The “B” Flies Anyway

08/02/2026

I am in Week 2 of cycle 2. My bloodwork is back from the end of my first cycle.

We did not have a draw at the start of cycle 1. But we can hypothesize my number was 18 or higher because my numbers were doubling every couple of weeks.

We were fine with any number as this result was basically my baseline.

I am crying with relief.

It is nothing definitive as it is just one test and you look for trends - but I will take it.

Please keep all the things coming my way- thoughts, prayers, good juju- all of it.

Oh. And F*ck Cancer.

07/24/2026

Story time:
Yesterday someone who had read my post asked me why I hated my hair.
They apologized for insisting they love it and I should to.
And they asked why.

Great question.

Here is my why:

This is me.

8th grade.

That hair is mine.

All of it.

Those pink glasses are also mine.

And somewhere below the frame is a shirt covered in cats.

Just cats.

Don’t waste your time telling me I was beautiful.

I looked like this, and if we’re being honest, you know you wouldn’t have said so.

Probably would not have said anything kind at all.

8th grade you knew it, and 8th grade me knew it too.

Nobody’s fooling anybody here.

Where I grew up, kids do not miss an opportunity like that.

This girl’s life was a living hell. 

Pink glasses and this hair are basically a “please target me” sign taped to your back in 8th grade, and everyone read it loud and clear.

So here’s the deal: this photo is also the entire origin story of why I hate my hair like this to this day.

And no, before anyone asks — my hair now has nothing to do with chemo.

It’s just me.

And I hate it.

You will never, ever convince me otherwise.

07/23/2026

Literally everyone who has seen me this week:
Hi! How are you? You look great, I love your hair.

Me, every time: (Smile.) Thanks. It’s the chemo.

Everyone: No, really, I love it! I know you hate it but I love the curls.

Me: Half smile.

Everyone: Seriously, it looks great.

Me: Internally screaming.

This has happened, in some version, at least three dozen times in three days.

So let me turn it into something useful instead of just something bitter.

I get it.

It’s awkward.

You’re talking to someone fighting Stage IV cancer, and there’s a clock over my head counting down my life based on whether I beat this thing.

I’m living a Choose Your Own Adventure novel where only one ending has me surviving.

There’s no going back and no starting over.

As uncomfortable as that is for you to stand in front of, sit with how much harder it is to be me.

I’m the main character here, and here’s what that looks like up close:
I pull myself into standing with a back on fire and joints that ache.
I walk on wobbly legs like an old woman until my muscles warm up.

I’m seriously considering a cane
Shaking someone’s hand hurts because of my thumbs.

I’ve developed a constant headache at the base of my skull.

I’m anxious about my next infusion Monday and the side effects it may bring.

And some people I have gone to war with and for now walk past me with empty eyes, like I’m not even there.

That one hurts the most.

So here’s the lesson, from someone living it: when you don’t know what to say to someone who’s sick, don’t reach for the thing you already know they hate.
I don’t want to hear about my hair — especially not from people who already know I hate it.

If you can’t think of anything else, a knuckle bump, a hug, or a wave and a smile says more than a compliment you don’t mean.

Or better — talk to me like a person who matters, about something other than the one thing that stings.

Then carry that into every hard conversation you have-
Especially with people who are barely managing to slow down how fast they’re dying.

Or With anyone struggling with something you already know weighs on them.

The world would be a better place if we all just thought about the impact of our words before we said them.

07/12/2026

Let’s talk side effects.

Capecitabine is the official name of the chemo pill I am taking.
800mg 2x a day

For reasons I can’t tell you it makes your hands and feet exceptionally dry.

So- rubber booties and lotion to try to combat the dryness.

So far what works for me is Udderly smooth lotion and Vaseline. 🤷‍♀️

Ahhh…. The fun little surprises of cancer treatment.

If only I could convince my oncologist to prescribe pedicures.

07/11/2026

07/09/2026

You never know what someone is truly fighting behind the smile they show you. For me, the day starts in the dark — 4 AM, 3:30 during the school year — not because I choose it, but because my body needs that time. Time to eat before the chemo pills. Time to steady myself before a 50-minute commute I make while still fighting cancer. Nobody sees that part. They just see me walk in, on time, doing the job. What they don’t see is everything it took just to get there.

07/08/2026

Cancer update: Life lesson

This is the bookcase after I threw it through the doorway when the door swung back and hit my hand, snapping my fingernail as I was trying to get it though the door.

Before anyone starts with the whole “why didn’t you ask for help”… I did.

I was told the office would be empty

I was told there would be help.

I asked someone for help who disappeared after they brought me a vacuum

I am still waiting on someone who told me they would be there in 30 min.

The lesson to be learned here isn’t mine.

It’s everyone else’s.

In a time when information is instantaneous and people would rather look at a screen than another person, and AI can make anything look real- your word has to mean something.

If you offer help to a cancer patient, you’d better mean it.
Don’t dangle “let me know what you need” like a party favor and then ghost the second I take you up on it.

We are not here to manage your guilt.
We are not here to make you feel like a good person.
If you can’t follow through, keep your offer to yourself.

I am fighting for my life.
I don’t have one ounce of energy left for your fake s**t.

Show up or shut up.

Either way I have s**t to get done and leaving me hanging only adds to my stress.

And the last thing I need is more stress.

And to manhandle bookcases by myself.

And break my effing nail when pain makes pure adrenaline kick it and I throw the damn bookcase through the door.

If you say it, mean it.

No one fighting cancer has time for s**tty people.