When I learned the full extent of my diagnosis, Inflammatory Breast Cancer, or IBC, with the help of Dr. Google, I was terrified. Who wouldn’t be? IBC is a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer with a high rate of recurrence. It’s often misdiagnosed and cannot be diagnosed until stage 3 or 4. My daughters were grown, but I still had a 12-year old son at home who needed me. Although his father was in the picture, it wasn’t a very pretty picture. To say that “Fun Weekend Dad” wasn’t fit to raise a 12-year old boy would be a vast understatement.

I sat in my new oncologist’s office that late April morning right after Easter in 2019. I was meeting him for the first time, already knowing my dire prognosis. But for now, it was just run-of-the-mill invasive ductal carcinoma, i.e. breast cancer. There were more tests to run before I would get my official diagnosis, but with IBC, we had to act fast, so we were treating it as such.
Thus began a whirlwind of appointments involving scans and mammograms, pokes and prods, biopsies and ultrasounds. I was scheduling chemo appointments left and right, plus an appointment to have a port surgically implanted in my body to make receiving chemotherapy easier. The fun was just beginning.

Here’s a funny little tidbit: that port and I became besties. It made my life so much easier that when it was time to have it removed, I revolted. It had become my security blanket in a way, and I was bound and determined to keep it. I did get to keep it for a couple of years after active treatment ended, but it eventually began clogging up on me. I was treating it right, giving it a spa treatment, flushing every 4 weeks, exactly as instructed. But all of my acrobatic maneuvers on the table, moving this way and that and trying to nudge it into compliance, stopped working. I was told I had no choice but to take it out. Not like on a date, I mean removed from my body, period. I was devastated. I feared that the moment it came out and I threw it away like trash, I was going to need it again. It’s been a few years now, and I haven’t needed it yet, but I still think of it often. Yes, I’m that weirdo.

Back in my oncologist’s office, my first thought was, I just want to see Jonathan graduate. Dear God, please let me live long enough to see my boy graduate from high school.

My mind was going a thousand miles a minute, and I could barely understand most of what my doctor was saying. I tried to take notes. I tried to listen. But my mind kept going back to my son. Twelve years old and he needed his mom. I needed him.
I made it through all of those appointments, all of those scans, all of those echoes, all of those chemos and surgeries. Eighteen months of active treatment in all. It was pretty ugly, and I landed on disability with some mind-boggling side effects. My life has never been the same since. I’ve had to learn to grieve the person that I was and learn to love the person that I am.
Fast-forward to 2025. This proud momma got to see Jonathan, now 18, graduate from high school. We went through some tough times together, but we made it. Jonathan struggled mightily through high school for various reasons, some of which can be attributed to my illness. But he made me so proud because he got through it all. He graduated with a job already lined up in the field he trained for and in which he’d been working part-time for over a year. He was all set to succeed. My dream had come true. I got to see my boy graduate.

Subconsciously, I wondered what else I had left to live for. I had all three of my children and eight grandchildren to live for, but those words came back to haunt me. I struggled mightily with mental health issues after my treatment ended. I suffered from anxiety, depression, PTSD, medical trauma, and survivor’s guilt. I even manage to squeeze in trichotillomania and binge eating disorder. I spiraled into a deep, deep depression, and I didn’t know why. It took a lot of work with my amazing therapist to figure this one out.

Ultimately, the resolution was to create a bucket list. This isn’t a grand bucket list where I’m traveling all over the world. It’s actually the opposite,it’s a lot of little things. I’m focusing on experiences, on some of the things I didn’t get to do over the years while I was busy raising my family. My goal is to live life, not just survive.

The moral of the story is to be careful what you wish for. Your brain hears everything you say and think. Take good care of your thoughts.