Anger

(Written Monday 11/3/25)

Today was the first day I got angry about all this shit.

I know that may be a shock to some people, but it’s actually the truth. Since my diagnosis, I have felt a wide range of feelings–sadness, gratitude, frustration, self-pity, hopefulness, hopelessness, debilitating fear. But not anger.

Today, however, I had a thought:

My life will never go back to normal.

And that made me angry.  

I had this thought earlier today while I was waiting to get my big PET scan. The scan that will show how the cancer has responded to chemotherapy. The scan that will determine how many more rounds of chemo I will undergo (between two and four). The scan that felt so far away back in July yet seemed to arrive so suddenly this week. The scan that once seemed to hold so much power until I realized today that no matter what the scan shows, I will still be a woman who lives with breast cancer.

It dawned on me while sitting in the mobile PET scan unit (one of those trailers that are used for giving blood, or taking showers at Bonnaroo music festival), that there are really two potential outcomes from this scan:

Outcome A: The treatment has been effective, and I can stop chemo after only two more rounds. Obviously, this would be a fantastic thing to hear. But even when the chemo ends, I will still need to undergo targeted therapy injections every three weeks for potentially the rest of my life (however long that is). I will also look forward to five years of hormone blockade therapy. My oncologist explained what hormone blockade therapy is (and all the fun side effects that come with it) back when I was first diagnosed. But I’ve long since forgotten and haven’t bothered to go back and check my notes or (God forbid) Google it. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. One day—and one chemical mutiny—at a time.

Outcome B: The treatment has not been effective, and we’ll have to start looking at other options for treatment, clinical trials being the most traditional option. Clinical trials sound promising until you remember that half the patients receive the placebo, and in my current state of bitterness, I’m sure that I would be one of those unlucky sad sacks. But there are other options too. Those that fall under the holistic/experimental category like Ivermectin, ketosis, and the like. Option B isn’t necessarily a dead end (pardon the phrase).

Obviously, I’d prefer Outcome A. But my point is that, in either scenario, I won’t be getting a clean bill of health. It’s not like getting over a virus or healing from a broken leg. Whatever the scan shows will just dictate how this one chapter of this long saga will end.

In some way shape or form, I will live with cancer for the rest of my life. Even if I go into remission or by some miracle can get every tiny morsel of cancer surgically removed from my insides, I will still live in fear that the cancer may, in all likelihood, come back. No matter what this PET scan says.

And this thought made my anger start to brew. It began coursing through my veins like the radioactive serum that Alex, my imaging tech, injected into me through my port—the serum that would make my cancer light up like a Christmas tree on the scan.

I started to get even angrier upon realizing that Alex was the same imaging tech I had for my first PET scan three months ago. And that this was the same chair I had sat in before. And that I’d already heard his humdrum spiel about the PET scan procedure—no jewelry in the machine, it’ll take about twenty minutes, drink a lot of water afterwards, yada yada yada. And that accessing my port had become so familiar that I could anticipate every step—Alex would hand me a mask after putting one on himself, clean my port with cold alcohol on a handled round sponge, ask if I wanted a countdown (no), stick the needle in my port (that’s what he said?), tape a large round bandage over it as he tried awkwardly to avoid touching my bra, do a saline flush, and then give me the serum.

I was angry at how routine all this had become.

And the anger continued to fester after my PET scan as I drove to my HBOT appointment for the twentieth time (literally). And I shimmied into that little metal tube with my bag of distractions like I always do. And popped my ears as I always do. And put one pillow down by my feet and kept the firmer one under my head like I always do. And made awkward small talk with Kyle after my session with dried nap drool stuck to my chin, like I always dos.

Then I went home, feeling both hungry and scared, these two sensations now inextricably linked. And I cooked for three hours straight—mineral broth, homemade ramen, and a delicious looking egg bake for Jordan that I wouldn’t be able to eat because it had processed meat and an aggressive amount of dairy in it. I prepped my organic veggies, carefully skimmed food labels, and dreamt of what it would be like to eat an Oreo at that very moment with no shame. Instead, I just kept deveining Kale.

