that I’m at my limit and I’ve well and truly had enough.

That type of exhaustion comes out in weird ways. I stopped responding to people for a few weeks. There are still so many people I haven’t gotten back to and it makes me feel horrible. I am so, so sorry if you're reading this and it feels like I ghosted you. Just know that this isn’t how I want to do things! I didn’t really want to leave the house and it still feels like an act of God to be able to go for a hike or a fun event with amazing people. My body hurts, I'm so tired, and I’m absolutely dreading all the fun ways this journey will come back to haunt me as I move on from this chapter because I’m already starting to see it. For example: The IV pumps that push the medications through the line into your port make a clicking sound as they work and this nails-on-a-chalkboard screeching beep sound when the infusion is over. When I went to the clinic for my monthly menopause shot, I nearly started crying when I heard it. This took me by surprise. Of all the traumatic experiences I’ve had since diagnosis, weekly chemo was very mild!! Of course it wasn’t my first choice to be there but I was never particularly distraught either, so how does a nothingburger like an ancient IV pump wailing its siren song elicit that type of response out of me? 

It’s very interesting--in a really morbid, f*cked up way--to see what your mind latches onto in terms of triggers and trauma response. As you can gather, the mental side of things has been and always will be the biggest challenge of all of them for me. It’s comforting but horrifying to know so many people understand how complex and draining medical upheavals can be and the toll it takes on not just you, but the people around you, too. What I find myself coming back to is just...feeling so tired. The human brain isn’t designed to comprehend several life-threatening complications packed into 9 days then jump right back into the grind of treatment, and the effect this has had on my loved ones is also making me insane. All I do is obsessively worry about my dad and sister and pets and friends and family. I feel like the rain on everyone else’s parade right now and that is the last effect I ever want to have on the people I love. I know how worried they are. I’d be in a panic if it were any one of them too. And the next person who says, “Don’t worry about me, you have way more going on” is getting CHOKED OUT (with love and respect, of course). I understand that protective mentality but all it does is feed the isolation factor that much more. Yes, the burnout is real and life has been very heavy but I am not suddenly incapable of feeling or showing compassion towards others just because I’m dealing with something. That’s not how life works. More importantly, that’s not how I work.

So I guess that's where I am right now: exhausted, grateful, frustrated, hopeful, healing, and profoundly overwhelmed by all of it. The last few weeks have really shown me that surviving something and processing something are not the same task and it turns out the second one takes a lot longer to get a handle on. But despite all the bruises, scars, weird triggers and existential crises, I keep finding myself looking toward the future. It’s all tiny, gradual, incremental. Radiation is next. Then maintenance starts. Then hopefully a very long stretch of ordinary life follows where the most pressing issue is figuring out whether my dopey 3-legged black cat is screaming at me for food or because he simply enjoys the sound of his own voice. For now, I'm trying to be patient with myself, accept help--YUCK--when it's offered, and remember someone else’s win is not my loss. Again, healing isn't just about getting through something. It's about figuring out how to carry it without letting it carry you. 

As always, thank you for sticking with me through all of this. It means more than I can possibly explain. I hope you’re all enjoying the lovely weather! Cynthia and I are off to the beach. Long live Cape Cod.

All my love,

Caroline