By the time Jordan got home with the kids, I was in a tailspin. Only I didn’t realize it because I had barely spoken to anyone all day—just a few words to Alex the Imaging Tech, Kyle the Hyperbaric Guy, and the grocery store clerk who offered to help me check out the old-fashioned way, even though I desperately wanted to do it myself at the self-check-out…. All of these thoughts were trapped in my head, simmering for hours like my broth.

But when the boys arrived, I started to boil—just a little, though, because you can’t have a full-blown meltdown in front of your toddler while he gleefully eats a grilled cheese sandwich smothered in ketchup. I didn’t want to shed more than a few tears in front of my family, so I minimized my thoughts as best I could until escaping to my room to write.

If I could have had a meltdown, this is what it would have sounded like…

I’m pissed that I have to be strong for my kids. That I can’t just bury myself under the covers and cry whenever I feel like it. That I can’t just sleep when I’m exhausted from a day of tests, or infusions, or injections, or chronic diarrhea. I’m pissed that I have to keep going, day in and day out, like everything is normal when everything is terribly different. I’m pissed that I don’t live in California, where it’s always sunny and I wouldn’t have to fear the long, cold winter and terribly real depression that comes with it. I’m pissed at California for being so cuckoo that it eliminated itself from the list of possible places to raise our family. I’m pissed that I’ve had to go through about five different coffee orders before finally figuring out which one is both cancer friendly and enjoyable to drink. I’m pissed that I can’t just drink an iced latte, or eat a cookie, or even an apple, without worrying if it will feed my cancer, which will forever be lurking in my body like a dog circling the kitchen table waiting for scraps to fall to the floor. I’m pissed that we have self-driving Tesla’s and yet no one can figure out how to get this spam call epidemic to end (I’ve gotten five calls just since writing this!). I’m pissed at this giant zit living just inside my nostril, making it horribly painful every time I have to blow my nose. I’m pissed that having a simple cold causes snot to pour down my nose like a running faucet because the chemo has stripped away all my nose hair. I’m pissed that I have c. diff. again will have to take my own disgusting stool sample again for the third time. I’m pissed that I feel just as tired as I was in my third trimester of pregnancy, and that this causes me to fear that I’m still riddled with cancer since I was riddled with cancer during my third trimester of pregnancy… I’m angry that everything always points back to cancer. That I can’t run and hide from it. That it’s what people want to talk to me about at parties. And that, often, it’s all I have to talk about at parties (well, that, and how to get ketchup stains off the furniture).  

I’m angry about a lot of things. I’m sure I’ll come up with a zillion more things after I post this.

And it feels good to let it out.

However, as I take a much-needed pause and a very deep breath, yet another crystallizing thought dawns on me…

I am angry about many things. But I am not angry at God.

I am not on my knees, hands pressed together, looking up at the sky pleading, “Why me?” “Why did you do this to me?” “Why do I deserve this?”

We can’t know why, but bad things happen to good people. I’ve learned this lesson many times during my 36 years on this earth. For example, I watched my stepfather, one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known, battle cancer three times. He was the kind of person who always said, “life is good” and got excited about a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He was a loving husband and a great stepfather. He certainly didn’t deserve cancer.

Or watch any true crime documentary. The victim is always someone who “lit up a room.” It’s always the good ones who get slaughtered, never the bad or the only-just-okay people.

So I don’t take getting cancer personally.

A friend of mine lost her husband, Jared, to bone cancer a couple years ago (also undeserved). Jared always said: “I am a lucky person in an unlucky situation.” And that rings very true. Even through this fear-induced burst of anger, I see myself as a very lucky girl in an unlucky situation. And I continue to be grateful for my family, my home, and all the many blessings in my life…

…But that doesn’t mean I can’t also be really fucking pissed (at least while my kids are looking the other direction).

PS – We will be discussing the results of my PET scan on Wednesday with the doctor. So stay tuned… Please pray for me and my family.